Gaza Writes Back

by Refaat Alareer

  Laila could see her Dad’s pain was not just physical. His pain was the pain of his family. It was in the thought of him being a burden rather than a breadwinner at a time they needed him the most. Laila was torn between running from this hospital to that, working on her father’s papers, and studying for her secondary school tawjihi exams to win the scholarship she had always dreamed of. Um Laila was torn between taking care of her injured husband and daughter, and running their farm. And Sarah, once a cheeky little girl, was trapped in the images of death and destruction, and the feelings of fear, pain, rage, and hatred. Sarah will never get therapy. She will, however, continue to look after little Salma and play with her, and will continue to sleep next to her father, whose tears became his nightly ritual.

  Abu Laila’s condition was deteriorating day by day. Four months of agony had passed when, one day, Laila picked up the phone to hear the voice of the doctor telling her that, by the end of the week, they will have sent Abu Laila’s file and that he might have a chance of traveling for the surgery. It was the first good news in a long time. Laila could not believe her ears, nor could her mother believe her. “Are you sure he said this? Laila, are you positive? When will they send it? When will we get the reply?” asked Um Laila with the tears of joy rushing uncontrollably down her face.

  They could not wait until the end of the week. Those five days went by so slowly that their hearts were racing non-stop and their minds knew no sleep. Finally, he will be going out for treatment. Finally, he will be able to go back to work. He will be able to eat properly, to take them out, to laugh from the very depth of his heart, and he will not have to constantly worry that he might be dying. Finally, Laila will be able to study without worrying constantly, and Sarah will not have to see her father cry quietly or hear her parents talk about death and future possibilities anymore. And little Salma will be getting all the attention and care of the entire family.

  Thursday had come. At last. The clock struck 6 a.m., and Laila and her mother were already up. They made breakfast for the family, got dressed, and headed to the hospital right away. They could not wait for the phone call. They wanted to go and see for themselves.

  They arrived at the reception and asked to see Dr. Mahmoud. He wasn’t there just yet. The two hours of waiting seemed to Laila and her mother longer than the five days. The minute the doctor walked in, Um Laila jumped from her seat and called in anticipation, “Dr. Mahmoud!” Fixing his glasses and swallowing his words, Dr. Mahmoud replied, “Oh. Um Laila….”

  His facial expressions and his words were not very encouraging. The sight of him with that face made Laila and her mother shudder. It gave them a silent yet painful pinch in the heart. Should they go on and ask him about the papers? Or do they not want to hear something that might upset them and crush the beautiful fantasies of the past five days, something that might absolutely destroy any last bit of hope they had? Every bit of his face was saying, “Don’t ask about the papers. Don’t ask about the file. Don’t ask about the Goddamn treatment!” They did not ask. Neither Laila nor her mother could utter a single word. Dr. Mahmoud cut to the chase and said, “Um Laila, look…. Your husband is quite critical. If you were in my position, would you send his file or the file of a dying baby who has a better chance of recovery?”

  A few tears that were struggling to roll down Um Laila’s face choked back any words or questions she might have had. He went on, “We had a baby come in this week who has a serious blood condition, and if he does not travel for treatment as soon as possible, the little one might pass away before he even learns how to walk. And due to the circumstances, we only can send one person.”

  Um Laila gasped in shock as to what this might entail, as Laila shouted intensely, “Who are you to choose who lives or dies?!” Despite her yelling, Dr. Mahmoud continued steadily, “Look, I am terribly sorry. There is nothing we can do about this. We only do what we can, and if anything comes up, I will make sure to call you. I have to go now. I have a patient waiting. Take care of yourself Um Laila, of your daughters, and of your husband. God bless you.”

  Everything just stopped. Only waiting remained. And this time it was waiting for the worst. Everything seemed insignificant. Time was insignificant, pain was insignificant, hope was insignificant, fear was insignificant, and the lives of people were definitely the most insignificant of all.

  Laila wanted to shout, to scream her heart out. But she couldn’t. Her mother was having it bad enough. Laila must be strong for her now. One woman crying and howling in the middle of the reception room was more than enough. Her mother had a nervous breakdown. What were they going to tell Abu Laila now? What were they going to tell the man who a short while ago was setting plans for what he would do for his family once he was healthy again? Nothing. Simply nothing.

  Abu Laila died three months later.

  Regardless of the anguish, Laila tried to convince herself and her family that they were still “fortunate” compared to others. The family was lucky that the walls of their house were still standing, and they did not have to live in a tent and endure the brutality of winter’s cold and summer’s heat. Salma, who was still in diapers when she got hit by an Israeli missile, was also lucky that her brain was still in its place, that she was able to get treatment inside Gaza, and that the roof of the house did not fall on her body, forcing the family to dig up the pieces of her flesh from underneath. Um Laila was lucky her physical health was good, and that she was able to fend for her family and provide for them. Sarah was lucky she was not also physically injured, adding to her psychological disturbance. And Laila was also lucky to pass out and not witness more of what could only be called hell on earth, before they were taken to the hospital. She was also lucky she had the ability to still concentrate enough to ace her exams and win the scholarship she had always dreamed of. The family’s calamity was not that much of a calamity when placing it on the scale of severity of Gaza’s tragedies.

  Laila did not hate the little baby whose file was sent instead of her father’s. She only hated Israel for making it so that the doctor had to choose. She only wished this baby would survive, grow up, and become a freedom fighter. “No, I can’t drop medical school. Not after all that has happened,” she said under her breath. Laila sat in her bedroom, the candle burning out, and as she heard the sound of an Israeli Apache ripping through the sky, she looked over, and in that weak moment and in the memory of all the suffering following her father’s injury, she muttered through clenched teeth, “Next time, finish your job. When you bomb, bomb to end. And when you shoot, please shoot to kill.”

  Omar X

  by Yousef Aljamal

  The night was silent. The moon hid behind some summer clouds. His smile revealed his young age. His steps beat the ground slowly, looking for the path. The thump-thump sound of a helicopter was getting closer, penetrating the peace of the crowded refugee camp his family had lived in since 1948, and the familiar noise of tanks rolling in violated the silence of the night and decreed that he will never sleep again. He got into his khaki uniform hastily, grabbed his gun, and rubbing its dusty barrel, stormed out of the house. As he waited a little at the doorstep of their house to make sure no one was watching, his eyes wandered right and left, and finally met the eyes of his friend, who was murdered three months ago and is now immortalized in posters stuck on walls of the camp. Those honey eyes of his best friend always brought him comfort. As the helicopter moved away for a while, silence prevailed again.

  Soon after, Sa’ad joined him, and together they entered an orange orchard. Sa’ad insisted on going in first. Omar followed after Sa’ad made sure no soldiers were around. “The place must be safe. Let’s get closer to that building in the middle. We can see things clearer from there,” Omar suggested in a whisper.

  The grass under their feet was fresh; the only noise they could hear was that of the branches rubbing against them as they went further. Sa’ad stopped to check his gun. Omar did the same. They stood still for a second. Silence was
heard again, this time even clearer. It all made sense now. That silence was artificial. Omar and Sa’ad did not have time to communicate, except for some glances. Bullets poured from the building into them. Omar fell down, shot. “Watch out! Crawl on the ground!” Sa’ad, still in disbelief, shouted. More bullets whizzed by.

  Omar’s life flashed quickly in front of his eyes. He saw himself as a child, being spoiled by his dad. He saw himself as a student, throwing his little pocket money in protest, the coins scattering on the roof of their rusty house. He saw himself leading protests as his young companions got killed. He saw himself as a singer, singing for freedom. Lastly, he saw himself as a fighter.

  The dusty, narrow corridor which led to the maternity ward was full of relatives wearing full-cheeked smiles coming to congratulate his parents. Months before his birth, during a family gathering, his name was declared, while their refugee camp was under curfew. “Father, my oldest brother named his first son after you, Ibrahim. It’s not proper at all to have the same name as my brother, Abu Ibrahim. I am going to name him Omar. This name reminds me of kindness and toughness at the same time,” Abu Omar declared. His grandfather was satisfied with the name, even though Omar wasn’t named after him, as the tradition usually goes. His mother showed no resistance to her husband’s zeal for the name. When the boy was born, he was taken to be washed by none other than his grandmother, as that was tradition, too.

  “To Palestine, I grant you. I want to see you a handsome man. Avoid the Israeli soldiers on your way. Fight them back, if they hurt you. Long live my little child,” Omar’s dad sang as he fell asleep upon his arrival from an unplanned trip to the occupied territories.

  The curfew was in place when his mother and her newborn boy tried to sneak under the cover of the night to their tin house in the refugee camp. Five soldiers stopped their car for a regular check and allowed them to continue driving toward the entrance of the neighborhood, named Block A after a British prison that was built there in the 1940s. An Israeli soldier, who looked like none of the refugees there, stood at the checkpoint, looking at the mother bringing one more child to the area, which was well-known for children throwing stones, rocks, and whatever they found at the soldiers. “What do you have in your lap?” the solider asked. “Yilid,” Um Omar said, using the Hebrew word for “child.” The driver grabbed a cigarette and left the sound of Fairouz singing, “We will return someday to our neighborhood,” for the soldiers to listen to.

  A second bullet hit Omar’s body.

  “You almost suffocate him as your lips tour every inch of his little face. He’s crying. Please, stop kissing him that way,” Um Omar would protest. “My love for him is immeasurable. It gets bigger every day, but it never gets old,” Abu Omar said in defense of his embraces.

  During a full moon, that night silent, too, the soldiers stormed Omar’s bedroom, looking for some kids who were throwing stones at them, spoiling Omar’s imagining the moon as a white balloon. Um Omar hugged her son to hide him from the red eyes of the soldiers invading every corner of the room. Omar’s mother never imagined him as a fighter. She abhorred guns now even more. “My little son, sleep. My loved one, sleep,” she sang to comfort him during his terrifying childhood.

  Faster than the wind, which blew very often with the smell of gunpowder, Omar grew up in a rusty house that got narrower as his extended family doubled. Omar realized that the soldiers, who used to scare him as a five-year-old boy on his way to kindergarten, still invaded every little aspect of his life.

  Omar’s astonishing voice helped him meet many people while performing resistance songs, including some young men who happened to be fighters. He decided to join them to protect the camp from the continuous raids.

  A third and last bullet broke the scary silence, easily making it to Omar’s body.

  “Mom, I am serious about it. I want money to buy an AK-47 to fight those soldiers. They kill children and women. It’s my duty,” Omar demanded.

  Despite her love for her first son, Omar’s mother could do nothing to stop him. She wanted him to study hard to pass his high school final exams. “Just study hard this year, then you can put off your education for a few years,” Um Omar suggested, urging him to focus on his school. “I will bring you a certificate that will make you raise your head proudly high in the sky,” Omar would say to comfort his increasingly worried mother.

  As he bled, a song he loved and always sang jumped to his mind: “My mother prepared me a comfortable bed. She made me a leather pillow and wished me eternal happiness. This is your bride, shining like a diamond….”

  Omar was too fragile to take out his mobile and make a last call to his family. He kept bleeding, and the bullets kept coming. He swung his head to his right. Face down, Sa’ad was lying lifeless next to him. He gathered enough strength and extended his hand over Sa’ad’s body. And before he could do anything, his hand fell down.

  We Shall Return

  by Mohammed Suliman

  Abu Ibrahim dragged his feet as his weak body struggled with the bundle on his shoulders. His body staggered. His feet tirelessly tried to carry him as far as they could, and though they failed to keep his body stable, he didn’t fall. Abu Ibrahim wasn’t alone. He had a long line of followers; they were his family. He was accompanied by his two wives and a dozen of his children aged five to twenty-two years old. Abu Ibrahim was leaving, but he didn’t know where he was going. There were hundreds of people around him, and everybody was doing the same. Everybody was leaving. And all of them didn’t know where they were going. There was Abu Ahmed with his wife, his two married sons walking on either side of him, another two unmarried sons, and four daughters, followed by a line no less than that which was following Abu Ibrahim. They were leaving, too. There was Abu Naser and his kin, who made some twenty in number following him in one line. Weary with the loads they had to carry, all of them were leaving. Where, they didn’t know.

  Amidst the growing, thick dust that rose from the shuffling feet of the leavers which strove to keep their owners standing upright, nothing was audible but the chaotic sounds of the shoes scraping the rough, rocky sands and, every now and then, stumbling upon a stone. Scores and scores of people were roaming around, all of them stooping down with the burdens on their shoulders and backs. Not knowing where they were going, they walked and walked on. The only thing they knew was that it was a black day, for someone had come and made them leave their homes, farms, and olive trees, and as they said “no,” a gun was pointed at their faces to make them leave, so they left in the hope that they will come back again. How, they did not know.

  It was the Nakba. And since then, they moved two or three times to different destinations, having to endure saying “no” to their offspring who asked, “Are we going back?” Their bundles were getting bigger and heavier, and the roads did not seem to unravel their own village. The sun had just fallen when Abu Ibrahim, Abu Ahmed, and Abu Naser gathered around a small fire to discuss their hazy destiny. Their families sat peacefully under the wide, starry sky, the wind gusting through the trees and the tents they set up out of their rags. The chaotic trudging had vanished as the sun fell. It was replaced with the dreadful sound of silence, the crackling fire, and the wind that occasionally whistled. As the wind blew, the crackling of the fire grew more dreadful, interrupted by the giggles of the little children who squirmed as their mother tickled their armpits and forced a laugh out of their chests.

  Abu Ibrahim aptly started a conversation with a deep sigh that might have been confused with a moan of an Arabian mare, alone in the bosom of night, crying over the sudden death of her little colt. Indeed, it was a moan of an Arab, whose father had taught him how to be as proud as the sun even before he could write down his own name, and whose pride had been wounded.

  “Be’een Allah, ya Abu Ibrahim,”—God’s going to help us, Abu Ibrahim—said Abu Naser, immediate replying to his neighbor’s distressed sigh as he aimlessly drew circles in the sand before silence fell again.

 
“God will help us,” came the voice of Abu Ahmed, who skillfully tickled his rosary. “I think the Arabs, especially the Egyptian government, won’t keep silent,” he said. “They will do something to get us back to our homes.”

  “Yes,” his counterpart nodded approvingly.

  “And don’t forget there are our brothers, the Saudis,” said Abu Ahmed. Noticing the approving nods of Abu Naser, he gradually raised his voice as he went on. “And the Jordanians, the Syrians, and the Iraqis, and the Algerians and all our Arab brothers. All of them will rush to our help and fight these brutes out of our country.”

  “Yes, they will!” Plucking up his courage and feeling the enthusiasm of his neighbor’s tone, Abu Naser ceased nodding to take part in this passionate speech. “They will crush these animals and kick them out of here!”

  While Abu Naser delivered his portion of this confident, morale-boosting speech, Abu Ahmed, all of a sudden, looked sullen again, as though he had changed his mind about the Arabs within this very short period of time. That being the case, he, to Abu Naser’s disappointment, didn’t say anything. He waited and waited, but Abu Ahmed said nothing.

  It all ended here, and silence reigned over the fire-lit session again.

  After this brief break of silence, Abu Ahmed started again, however, this time, in a voice so calm, low, and hesitant, his eyes fixed on the scribbles his twig drew on the sand and never meeting those of the others. “Yes, maybe they will, but we don’t know how long that’s going to take.” He looked as though he was talking to himself rather than to his companions, “It might take one week, two, one month, two months, and even half a year. Who knows?”