Gaza Writes Back

by Refaat Alareer

  I stopped holding my breath when I was out. I hurried for the exit of the building. When my dad emerged later on, I, with the same smile of the little girl, looked into his eyes, “See, they cannot help me. I told you.” My father, who had stayed behind for more information from the doctors and to bring any medications they prescribed, laughed when he saw my pale face finally returned to its usual color. He raised the little bag of medicine in front of my face, “At least, I’ve got you some painkillers.”

  “Yes, painkillers!” I smiled thoughtfully.

  Will I Ever Get Out?

  by Nour Al-Sousi

  And now here I am. The battery indicator on my cell phone is half empty. Hopeless is my case, for the network will not respond to my persistent attempts to call anyone.

  This very cell phone was my gift for passing secondary school with distinction; it was my father’s way of expressing his overwhelming joy on that day. I remember when he reminded me of my future dream: “Oh, at last! I’ll see you as the doctor I always dreamed you’d be, Said. At last, I will!”

  I was, then, expected to pursue my university studies abroad, but it seemed that fate wanted it another way. The mere idea of me leaving this country and never coming back again was out of the question for my parents. They wanted me to stay. And I, therefore, had no choice but to join the Faculty of Medicine here, in Gaza. To tell the truth, it was not as bad as I had expected. Not at all. All that had complicated our lives and made them intolerable was nothing other than those regular power failures, the food price crisis, the continuing closure of the borders that kept us from traveling abroad, the transportation crisis, and the desperate struggle for a living. Only these and nothing more.

  Oh, how happy those days seem to be when compared to these! Never mind, it won’t take longer than an hour more.

  A year passed. Our home was shelled. The house was partly damaged. Only one room was totally destroyed. And my father happened to be inside that room.

  A year passed, and I still keep myself away from that room. I still smell the burned flesh.

  Even here—in my confinement—I smell it.

  My agony was so great that it could not be relieved by tears. I didn’t cry over the death of my father.

  All of a sudden, I had become the family’s sole provider. I had to look for work, any work. That, unexpectedly, did not take long as someone hissed in my ears, “Come and work with me, Said. You’ll never find a better job than digging the tunnels!”

  “But… .”

  “No buts. It pays double what you will earn anywhere. It is guaranteed all year long,” said the man. “And we will call you ‘Doctor,’” he added and grinned.

  Failing to strike a balance between my study and my new work, I dropped medical school.

  The low-battery indicator never stops irking me.

  Raising her blessed hands, my mother prayed for me. She prayed for me, not knowing what sort of work I was doing. After all, she couldn’t tolerate the idea of her children going to bed with empty stomachs. I could not either.

  I took a taxi to Rafah. The digging was taking place under the houses near the border. The only thing I was thinking of was how my body would endure being in a grave more than twenty meters deep. The fifty shekels at the end of the day, and the bags I brought back home that drew smiles on the faces of my mother and little brothers and only sister, made the task a bit easier.

  We began digging. It got very stuffy inside. We were three teams: the first team digs, the second team takes the sand out, and the third team holds the scaffolding poles. Although I was masked, the sand could feel its way through the mask into my mouth, and drinking some water worsened the situation. I coughed and coughed. My unmasked mates laughed deeply. “You’ll get used to this soon, Doc,” someone told me.

  I took my mind off them. I envisioned the sea where I used to spend most of my time diving; this was one of my hobbies. One cold drop of sweat awakened me, tearing its way down on my back. Even this little drop was contaminated with sand.

  Once I wanted to warn against digging this close to the sea. But I refrained. Those non–medical school tunnel-diggers must know better. The task sounded easy, albeit sweaty, until the sand began falling from the sky—from the dark sky of the dark tunnel. I stayed behind at the end of the tunnel to hold the poles.

  I am just wondering how long I have been stuck here in this tunnel. My mates have gone out and left me alone. My mother’s prayers have done me no good. The tunnel collapsed over the gate before I could make it out.

  They will come to save me from here, for sure.

  My cell phone is moaning, its light flickering.

  I feel the bitter cold piercing my bones. A spasm of pain. And I feel the warmth of the earth from under my feet as though it were patting me to sleep. In the horizon, there seems to be a light coming from afar. It seems tangible.

  A hymn. I can hear a hymn now. My mother’s prayer. My sister’s empty stomach. The smell of burned flesh. And the flavor of sea water.

  A Wall

  by Rawan Yaghi

  It’s funny there’s a sidewalk here. I walked with my fingertips touching the huge blocks of the great Wall built to scare me. I didn’t look at the graffiti; I know it very well. The sky was half eaten by the Wall, and the sun was no better. I tripped on a stone, probably thrown by some of my friends yesterday. I sat down where I stumbled and grabbed the stone, stared at it for a minute, and threw it over the Wall. I listened for an “ouch,” a curse word, footsteps, a call, a whisper, or a gunshot. Nothing. I kept on walking. It didn’t seem to end. My fingertips were now stained with all the graffiti colors. I stopped. I turned my face to the Wall. I put both my hands on it. I pushed. I kept pushing, my arms straight, my teeth clenched, my legs rooted to the ground, the smell of the spray paint going through my nostrils to my lungs. A man walking past me stopped to see what would come of this. My feet started backing the other way. A sound from inside me broke out into a scream. I collapsed to the ground crying. The man laughed and went on walking.

  A Wish for Insomnia

  by Nour El Borno

  The storm has been howling the whole night, the wind whistling through the tiny gaps of the windows and underneath the doors. The clock blinks 2 a.m. The screaming starts. Everyone’s up—husband, wife, and their two children. Ezra’s thunder-like screams had awakened them. He was sweating profusely. The sweat, coupled with the breeze sneaking through the half-open bedroom door, joined forces, and he felt a cold shiver run through his veins and a sharp pain in his chest.

  Ezra, who slept on the left side of the bed for a change that night, stood up, groped his way to the half-shattered mirror, looked at his hands furtively, and then sat on the carpet near the dressing table. He crossed his legs and placed his hands on his knees as if he were carrying something, fixing his gaze unblinkingly on them. His wife, Talia, followed with her eyes every move he made until he sat motionless. She knew what to do next. Before she went to comfort him, she noticed their two children standing in the dimly lit corridor behind the door, their shadows extending like ghosts.

  “Go back to your room, sweeties,” she whispered to the little ones while leaving her bed. Sarah and Ziva grew accustomed to waking up to their father’s shrieks in the middle of the night. They returned to their bedroom, not sure about what had just happened to their father, whose screams were louder this time—louder and more painful. The past few weeks were agonizing for them. Their father did not leave the bedroom. All they saw and heard of him was his screaming in the middle of the night, the noise of things breaking, and his moaning during the day. Their mother always kept them away from him. Talia moved slowly, careful not to startle him. He was trembling, his face pale, his heartbeat racing.

  “Another nightmare?” she said gently as she sat opposite him.

  “This time was much worse,” muttered Ezra, panting.

  “What did you see?” she asked again, trying not to sound interrogative, a technique she learned by attendin
g several sessions with their psychiatrist. Dr. David told her that if done properly, making her husband talk about the nightmare could be releasing.

  He continued out of habit, rather than consciously responding to his wife’s questions. “We were sent in tanks to Gaza, again… . We were instructed to shoot to kill. That was the order. And…and we shot almost every moving thing: we shot the water tanks, a couple of stray dogs, a cow, a dozen people…and there was that woman…with her kid… . I could not tell if she was fat or pregnant. I could not through the night-vision binoculars. I do not know what happened to the kid. I wish I could know now. The kid cried the whole night. I kept hearing the commander’s order in the background, but it was the little kid’s voice that haunted me everywhere… .”

  Sensing that her husband was drifting between dream and reality, Talia squeezed his hands in an attempt to bring him back to consciousness.

  “Honey, you were doing your duty to your country. It was your job to follow orders. It’s alright,” reminded the wife, trying to soothe him. He could not hear her. He could not see her. He could not feel her hands touching his.

  “The smell of the gunshots, the deep mooing of the cow, and the barking of the dog, the blood on my hands, the whimpers of the woman, and then the cries of the child. The cries of the child. The cries of the child,” he kept repeating. He went on, “Some of the guys were taking pictures and some were writing on the walls. Ben and Levi were dancing around, taking souvenirs from each house we broke into. A lot of people from the dream were real. People I already killed.” Then there was a momentary silence. He was suffocating. His chest was burning, and his heart almost ripped through it.

  Deliberately and gently, Talia ran her fingers through his blond hair and tried to see through his blue eyes. She could see pain. And she could see horror. Obviously, talking was not helping. She thought of abandoning Dr. David’s advice.

  “We walked into this house,” he carried on. “It was dark. Really dark. They said the house has terrorists. He said the house has terrorists. The general said the house had terrorists. I heard him loud and clear.”

  “Darling, I am sure it’s nothing. Just rela… .”

  “I walked in. I couldn’t see. Flashlights. There was no electricity. It was dark. We shot everyone. The electricity went back on. And…when the lights were back on…when the lights were on, the general was dead. Ben and Levi. All dead. Everyone was dead. The guys were dead. A little girl…bleeding. Ziva’s bunny. Blood. Our little Ziva…she was…she was dead. I held her in my arms. But she was dead. I killed her with my gun… .”

  “Daddy, I don’t do anything wrong. Why did you kill me?” little Ziva asked, dropping her bunny on the floor.

  Bundles

  by Mohammed Suliman

  At daybreak, Salma, a plump, brunette woman in her early forties, was wrapping some bundles of Naji’s favorite food and cigarettes. When she finished packing everything into a bundle, she dressed up and prepared herself as well. Confusing feelings occupied her. She didn’t know whether she should be in high spirits, as she was, or dejected, as she intermittently felt. It was only a few hours that separated her from seeing her son for the first time in the three years since he was caught in a failed attempt to sneak beyond the borders. During these three years, Salma used to sit where her son kissed her goodbye, weeping and sniffing each of the letters her son sent her. She lived sobbingly reproaching herself for letting him go—as though she had any way to put a stop to what he was up to. She grew more pallid each day as she languished after her lost son. She wept so bitterly over him that her eyes seemed to have been drained of tears. It struck five in the morning, and Salma carried the two bundles and left the house. Her son, who hadn’t been on trial yet, was in the Nafha desert prison inside Israel.

  Tightly clenching a package in each hand, Salma alighted from the car with anxious thoughts whirling through her head. She felt ready to drop, but she had to pass one last checkpoint before she could gain access into Israel. After having her neatly organized packages inspected and then messed up, she had to stuff them hurriedly and go through the metal detector. When she passed through it, it gave a buzzing sound. Her blood ran cold. A blond, capped officer with freckles on his face asked her to check if she had any metal pieces or coins with her. Salma examined herself thoroughly but failed to find a sign of any metal. The officer, then, required her to go through the metal detector for a second time. As she returned, Salma felt her heart pounding so loudly, she was sure the smirking officer could hear it. She stepped toward the metal detector and attempted to steady her legs while she passed through it. And then “Zzzzz”—it buzzed again. Immediately, two slender female officers came ambling toward her, when it flashed through her mind: it was the buckle of her watch that made all the fuss. “Good riddance,” she said to herself, feeling stupid and happy that she could eventually pass through without the machine buzzing. Salma, cursing the occupation for making her look stupid and awkward, saw the image of her Naji draw nearer and nearer.

  It had been three and a half years since Abu Naji passed away of prostate cancer. His wife, Salma, had to contend with the daily life of a depressed family, along with her son, Naji. Naji prematurely became the head, and the only breadwinner, of the family.

  Naji was tall and skinny, a young man in his early twenties. He struggled to bring his mother and himself their daily sustenance early in his life. He would get up early every day, pick up the sandwiches his mother wrapped for him, and he would get back late in the evening with a little cash. The new work Naji had obtained at the smuggling tunnels was good enough to bring them food; it was enough to keep them alive for a day or two more, yet it was likely to bring them death.

  Salma felt disconcerted while Naji was having his usual modest supper with her at home. Salma took notice of Naji’s absent-mindedness. Still staring at his sullen face, she refilled his cup of tea. Naji’s eyes were leering at the pastry in his hands, his lower jaw moving up and down as sluggishly as his body appeared to be.

  Breaking the silence, Salma asked, “How was your day at work?” fully aware of the answer. “Tiring, I suppose?” she continued. Naji, however, sounded uninterested in his mother’s question. He was transfixing his eyes unblinkingly at the small, scattered pieces of sage floating on the surface of the hot tea. It had been a while before Naji realized that his mother was uneasily exchanging with him nervous looks from the edge of her watery eyes. “What’s wrong?” she asked him once more.

  “Nothing,” Naji lied.

  “Don’t lie to me,” she snapped at him. “You’ve been acting strangely since you came home. What happened? Just let me know,” she tersely continued. Naji finally told her what happened between him and his boss, Abu Sham, inside the rotten chamber near the tunnel where he worked.

  “It’s dangerous. I know,” said Naji.

  His mother kept silent.

  “I’ll make 4,000 shekels for a two-day job. I can use the money to start a small enterprise. I can be free,” he added convincingly, “I sneak in, bring the package, and then come back.”

  “Do you even know what that package is?” his mother finally asked.

  “I honestly don’t know,” he replied.

  Naji was up early in the morning. Salma was preparing his breakfast when he came in, already dressed. She started singing in a low voice. Her singing was mixed with sporadic heartbreaking sobs. While having their breakfast, Naji cleared his throat and raised his eyes to meet his mother’s. “I don’t want you to be angry with me. I’m doing this for us,” said Naji in a distressed voice. Salma, who was not eating, shot him an angry yet compassionate look. Lowering her face, she said nothing. Naji got up to his feet and headed to where his mother was sitting. “I’ll be back in two days; I promise.” His mother raised her face again while Naji was grabbing her hands. Salma felt that it was a moment of farewell. It was a moment of inevitability. Naji lowered himself and kissed the back of her hands. Failing to gulp back her tears, Salma tightened
her grip of his hands before she let go of them—of him.

  Salma finally reached the prison. She entered a big hall; she had never seen anything like it before. Shortly after, she realized she would be inspected again. There was bustling. She heard many loud voices coming from here and there. It seemed like dozens of quarrels were taking place at the same moment. The view of her son was fading in her mind when she found herself in a row of elderly women waiting to hand in their papers.

  After what seemed a long while, Salma found herself face to face with a blond female clerk. She was slim and short, and seemed to be sinking in the chair. Salma stood still while the blond clerk sat at a large, glossy desk and spoke as hastily as she typed. She looked up at Salma, and moved all four fingers back and forth next to her thumb at the end of her stretched hand to tell her to hand in the papers. Salma handed her the papers and examined her fingers while they were hitting the keys gently. The officer pushed her papers back to her, and Salma moved hastily to release herself from the restless, nudging women behind her.

  Salma didn’t have the slightest idea where she should go. She was roaming the place with the bundles in her hands and the papers curled under her arm. She had a passing thought of inquiring about where to go from an officer at one of the gates, but she spotted the nudging woman limping with three huge bags outside the hall. Salma hurried to catch up with her.

  “Hello, ma’am,” Salma said, doing her utmost to keep up her strides.

  “Hello,” came the throaty voice of the old woman.

  Salma was about to ask where they were supposed to go before the nervous woman’s voice came again. “So, visiting your son?”

  “Yes,” Salma answered, straining to walk by her side. “And you?” she went on.