She was sweltering. He made a move. She quickened her pace. She was finally in front of him, almost two meters away. She stopped to wipe her forehead with the back of her left hand. A drop of sweat rolled down his left cheek to his neck. He shuddered. A drop of sweat went down her forehead. She blinked. The sun was overhead. It was scorching. The Star of David around his neck, his wintery jacket, his Arab looks! She felt dizzy. It all made sense now! How could she not figure that out? She pulled her M16 and clenching tightly on it planted its barrel into his forehead. She sent out a warning call over her walkie-talkie to alarm the rest of the Israeli soldiers and stood motionless, sweat pouring off her.
Their eyes met. Fear and frustration flowed. It filled the place. Her finger was on the trigger. His finger was on the trigger. Death carried them both to the unknown.
The Story of the Land
by Sarah Ali
To Dad
I looked at his teary eyes, and beholding something akin to happiness, I smiled. The man I have always known to be my father was back. He did not look like that unfamiliar man whom I could not fully recognize during the last three years. He was no longer that absent-minded, silent figure gazing at walls all the time and uninterestingly nodding whenever addressed by anyone at home. He was there. He was present. He was actually listening as I went on bragging about a high grade of mine. A phone call and a piece of paper signed by some Turkish-sponsored institution brought back my father. I looked at his eyes again, this time more carefully for fear that my first glance was false. As I saw that absolute happiness in my father’s eyes, a big smile made it to my face again.
As we now commemorate the Land Day, we honor the people who stood up for their Land in 1976, when Israel announced thousands of Palestinian dunums would be confiscated. During marches held to protest that declaration, six people were killed. The 30th of March brings back a memory of our Land, my father’s Land. A couple weeks ago, we got a phone call informing us that my father’s name had been selected for a reconstruction program funded by Turkey. The program aims at helping Gazan farmers whose Lands were damaged during the Israeli offensive in 2008 to replant their trees. It provides farmers with all types of facilitating materials, such as fences, tree cuttings, seedlings, seeds, and irrigation systems. My father declined to apply for those organizations that gave financial compensations to farmers. How can he take money in return for Land? Unlike any other aid program, this program gives no money to farmers. It instead helps them stand on their own.
Though my father was born to a family of farmers, he did not follow that path. He studied economics and political science in Egypt and spent most of his youth working as a journalist, mainly a columnist, writing about economic and political issues in newspapers in Kuwait. When he was back in Gaza, though, he had to take care of the piece of Land my grandfather left for him years before. It was not difficult for him. Gradually, the Land became more of a passion than a profession. It was one of the few things he cared about, the daily thing that kept him busy. It was heaven on earth.
During those twenty-three days of the Israeli attack on Gaza, we were constantly receiving news of Land being run over by Israeli bulldozers. We were told thousands of trees were gone. We were told my uncles’ trees were gone. We were told our trees were gone. We were told Sharga, the whole district of eastern farmland, was gone. But these were rumors—or so my father wanted to believe. We all had hope that our Land was still intact, totally untouched. We were clinging to the assumption that only other people’s trees could get uprooted, but certainly not our beautiful, unmatched olives. Certainly not the trees that were, to my father, the only thing he boasted of to prove he was no less of a Gazan than those who repeatedly reproached him for, as they put it, “recklessly leaving the land of black gold” where they assumed he swam in Kuwaiti oil pools every day, and for “coming to live here” with a small “h.” My father looked at it quite differently, for Here, he always believed, is the Land of al-zait al-muqaddas—the holy oil.
Gaza’s sky was blue again. Things were over—the news said things were over. My father went there. He went to check up on the Land. He put his faith in his olives being an exception, and he went there. He put his faith in that little white spot in the heart of the bulldozer’s operator who, my father supposed, could not have resisted the beauty of our Land and who listened to his innate, good being that told him not to run over this Land. He had faith in the goodness of Man and he went there. He put his faith in God and he went there. My brother, who accompanied him, told us later that all they saw as they walked was ruined Lands filled with bulldozed, dead trees which seemed to suffice for the families’ need of firewood for years to come. My brother said Dad started crying as he saw people crying. They went on. They saw more toppled trees, feeble and defeated. They went on. There was the heaven. The scene of our Land was not shocking. Simply put, our trees were no exception. Our trees were gone. A miscellany of affliction and denial took over the place. My father’s faith, I could tell, was smashed into little pieces. The world seemed like an ugly place.
One of our trees, which later became the subject matter the whole neighborhood spoke of, was still standing there. Just one week before the attacks, my father told my brother how slanted this tree was and how quickly they needed to get rid of it. They were planning to cut it, and yet, ironically, it was the only tree the Israeli army left (out of boredom or out of mercy, I cannot tell). But it was still there. Later, whenever my cousins wanted to make Dad feel less terrible about it, they made fun of the whole thing. “How the hell did the soldiers know you were planning to cut it anyway and so decided not to cut it themselves?” my cousins would remark. Everyone would start laughing. But Dad did not. His Land and olive groves are not laughing matters to him.
When my father and brother were home that day, my brother started telling us about what he saw. He told us that the trees were uprooted—“Al-shajar tjarraf,” he kept repeating. My father was in his room, crying. During the weeks that followed my father’s visit to the Land, he had a daily schedule: in the morning, he prayed and read Qur’an. At night, he cried.
Speaking about the Land, the houses, and generally the financial losses during or right after the Israeli offensive would have sounded very selfish and indifferent to others. When people are dying, you do not speak of your beautiful house that was leveled to the ground. When people are losing their legs and arms, leaving them disabled for the rest of their lives, you do not speak of your fancy car that once looked like a vase adorning the streets of your modest neighborhood and that is now a gray wreck. When a mother is burying her child before she could say good-bye, you do not speak of your Land and your trees that were mercilessly uprooted. Those people speak. They cry. They mourn. You listen. And for the memory of your insignificant, little misery, you grieve in silence. And that seemed to have amassed more agony over Dad’s pain.
Recently, I went to father to get accurate information about the trees that were uprooted, their numbers, and their age.
“Why are you asking? Are you applying for one of those charity institutions that offer some money and a bag of flour instead of helping people plant their trees again? Are you? We do not need those! The guy I met from the reconstruction program called last week, and they already sent laborers and farmers to start their job. Do you still want to apply for charity?”
“No, Baba! I am just writing something for my blog.”
“Blog? Okay, whatever that is!”
“So, how many trees were uprooted? 180 olive trees I guess and…?”
“189 olive trees. 160 lemon trees. 14 guava trees…” he bellowed, angry that I missed the exact number.
Embarrassed, I lowered my head and wondered why I was doing this to myself. My thoughts were interrupted when he went on, “Next time you decide to do whatever it is that you want to do right now, get your numbers straight!”
I made no reply.
“You hear me? They were 189 olive trees. Not 180. Not 181. Not even 188.
189 olive trees.”
He left the room a few minutes afterwards. Guilt was all I could feel.
That an Israeli soldier could bulldoze 189 olive trees on the Land he claims is part of the “God-given Land” is something I will never comprehend. Did he not consider the possibility that God might get angry? Did he not realize that it was a tree he was running over? If a Palestinian bulldozer were ever invented (Haha, I know!) and I were given the chance to be in an orchard, in Haifa for instance, I would never uproot a tree an Israeli planted. No Palestinian would. To Palestinians, the tree is sacred, and so is the Land bearing it. And as I talk about Gaza, I remember that Gaza is but a little part of Palestine. I remember that Palestine is bigger than Gaza. Palestine is the West Bank; Palestine is Ramallah; Palestine is Nablus; Palestine is Jenin; Palestine is Tulkarm; Palestine is Bethlehem; Palestine, most importantly, is Yafa and Haifa and Akka and all those cities that Israel wants us to forget about.
Today I came to realize that it was not the phone call that brought my father back, nor was it the paper signed by the aid institution. It was the memory of the Land being revived that brought him back. It was the memory of olive trees giving that sense of security each time he sat under them, enjoying their shade and dodging the burning rays of the sun. It was the memory of the golden oil, the best and purest oil, being poured into jerry-cans and handed to family and friends as precious gifts. It was the memory of long years of cherishing the Land, years of giving and belonging.
Between my father and his Land is an unbreakable bond. Between Palestinians and their Land is an unbreakable bond. By uprooting plants and cutting trees continually, Israel tries to break that bond and impose its own rules of despair on Palestinians. By replanting their trees over and over again, Palestinians are rejecting Israel’s rules. “My Land, my rules,” says Dad.
Toothache in Gaza
by Sameeha Elwan
I woke up with the same awful toothache, the pain drilling through the top of my head. For two days, I could not study, I could not eat, and, worse, I could not sleep. Every part of my body ached in its own way. There was no other choice, then. I had to go to the dentist. I tried to avoid it, but it was too late. My father was supposed to make me a dentist appointment. Unfortunately, I had to wait three more days for an appointment. There’s nothing more irritating in the world than having the headache brought on by a toothache. It is just unbearable.
Hearing my moaning and my cries of pain, my father yelled from the other room, “If you can’t handle the pain for three more days, then we can just go to the… .”
I think I either did not hear what he said clearly, or I simply thought he was kidding. I inquired, “To go where?”
Clearing his throat, my father yelled that fearful word which came out of his mouth sharp and distinctive: al-wekala–the UNRWA Health Center. My heart sank, my whole body shivered, and my words were stuck in my throat. The image of the place was suddenly all I saw. Every day on my way to university, I pass by two buildings of UNRWA, a health center and the headquarters.
The walls of the clinic were whitish with a few blue stripes. They had drawings of very disproportionately painted people being carried away into ambulances. It was not the white and pale blue buildings with the flag of UNRWA or its crude paintings, nor was it the inaccessible barb-wired walls which bothered me whenever my eyes would set on the place. It was rather the scene of the crowds lining up or trying to stay lined up to reach the fenced windows and the voice of the invisible person on the microphone calling for either names or numbers. I always couldn’t help but feel sorry for those who had to wait there in queues under the burning summer sun or the heavy winter rain. I never imagined myself lining up for any reason before. Never had I thought I would be standing there waiting for my name to be called and struggling to get to the fenced window with the hope that I would be one of those lucky enough to be called.
Though I wanted to wait out the trauma I was passing through, the unprecedented pain defeated me. I surrendered. The journey to the clinic had to be made whether I liked it or not. After all, how bad would it be to stand there in the lines amongst other people, other average Palestinians, refugees, and patients? It is only a medical center, I tried to console myself, unsuccessfully.
A sleepless night passed. When I went to my father the next day, I didn’t have to say a word. He tried to alleviate my panic with a gentle look. He said he had to go to the clinic an hour before me so that he could get me a place before it got jam-packed. How could a place get crowded at seven in the morning, I wondered?
At exactly 8 a.m., I went to the clinic as my father had instructed me. The way to the center brought me much agony. I thought of how inconsiderate I could sometimes be towards my father, how I never fully appreciated what he does for us. He had to stand in line to get us the UNRWA supplies once a month. We are among the lucky Palestinians who enjoy the advantages of the UNRWA Card, with a capital “C.” My mother is a refugee. I never knew why some people looked at that card as a kind of privilege, and I always wondered why some of them hold it with such pride.
The refugee card was and continues to be an insult to remind us of the little that refugees get in comparison with what they have really lost. Would a bag of flour compensate for the farmland they once had? Would a bag of sugar make up for the bitter misery those people have always felt after losing their sweet homes to dwell in refugee camps? Would the two bottles of oil make them forget their olive trees, which had been mercilessly uprooted as they themselves were? Or maybe it is simply a declaration that they are temporary refugees who once had the land which, as long as this card is still in their hands, would still be waiting for them to return. Only a shot of sharp pain brought me back to the present.
When I arrived at the center around 8:30, a few people were lining up outside. I guessed those presumptions and fears were a result of my unexplainable phobia of dentists; I thought I had been exaggerating them. The white and blue building seemed quite a nice place after all. My favorite colors gave me some sort of relief, which unfortunately did not last for long. The voices of people babbling got clearer the moment I entered the clinic. Looking around, I took in the laughably small clinic, which technically was several small rooms with a panel above each door illustrating different kinds of treatment provided by the health center: The General Clinic. The Optometrist. The Dentist. Internal Medicine, which occupied the major part of the clinic.
Thank God, it is only a toothache, I thought.
My father found his way to me among the crowd. “Why are you so late? I got you a number. You were about to lose it,” he called from where he was standing.
“No way, not the number. I can’t lose the number after all I have been through,” I thought, pain preventing me from talking. It was one of those times when one is rendered a number, when one is no longer a human being but a number. I was no longer me. I was Seven. And “Seven” was the only thing I wanted to hear at that moment. Although, seeing all those sick people mildly relieved my tooth pain that started gnawing at my brain and my limbs. I wanted it to stop, by any means.
I sat down on the bench my father reserved for me. Seeing the state I was in, he preferred to stand up like most of the people waiting for their numbers. The five benches available in the room would by no means suffice the tens of women, children, men, and elderly crowdedly standing there. I got a glance at the woman beside me. My eyes caught a glimpse of the number on the card she was gripping with both hands. I was shocked. For how long does she have to wait for number thirty-six when I was number seven and not called yet? Not for long, I discovered later.
“Number six! Number six?” called a bored voice over the loudspeaker.
“Number six? Where’s number six?” roared almost every person present, their voices reverberating through the hall. The door of the room opened, and a very old woman crawled out, limping slowly to the right then to the left, two young relatives, apparently her grandsons, holding both her hands. The woman’s eyes
were closed and cotton was sticking out of her tiny mouth. She clearly was in a lot of awful pain, which, in ways I could not explain, made my own whole body throb. I wanted to peer into the room when a little girl, around ten years old, pushed herself through the crowd into the room and closed the door behind her.
The girl, whose hair was dangling in a long plait, was wearing the white uniform with blue stripes I always hated as a student. (I always wondered whether it was blue with white stripes.) She went into the dentist’s room alone. I felt ashamed of myself. She was the younger version of me, except that I had liked to wear my hair in two plaits. And most importantly, she was not as cowardly as to bring her father with her. She was holding her school bag when she got in. So, most probably, she was heading to school after having her tooth removed. In two minutes, the door opened again. The little girl came out with the same look of defiance on her face as if declaring, “I finally got you out of my mouth, you stupid little tooth.” I thought of the amount time this little girl spent in there. Two minutes—not even enough to give her any sort of anesthesia… .
For a moment, I thought about running away. My father began pushing me through the crowd even before number seven was called. The people present again roared in unison, “Number seven! Where is number seven?” He held my hands while I lagged behind. The three doctors seemed very nice—well, at least they asked me about my name. I had to lie on the chair, and in less than a minute, the doctor declared I needed surgical tooth removal, which, unsurprisingly, the UNRWA clinic did not offer. I forgot about the pain. All I wanted was to get out of that sterile room.
Gaza Writes Back Page 5