Gaza Writes Back

by Refaat Alareer

  It is when darkness prevails that I sit by the window to look past all those electricity-free houses, smell the sweet scent of a calm Gazan night, feel the fresh air going straight to my heart, and think of you, of me, of Palestine, of the crack, of the blank wall, of you, of Mama, of you, of my history class, of you, of God, of Palestine—of our incomplete story. I enjoy bringing to my mind your tender voice narrating the story of Thaer. I still remember how I cheerfully beamed when you told me that Thaer and I are so much alike, that he has my wild eyes, and I his sheepish smile. I have not yet known who he is or where in life he stands, but I believe I had always trusted your heroes. I can never forget how your dazzling eyes had brightened when you recalled him planting some olive seedlings in the backyard of the orphanage. God bless the smile on your face. God bless the seeds under the ground. I can never forget how you looked me in the eyes and said, “He is a boy who lost his whole family to death but never lost faith in life. I want you to be as strong.” Baba, do you remember when I asked you if he was strong enough to wrestle an Israeli soldier? You grinned—you always did—but you didn’t answer me. You wanted me to figure things out on my own. You told me he was only twelve years old when one of the orphanage girls, Amal, started trembling, hallucinating, and sweating, but nobody there had the guts to break the military curfew—to die. Thaer, however, did go out to bring a doctor for Amal, and then… . And then hell on earth, Baba. And then you are no more.

  I don’t remember when exactly I started to care about completing Thaer’s story, but whenever I ventured to think of giving it a proper ending, I would get tired, and the weight in my head would grow heavier. I could not do it on my own. I thought I had to think twice: once for me, and once for you. I have tried my best, Baba. Doing so was not easy, nonetheless. Of all the people around me, you know best that it takes two to complete a story; it always does. I hated the fact that I might have been driven by curiosity and the sheer love of endings. Thaer is another “you” in my life, just like your photo that stands above the repugnant crack, and your kufiya, whose rich black was worn out to a glorious gray. They are all living parts of you. I had to believe that it is the fear of losing yet more of my father that pushed me there.

  I thought, once I thought, of your soul mate, Mama. I thought you must have talked to her about Thaer. I imagined you both had spent nights admiring his eyes and smile, for I can clearly remember when you got together, which was some kind of a luxury for Mama, talks between you did not end. I sometimes travel to specific memories. I hear the timbre of your voice and the echoes of Mama’s laughter—laughter which died long ago. But don’t you worry; Mama never fails to smile. I know I shouldn’t bother you, Baba, but you’ve got to know that every passing day, Mama is getting frailer. I always wonder, “What does she know which I don’t and makes her go on in a life of bitter loneliness?” She must know much, right?

  Thinking that she knew Thaer, I once plainly asked her, “What happened to Thaer, in the end?” She washed the last dish, turned the tap off, and stared at the sink for some time. I felt like she was about to give me the healing answer. But she at once retracted. “Who’s Thaer?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “Thaer,” I answered. Then seeing uneasiness drawn on her face, I repeated, “Thaer. My father’s Thaer!” In every move she made and every word she didn’t say, I could see the glint of a story in the distance. She used her silence to shield the chaos I spotted in her eyes. “Mama! Thaer, the strong kid who planted olive trees at the orphanage.” I went on trying to get her to talk.

  “Strong, huh? It doesn’t matter how strong you are or pretend to be, life is going to get to you sometimes and that doesn’t make you weak, sweetheart; it makes you human.”

  I know, Baba, you don’t know this new woman; I don’t either. I like to call it wisdom. Mom has become cynical, unfortunately, but she gained a lot of wisdom nonetheless. Believing that her answer had nothing to do with your Thaer, I asked her again if she knew what happened to him and whether he got back to the orphanage or not. “He got back home, indeed. We all will,” she whispered under her breath. I spent that night thinking of Thaer’s home, of the distant life in Mama’s eyes. I kept wondering what’s more torturous: the awful buzz of the drone outside or the sounds of some tough questions inside. I guess I eventually slept with no answer, thanking the drone for not giving my inner uproar any chance to abate.

  Two weeks ago, Grandfather went out with Abu Feras, a neighbour, to get the UNRWA food coupons. He left home sane and returned crazy. That simple. Abu Feras says Grandpa waited three solid hours under the burning sun in the long queue. When he finally was about to get the coupon, he asked the man there, “What are you offering me?” His answer was simple: “Food!”

  “And when exactly am I going to get my Jaffa with this coupon?” Grandpa cried out. You can imagine what kind of hullabaloo took place, but everything calmed down when Abu Feras forced him back home. I don’t like to think much of the incident. I know that ever since you’ve been gone, his life is entirely devoted to the grief over a lemon tree and a dear son. Now, he is no longer the man I would talk to for hours. He doesn’t believe anymore—doesn’t believe in me. He says people fight and die to regain our Palestine. But those freedom fighters don’t come back, nor does Palestine. He swears you are now in Jaffa sitting by a lemon tree, enjoying the sun disappearing into the blue of our marvelous sea. Grandfather says you would never come back, for who on earth could leave the paradise of Jaffa? I am, day after day, falling in love with the years that dwell in his wrinkled face and the memories of the old days which are the beats of his weak heart.

  You have to expect that I asked Grandfather about Thaer. He immediately replied, “Thaer refused to share a breath with this dirty world. He chose to grow up somewhere else. Don’t give me that ridiculous face. Yes, dead people do grow up, but don’t you ever believe that they grow older.” This answer was even more confusing than Mama’s.

  “I don’t believe you. Thaer could have never considered death as an option. And what about Amal? Was he selfish enough to leave her to die?” I cried.

  “Who is Amal?” Grandpa asked with no sense of concern.

  For some reason, I felt relieved. I smiled and answered, “My grown-up friend. You should meet her some time.” I told him I intended to visit Aunty Karama the next day and asked if he would like to come. He said he could no longer tolerate children and full houses. I couldn’t care less. I kissed his forehead. It smelled like the fragrance of lemon blossoms. I felt like he planted a lemon orchard in his cavernous wrinkles. Baba, how could he dare say Thaer was dead? He himself couldn’t believe it. I celebrated every new moment added to Thaer’s life. I had to be thankful for my faith, for you have to make that leap of faith if you ever want to heal. Years may be the length of one’s life, but faith is, undoubtedly, the width.

  The next day I woke up really early. I, for my very first time, watched the sunrise. With the dimmed light around me, the world looked just like how I felt. And that was when I looked deep, deep down and started to break apart. Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t stop. I started to wonder if the things I am living for are worth dying for. I started to think of everything I had in life. Although I have lots of things, they never seemed to be necessary. Every time I think I had it the way I really fancy, it twists and turns and slips away. I didn’t feel your soul around. Though I tried to dream you closer, it stayed away just like before. I knew it was about Thaer. I was afraid that I would fall asleep again knowing that he’ll always be the story with no ending. I knew that you were just a story away. A story away!

  Because I could no longer wait to know what happened to Thaer, I spared the sun two hours to take its favorite place in that awe-inspiring sky. The weather had not yet decided its attitude. The cool air was deceiving, so I put your glorious kufiya around my neck, and I unwaveringly went out. I trusted life that day. Grandfather might think that’s naïve, but you wouldn’t, I believe. Life is one of t
he few that is trustworthy.

  They say, “To find something, anything, a great truth or a lost pair of glasses, you must first believe there will be some advantage in finding it.” And what an advantage, Baba! When I finally reached Aunty Karama’s house, I knocked on the door impatiently. I waited more than ten minutes outside. Nobody answered my continuous knocks. I was about to return home when Aunty opened the door. She was asleep. How could she sleep while I didn’t know where Thaer’s story ends? She welcomed me inside, and excused me to change her clothes. “Please, don’t!” I hastily replied to her apology.

  She raised her eyebrows, turned pale, and said, “What’s the matter with you? Something wrong must have happened to your grandfather, or what on earth could bring you this early when you haven’t visited me in months. Oh God! What happened to him?”

  I had to calm her down and drive away her worries. “It’s Thaer who brought me this early,” I said. Yes, Baba. I asked Aunty Karama. I had to, for I knew she was your closest friend ever since you were a little kid who couldn’t spell “Palestine.” She always prides herself on the fact that she taught you to spell it just right. You had always believed in its bigness. “P for passion, A for aspiration, L for life, E for existence, S for sanity, T for trust, I for You, N for nation, E for exaltation.” And then you wrote it just right. You wrote it everywhere you could—on walls, on tables. You carved the stunning letters into trees, and ended up with them engraved in your heart.

  “What about Thaer?” she bluntly answered my direct question. Hope found its way back to my heart to congratulate me on the fact that Aunty did know Thaer.

  “I mean what happened to him in the end? Did he manage to get his way back to the orphanage? Did Amal survive?” I asked, but she chose not to give an answer. Truth be told, I was disappointed. I felt you didn’t trust my heart; you didn’t want me to get any closer to your story.

  She returned dressed in black and said, “Get up, we are going somewhere special.”

  With my teary eyes, I gazed at her and said, “Where on this part of the planet is there somewhere special?” She got angry at my answer and said that I am not worthy of knowing Thaer in the first place if I didn’t believe in this part of the planet. You have to know that I felt ashamed.

  We eventually left. She took me to places I have never been to. The narrow, dark roads of the camp captivated my heart. I felt that bittersweet sensation. I felt you were there. I was sure you were there. On our way to the “special place,” Aunty Karama didn’t stop talking about every single family in the camp. Stories of deep agony were our companions. I asked her how she could know all these stories; she said that our Nakba is no secret. I admired her more than ever. In my eyes, she had been no more than a dull history teacher. It was the first time I knew that she refused to get promoted, to be more than a third grade teacher. She believed in children. She said she couldn’t leave the hope that resides in their pure, little hearts.

  “Here we are,” she said. I was totally surprised. Was it even a “place”? I went in speechless. Aunty Karama seemed to enjoy the remnants of a burned house. A scent coming out of the earth enveloped me. I couldn’t wave it away. Aunty’s smiling silence started to press heavier on my heart. I lost sense of place. I’m nowhere. I’m everywhere. I’m here.

  Aunty’s fruity voice finally came to life such that you wouldn’t believe it had ever been silent: “Goodness! Can’t you feel it? Your father spent his entire youth teaching the kids here to spell Palestine. P for passion, A for aspiration, L for life, E for existence, S for sanity, T for trust, I for You, N for nation, E for exaltation.”

  I, for a few seconds, was afraid that she too had gone crazy. “Which kids, Aunty? Your special place is no more than a wasteland,” I spoke finally. She swallowed what seemed to be a great deal of anger. She went back to the ruins. She smiled. She laughed. She cried. She went on sighing. “Now what does your place have to do with Thaer and Amal?” I interrupted her ongoing sighs.

  “You know what, Mariam? You blew it. However, I have always believed life is about second chances. You hardly ever deserve them, but at some point we all need them.” She tenderly replied to my rudeness. She went on, asking me, “If you prayed for courage, does God give you courage, or the chance to be courageous? If you prayed for truth, does God give you His truth in your hand, or the chance to open your eyes?”

  “Life takes work, I believe,” I briefly answered.

  “Then open your eyes, sweetheart. Look past the burned house. You’ll find the answer by yourself. I believe in you. I believe in whomever your father told the story of Thaer,” she said, smiling at my teary eyes. I couldn’t see anything, Baba. Nothing caught my bleeding heart. I felt ashamed. I felt you deserved a better successor.

  I lowered my head to the ground. I smiled. I laughed. I cried. I kept on sighing at the sight of the olive tree standing alive at the very end of the burned house, of the orphanage. Thaer’s seeds grew up. Nothing else was left, but the tree was enough for me, for Amal, for Thaer, and for you, my dearest Baba.

  It is when darkness prevails that I sit by the window to look past all those electricity-free houses, smell the sweet scent of a calm Gazan night, feel the fresh air going straight to my heart, and think of you, of me, of Palestine, of the orphanage, of the olive tree, of you, of Amal, of Mama, of you, of my history class, of Aunty Karama, of you, of God, of Palestine, of Thaer’s story.

  One War Day

  by Mohammed Suliman

  As usual, Hamza leaned back against the white wall, recently smudged with the hands of his little nephews, nieces, and cousins, and where crevices of various lengths lay bleakly. He fought off all nudging thoughts which overran him every now and then, as if they conspired with the intermittent blasts to preoccupy his mind when it seemed peaceful enough for him to proceed with his reading. These thoughts, he assumed, were of his own creation; they were figments of his own imagination. Therefore they haunted no one but him; they wanted to prevent him from reading his book.

  The candlelight flickered, and thus his shadow on the wall did as well, while a gentle, cold breeze blew through the slightly opened windows. Hamza’s mother, a woman in her late forties with a mole on her nose, made sure to open them before everyone falls asleep so that, in case a blast takes place nearby, the windows will not be smashed into pieces.

  Hamza, his book lying open in his warm hands, persisted in reading his tattered book, which his father used to be obsessed with. As Hamza was reading, he raised his eyes off the book, looked through the open window and said, “They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom.” He could not tell what exactly brought those words to his mind, but he repeated them a second time, trying to suppress his enthusiasm so that he doesn’t wake up his only brother, Jihad, seven years younger than him, who was sleeping nearby. Hardly had Hamza closed his lips on softly pronouncing the “m” in “freedom,” than a deafening blast struck the area and turned the once never-ending, prevailing silence into an ear-shattering thunder. Instinctively tightening his grip on the book, his heart pounding as though it were ripping his chest from inside, Hamza immediately jerked his head back. Jihad moved in his sleep, causing his sheets to fall off his bed. Hamza stood up quietly, put the sheets back on his brother, and returned to his book. He focused his gaze ahead, straining to fathom something of what he saw. But the deeper he focused, the more his grip tightened around the book, and the blacker the darkness seemed around him. He soon fell asleep.

  No one could ever understand what made him smile in his sleep. No one could ever guess that, only when he was asleep, he could have the things that would grant him relief and happiness. He could own what he was always dispossessed of when not sleeping. He was encircled by his hissing nephews, nieces, and cousins. They were staying at his home along with their families during the war, and now they were competing to see who would come nearest Hamza’s sleeping body and touch his bristly beard. Hamza opened his eyes to innocent, joyful faces grinning at hi
m. Yawning, he outstretched his arms, his book next to his head, half-covered under the pillow, and smiled back at the children before he asked them to leave the room. “C’mon, buddies, go play,” said Hamza quietly, pulling the blanket up. The sun was streaming into the room through the wide-open windows. This was the first thing his mother did when she woke up. She inherited this habit from her mother, not knowing what exactly it meant to do it in the morning before anything—perhaps to breathe new life into their faces, perhaps the windows were the first objects to meet her eyes, or perhaps to release them from a smell that was not pleasant in the least. The light made the spots on the wall distinctly visible and brightened the heaped-up waxy pieces on the tarnished candlestick.

  Seeing that the children were enjoying their game, Jihad signaled to the little ones to come back again. His little angel-like niece stealthily drew near the sleeping Hamza, whose smile had not vanished yet. She moved forward on tiptoe, her eyes beaming, and concealing her smile with the back of her hands, she placed herself by her uncle’s head. The little ones started to lose control of their snickers, as they turned into uneasy chuckles. Hamza fidgeted, while the girl, who was blocking the sun from his face, extended her hands to touch his beard. Dreadful silence prevailed in the place and the little ones finally ceased giggling, carefully watching their playmate triumph over her uncle’s beard. The little girl fixed her eyes unflinchingly on her target while her hands were steadily nearing Hamza’s face. A sudden, huge, piercing blast hit the nearby area. The girl shuddered, pulling her hands promptly. She pushed her bottom lip out and cried. Hamza, who had gotten up panicky, dashed to the windows. He collected himself again and patted his favorite little niece, urging her to stop crying.