Gaza Writes Back

by Refaat Alareer

  I had always heard about the dire circumstances of the Palestinian refugees, but I had never taken the time to visit any of the places they lived. Al-Shati camp is not so far from Al-Mina area, but I was always made to believe that these places were way too remote.

  All these thoughts came into my mind while I was going deeper into the unpaved, narrow roads of the camp; no taxis were there to pick me up and take me back home. Lines of squalid semi-houses were lying along the two sides of the roads. The biggest of them was about one hundred square meters. They looked like boxes—not shaped beautifully, nor painted, and nearly crumbling. Most of their windows were broken, allowing Gaza’s summer heat to radiate inside, and not preventing the winter’s cold and rainwater from bothering their inhabitants. A stream of water was like an anaconda halving the alley into two parts. The fetid smell was overwhelming.

  Soon I saw that wretched view of sewage, which was almost going inside one of the houses. The roofs of most of them were made of meager pieces of metal or wood, which seemed to allow water to go through. If two juxtaposed houses were separated by a mere meter and a half, then the two of them were blessed enough not to hear their neighbors snoring at night. I wondered what degree of privacy any of them could have. Then I figured that privacy was the last concern for people who were so deprived of their basic needs as human beings. It seemed to me that privacy was a luxury those people did not afford. If it had not been for those rugs dangling behind or in front of the doors, I would have seen inside the houses just by walking past them.

  Walking further, I came across two old men sitting under a huge old ziziphus tree, which stood there alone between a pair of houses. They were sitting on small wooden chairs. I wanted to ask them for directions, but then decided to listen to their conversation. I walked as slowly as I could.

  “I swear that a cluster of grapes in our village, Yibna, was a hundred times better than ten kilos of these grapes, ya zalama—man,” said one of the men while eating some black grapes.

  “Wallah—I swear to God—you’re right. May God’s mercy engulf us and take us back there before we die,” the other man said.

  “Look at your white beard, old man!”

  “Allah is all powerful. I’m going to see my village insha’Allah—God willing. And even if I die before then, I’ll ask Allah to give me some of its grapes in heaven.”

  Their voices faded away as I proceeded further toward the western part of Gaza.

  I was shocked when I soon reached the coastal road, where my family lived. I realized how close to the refugee camp my neighborhood was. For the first time, I did not feel any safer seeing the familiar faces and familiar buildings and shops. I realized then the difference between them—and us. I stopped to contemplate the houses and buildings that I was used to passing every day, without giving them a mere glance. Two-story houses. Three-story houses. Four-story houses. All with marble walls. All with glass covering huge parts of their facades. The streets in our neighborhood were wide, so wide. The shadow of seven or eight fifteen-story buildings as the sun leaned further toward the sea must have extended to engulf those abysmal rooms in the camp.

  The magnificence of these constructions was not the thing that engrossed me, but it was the radical difference that existed. The thorough division between that clean, well-structured place, which is not even a hundred meters away from the camp, is the tragedy that distressed me. Dozens of well-dressed men and women were going into Aldeira Hotel, where four or five thousand dollars would be paid just to hold a wedding party with an open buffet. It was more than enough to build a new room for a refugee family. How on earth was this chasm created when only a couple of decades ago we lived almost equally?

  The glorious scene of twilight indicated that the maghrib prayer would be called within a few minutes. I breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing that my father’s car was not parked outside the house. I rushed inside and went upstairs on my tiptoes, looking around and becoming nervous at any sound I heard.

  “Why should I scold you every day for the same thing? I swear that your feelings are so cold, that’s if you have any sort of feelings! When are you going to grow up and be responsible?” Mama burst into her usual lectures. “Your father is not home now, but imagine, just imagine, that he saw you come home at five-thirty! This is the last time for you to come home late. Next time, I’ll tell him. And you know what’s going to happen…” she continued with the same high-pitched voice.

  My dear mother has always scolded me in that same way, threatening me every time that she would tell my father. She never did; instead, she would forget the whole thing in an hour, just because I gave her a hand in washing the dishes or some other household task. I always asked her if all the mothers of the world have the same motherhood gene that makes them forget all the bad things their children did. She would only answer me by saying, “You won’t know that unless you have a baby.”

  I locked myself inside the room and started flashing back to all the scenes I observed. I needed to call Hosam at that very moment.

  “Could he be…?” Not daring to keep on imagining that idea, I dialed his number in order to get some relief. And while his cell phone was ringing, I told myself that if he really was from the camp, then I would definitely excuse him for not telling me where he lived.

  “Did your father beat the hell out of you?” said Hosam, mockingly.

  “Well, you know that I would not be here to talk to you if he had done that. Mama, as usual, saved my life,” I replied.

  “‘Mama’? You’re a university student and you still say ‘mama,’” he mocked again. “It’s ummy,” he added.

  It all added up now. This time his voice sounded like those of the people I had just met. “Oh my God, how didn’t I notice that before? Some of your words are like the accent of those who live in the camps.”

  “What are you trying to say?” he asked. “Have you reached any new detail about my residence during your daily Googling for my identity?”

  “You’re a refugee. And that’s why you kept it a secret from me. Hosam, I don’t think it’s a shameful thing for you to be a refugee. Just tell me; I’m ready to accept any reality.”

  “Oh, really? Ready? Are you trying to tell me that accepting me as I am is a concession from your majesty? You, Gazan!”

  “I’ve already accepted everything about you. I only want you to love who you are. Don’t conceal yourself.”

  He breathed a deep sigh and started talking. “Yes, my lady. I am a refugee. I swear by every part and every tree of this camp. I swear by the sky and the air of this camp, that I’m a refugee. I live in Al-Nusseirat refugee camp….”

  “Yeah, I studied that in geography. Is that near Khan Yunus and Deir Al-Balah?” I asked innocently, interrupting his touching speech.

  “Are you serious? You seem to have never visited this camp. It’s past Al-Zahra City. Khan Yunus is far from here.”

  He seemed totally aware of all the places of Gaza Strip, while I felt very reluctant of telling him that, only an hour ago, I was lost in Al-Shati Camp, which is only a few hundred meters away from where I live. So, it was in no way expected from a girl who had never left her immediate surroundings to recognize where exactly Al-Nusseirat camp is.

  I tried to appear as calm as I could. Still, imagining the area was torture in itself. A stream of endless questions came to my mind. Would I be doomed to live in a similar place when we get married? Is Al-Nusseirat camp similar to the one I went by?

  I hastened towards my computer and wrote the name of that camp on Google Earth. Several images of the place demonstrated that it was a lot better than Al-Shati Camp. “Such a fool I am…. He has never mentioned anything about marriage. Why should I believe that he’s going to be my husband?” I thought.

  I dared to ask my mother if my father would accept a refugee suitor to be my husband. She whispered, “Are you dreaming? He’ll want to know the guy’s original town. He should be a Gazan.”

  Thrown into despair, I
headed to my room, cursing the unfair standards we had to live by.

  And now, here I am. Four years later, I am another refugee’s wife. And I still reminisce about Hosam. He never ceased to be an essential part of my growing up, of my initiation from dreams to reality.

  A month ago, I checked the e-mail that I had used years ago to communicate with Hosam. An unread message from him was waiting for me. It was sent two months earlier. I burst into tears upon seeing the name.

  Dear Eman,

  After four years of your marriage, as well as my losing you to another man, whom I hate from the depths of my heart, though I don’t even know anything about him, I could never forget you. Never could I forgive myself for losing you. I’d never expected that four years were enough for a stubborn man to establish himself.

  Eman, when I decided to end our relationship, I claimed I was trying to protect you from me and from your Dad and from a harsh world. I guess I was lying. I was too ashamed and cowardly to approach him to ask for your hand. I guess, for the little I have, I felt too arrogant to feel rejected. Only now do I realize that you have been an adventure worthy of anything.

  Such a foolish man I was, dear Eman, for not having the courage to knock on your father’s door in order to tell him “I want your daughter.” I thought that a Gazan driving a fifty-thousand dollar Mercedes would just kick me out of his house if I dared to ask him for his daughter’s hand. I couldn’t endure imagining that idea then. Such a fool I am. Such a fool I am.

  Hosam

  It’s My Loaf of Bread

  by Tasnim Hamouda

  “This precious loaf of bread I’m holding in my hands, fellows, has an epic story behind it,” declared the little boy standing on a small wooden chair. “I promised I would get it, and here it is,” he boasted.

  His friends, who had gathered from every corner, route, and slum of the city, listened carefully as their little companion spoke proudly of how he managed to get their promised loaf back after those long days they spent watching the bread on sellers’ carts roaming the city, leaving them with nothing but an irresistible aroma. It was the same aroma their parents and grandparents smelled for years but never gained.

  The little one continued, “He was a big, old man. The biggest man I have ever seen. He wore a strangely striped cloth of black and white on his head… .”

  “A kufiya. That’s how I heard them call it,” a friend interrupted.

  “Hush! They don’t have to know this,” whispered the little boy as he drew his head closer to his companion’s shoulder. His small audience was so enchanted by the loaf of bread that they didn’t notice this stealthy interaction. He adjusted his kippah on his head and went on, “I watched him day and night. He spread the bread on a small wooden pushcart as if it was ordinary bread. Oh, my friends, my heart bled seeing this happen to our bread. But I was patient and stood still until that one sparkling moment came. I walked slowly towards him, captured this loaf of bread, and ran away, with the old man’s cries chasing me.”

  “Did he chase you?” a voice came from the crowd.

  “At first he did not move. Maybe he didn’t see it coming.”

  Maybe the story would not have been this interesting to his audience had he told them the rest of it: how he wasn’t the fast runner he thought he was and how he had almost been caught and how he begged the policeman for mercy. He did not tell them of the police who insisted, despite the old man’s pleas, to compromise. The police gave the boy only a crust and returned the rest to the old man. Still, his friends were even more captivated when he drew the bread near his beaming mouth and gulped a big part of it.

  “What happened next?” someone asked.

  “I felt sorry for the old, breathless man. He must have hated the fact that a youngster like myself had defeated him,” chuckled the boy, his voice choked by ultimate triumph rather than stolen bread. “You felt sorry? Are you saying you want to give it back to him?” a curious question arose.

  “No, I snuck back and took the rest,” said the little one as he gulped the last bit of the old man’s bread.

  Once Upon a Dawn

  by Shahd Awadallah

  It was one of the wintriest and blackest nights, the darkness gloomily wrapping Gaza’s narrow streets and sleeping people in its extended black blanket.

  That night, all sounds were hushed, almost reverent in sympathy with Gaza’s second, sad anniversary of the Israeli war, which left a deep wound inside each heart and soul. I was asleep, or to be more accurate, I was feigning sleep, until the warm drop of a salty tear burned its way smoothly and slowly upon the upper part of my cheek, ending its journey in a trembling fall on the edge of my ear. It silently sank on my white, cold pillow. That lonely drop was followed by a flood of uncountable tears that rushed fast to express their utter grief. They stifled me. I got up in a desperate try to escape that wet, salty pillow, heartily confident that I will never be able to escape those melancholic recollections which occupied most of my memory and my whole life.

  A shrunken, white piece of paper and a black pen were the first things I beheld after I got up. They were lying on my honey-colored, crowded desk, located on the left side of my bed. I sat at my desk, holding the sheet of paper in my right hand and the pen in the left. “This is a good chance to challenge your sorrow; if you fail, as usual, you will have to live with more pain and more sleepless nights.” These were the words my bleary mind and aching heart would pronounce ever since I had lost my much-praised abilities to express myself through words, the means that used to be my advocate whenever I got the chance to hold a pen and write. This night, I decided to follow the calls of my soul. They were calm and calling for me peacefully to write a letter to the innocent kid I lost that night.

  The orange rays of the street lights added great solemnity to the holiness of the night’s darkness, and melted with it to create a new fiery color that surprisingly took my breath away, slipping smoothly through the western window I had opened earlier and reflecting upon the desk where I was sitting motionless. The rays illumined my soul and inflamed my desire to pick up a new paper to write a complete letter to admit my fatal fault and announce my truthful repentance in order to get rid of this torturing regret. At last, I put my pen to the paper and started to ruin its purity with some connected black lines that formed the characters of my letter.

  My dear son,

  I really want you to read each and every single word I write here, because I am no longer able to keep the story in my heart. I promise this time I will try to complete the letter. I promise I will not tear it up. For I need you to understand what happened. I need to explain to you because you were asleep when you died, when you were slain. Every single memory tortures me and reminds me of that cursed night.

  It was a cold night; can you remember it?

  Seconds passed and I got no answer. I submissively continued.

  I am sure you can. It was really cold. You were lying asleep beside me. Your warm breaths were blowing near my face and neck. Your heartbeats were harmonically delicate. I was used to them. They were the soft recital which I could never sleep without first feeling, while contemplating your face’s perfectly created features. I have lost that innocence when I lost you that night. You doubt it, right? It is the absolute truth, my child.

  Again, I waited, but I got nothing except the remains of my stifled words, the words I have never said. I resumed.

  We—you and me, and my mother, father, brothers, and sisters—were all asleep in the dining room of our house. We thought it would be the safest room. Alas! It wasn’t. Nights before, Dad suggested that we all should leave our rooms and sleep together in the dining room, because our rooms had windows that might break as a result of the bombings which dominated Gaza’s nights and days. We all moved to the dining room.

  The western winds continued blowing softly through the window behind me. It had been one of my habits to sleep with the window open to rid myself of the smell of death and the grave-like silence that kept rem
inding me of my loneliness. A tremor shook my body while I was recalling memories and waiting insanely for my son’s answers. The western wind turned me into a piece of marble in the darkness of the freezing winter. It felt cleansing for a little while, spreading its wings of purity. However, its attempts were all in vain. I remained wounded.

  It started thundering and raining. Little crystal drops of rain sneaked with the wind into the room and lightly hit me, then trickled down my naked neck. I trembled again. A tiny smile slipped away from my lips when the smell of the muddy earth started to fill the quivering air.

  It is raining. A few days before that night, it was silent except for the noisy rain. How cute your picture was when I painted you sitting underneath the rain. Actually, you weren’t out under the rain on that day. Hairless and cold, you were seated, with your strawberry-colored lips and childish looks, like those of a kitten begging for love, exhaling your breaths on the freezing window, creating your own world of steam only to scribble it with your tiny fingers. You laughed your heart out as you painted a new world of steam, and spoiled it again and again. At that very moment, I was enjoying the same sound of rain and the same smell of earth. I was drawing you with the tiniest detail of the chuckles you gave whenever a few raindrops softly fell on your bald head.

  You didn’t like it when I teased you with an instigating smile, calling you “bald kid.” Sometimes, you would cry, tearing my heart apart, and other times you would laugh charmingly. I couldn’t understand it, but I liked it when I called you “bald kid.” Are you crying or laughing now, my son? Does my calling you bald now that you’re a year older make you happy or angry? I wish I knew.

  In that picture, some raindrops were on your head, others on your eyelashes, trembling slightly. With shiny, dark eyes, you were sitting on the wet grass laughing. You liked that picture as much as I liked the rain; I lost it the same night I lost your glittering eyes and delightful smile….