And I Witness History

At those precise precious moment of victory and pride when my eyes welled with tears of joy witnessed again another greater Arab revolution, my heart was dancing and my tongue chanting the first poem I learned at school here in Gaza, “Beladi, Beladi, Beladi”, the Egyptian national anthem.

The lines were amongst the first revolutionary lines I learned at a time where the Egyptian curriculum was taught in Gaza schools. I was taught to love Egypt before I was taught to love Palestine. I cherished the Nile though I never drank of its water. I loved the Pyramids which greatness I have not yet witnessed.

For years, I have repeated the Egyptian anthem over and over again along with the Palestinian national anthem. Back then, I thought there was never really that revolutionary spirit the history books celebrated. Today, Egypt has just taught me another lesson for which I should feel grateful. Today, I am only humbled to know that what we’ve studied back then in history books were not only some “legendary” nonsense

Make the Lie Big

When I was a child, there was that story they used to tell to warn us from the consequences of lying. “Do not be a liar”, my teacher warned us over and over again, or else no body would believe you. “Do not play tricks on people” They repeated. “You’ll end up drowning”. “Do not fake the role of the wolf’s victim. Someday, people would just get fed up and you’ll end up losing it all.”

Now, I wonder how long they would keep faking it and run away with it. How long would the world believe their continuous lies? The Moral Army? The Democracy? I still do not have the slightest idea on whom I should place the blame, though. Should I blame the mainstream media for taking the side of the oppressor? Or should I blame the “ordinary reader” for being “uncritical”.

Pardon my rudeness. I do think I am still under the effect of that devastating seminar on the “New York times coverage of the Second Intifada” that I attended this week after which I concluded that maybe one day I would die and my death would simply be reported as “Collateral Damage”. How devastating is that?

The past week could not pass unnoticed.

The whole world has heard and watched the news of the death of “Jawaher Abu Rahma” last Friday in a demonstration in Beli’n . Her death was followed by debates whether she died of inhaling gaz or not.

For me, all those spokespersons, reports, and medical investigations that took place to justify the death of Jawaher Abu Rahma seemed absurd.  I do not care whether she had an asthma or not, whether she died of inhaling gas or not. She did die, protesting. Had not any one wondered why would a 36-year old Palestinian woman with some “medical complications” as claimed leave her house on a Friday to shout in a protest, knowing that she would absolutely put her life in danger? How critical a reader should be to realize what this Palestinian woman stands for?

His wife clutches to a photo of his with a bloody red background that matches the red colour of her husband’s blood stained all over the white blankets and walls. Omar Al Qawasmi, 63, was already dead when he got to the hospital. He did not inhale some gas at a protest. He was not protesting. He was peacefully sleeping when he was shot by Israeli soldiers who broke into his house in the peaceful hours of dawn. His wife was praying.

With several bullets in the upper part of his body, it would have been absolute absurdity declaring his death a result of some “medical complications”.

Those soldiers, who mercilessly headed their guns towards the old man lying in his bed, unarmed, shieldless but of a blanket to protect him from the frigid cold, must have not thought about how much harm they would cause the image of “the moral army”.

What followed were voices of regret from the “Most Moral Army” over the cold-blood murder of an old man.

They might have the power to fake the most blatant of lies. We have the truth at our side.

So far, the boy will keep running to tell his false story. But, one day the world would eventually realize “there was no wolf”.

8th January, 2011

I Survive

“I want to survive”

I unconsciously replied to my big brother’s question. He did not expect such an answer to his inquiry on what I wanted him to get me from the supermarket before it gets dark, before hell would break again that night as it usually did every night at the same time. He laughed, bitterly. I did not.

It took me some time to realize that still then, I was surviving. After what seemed a long time, I still survived. It was a miracle to survive the nights. It wasn’t the same in the morning, but at night every thing went loose. Our house would be lighted every now and a while by a near bomb, but then the light we’ve missed for a while at night was of no use to us as staying up in our third-floor apartment was just an act of craziness. Here, one could definitely get shot any second. It was too close. The war was too close I couldn’t believe I’m still surviving. Here, you wouldn’t know when a bullet finally rests at your heart or chest or your eye, or a shell just tears you all apart. It was definitely crazy at night. Night was the time for evacuation, or shall I call it displacement? Leaving our house was never optional. It’s either you die or you leave the house to survive, which again was not guaranteed as you might leave the house to find that bullet waiting to rest in your heart as well. But, we had to go down anyway.

It was about sunset now. I could hear it begin again. I could hear it begin as every night at the same time and I would grab my mattress, my pillow, and my blankets, with the voice of my mother urging me to hurry. “It’s no time to be an obtuse” she would say, and I would discover that she was right as she always is, for I would have to crawl to go downstairs with not a bit of light on the stairs and with that luggage in my hands, in my pockets, on my head and covering me all around. I would crawl and cry. I’ve never paid much attention to history before and I so much hated history classes, but every time I would get downstairs seeing my mother, my father, brothers and sister with the luggage they could collect; most of which was not important, I could not but recall my late grandmother’s talk about the way she left her home. I thought we’re destined to displacement.

The downstairs room was not as clean or as wide as own lighted well-cleaned house. It was fine but bitterly cold. Somehow, my father thought it’s safer. My mother had to obey. It seemed to me that for this time, she was going to let him decide where we shall spend the night. Desperate, she would let him decide where we shall die. She could not. She was courageous though or acting so. She refused to get out of the house completely. I Thought I would never hear her say so, but she courageously refused to leave the house, and she repeated what I for once thought a cliché “I want to die at home.” My brother, terrified to death by the news of a close bombardment to a neighbour’s house, started crying, shouting at her face. “I don’t want to die”, he pleaded. Back then, I shamefully thought of how selfish of her to sacrifice all of her children for the sake of an old cliché and an older house. But, she was a refugee. She knew what it’s like to leave home. She knew the guilt she would feel when time passes by. That I knew later. I remember that her mother died, wishing she never left home.

The nights were dark and cold at that room. And when all would decide to stop talking, and try to sleep, I would start reading. Solaced by one and only one book that I kept reading over and over again, my mother, taking notice that I, unlike the others did not pretend to sleep, would start rebuking me every time she sees me holding the book so close to my eyes with one hand while the other holding a candle. “Are you planning to die burnt? Wait for your fate.” It was then I grew that fascination for Darwish, his “She is a song” was such a great relief. He, too, lived a war. He, too, wanted to survive to sing her a song and to make a cup of morning coffee. How many wars have we witnessed so far? Why didn’t the word cause me to tremble before as I’m trembling now? Perhaps it’s only cold.

Cold were those dark nights, sometimes terribly loud, frighteningly loud that I wished for some silence. That I could not get with the old radio my mother kept in her pocket day and night, tuned on. Was it her curiosity that made her listen to every single piece of news? Was she hopefully waiting they would announce the end of the war soon? As tortuous as it was, I was thankful electricity was off. Listening to my aunt crying heavily on the telephone and asking us to persevere, I knew that I have missed a lot. I heard the radio say a family was massacred the other day. I heard they say they demolished a whole neighbourhood, sometimes on the head of its inhabitants. I heard them announce figures of children, women, and men killed. I even heard some people calling and screaming for the help of the Red Crescent. Yet, I knew nothing. I’ve seen nothing of it.

“War would end soon. Perhaps it ends tomorrow. They say so.”

“You said so yesterday and the day before, and every day, father” I mutter, not caring.

The next day, the bombardment was faintly heard. There were still some warplanes around. But most importantly, electricity was back. TV was turned on again. In fact, we knew nothing, we’ve seen nothing. The last 23 days started passing in pictures and voice into the screens. I was not on TV. None of my family was. I survived a war while more than a thousand of my people did not. I survived a war not because I was a hero, but…

A war ago, I wouldn’t have thought about writing this, about writing anything. Today, trembling, recalling, I find it an obligation to write the details of it no matter how trivial it might sound for I have to survive; we shall survive.

Sameeha Elwan

26th December, 2010

 

In the name of “Peace”

It is a time of peace.

Peacefully, you wake up every morning with the most peaceful intentions of leading a peaceful day in your already chaotic life.

Whether you intended or it was predestined, the voice of Fairouz with which you prefer to sip your morning coffee, peacefully, avoiding all sort of news of conflicts, death, or pain on other radio stations turns into an agonizing pain with the “bells of return” triggering in your mind, you who were destined to chant for Palestine as long as you’re forced to live elsewhere.

Peacefully, you get into the taxi while your mind is so full with the most peaceful thoughts of how to peacefully resolve the argument that might take place with your boss. You take your mind of those aggressive thoughts, and prefer to stare out of the car window longing for peace. Only there, your eyes meet with fixed eyes of hundreds of faces hanging on the walls of the streets. You might recognize one or two or even tens; you who have lost so many who once have been the joy of your life. They used to be the joy of your life till they were killed, shot, shelled, torn, burned, or buried under rubbles. Now, they have turned into some temporarily memorials on the walls who would soon be replaced by others.

Peacefully, you go shopping for the Eid the day before with the most peaceful intention of a usual shopping day where all you think about is whether you’d find that red blouse. The only act of aggression would be directed towards the salesman with whom you argue, peacefully. The rising clamour of people around you is suddenly replaced by screams of terror as a bombing shakes the place. In seconds, you resume your enthusiastic argument with the salesman, peacefully; you who learned how to estimate possible danger. You no longer need a media coverage that would assure you the bombing was carried out by an F16 in a place far away. You already know, and continue shopping, peacefully

Wait a minute,

Your understanding of the word “peace” is mistaken. Peace is no longer a “state” of mind. It is rather a process. Please be informed that for peace to be processed, certain acts are obligatory:

Forget:

Forget about the word freedom. Freedom is a relative term invented by absolute idealistic people. Freedom should always be put under extreme supervision and restriction or else it would go beyond control. You should learn to live under some absolutely not harmful restrictions. Checkpoints are only there for safety reasons and hundreds of them dotted along the road of the West bank, though would restrict your movement for a short while that might cost you the life of a human being, are put there for the sake of ensuring the Peace process.

Forget about your history. Your history is worth nothing. It should start by the year 1967 where all what was left for you was the West Bank, partially and the Gaza Strip. A history of thousands of years should be erased of your memory and you should learn to accept that Palestine is only the pieces of land scattered around the borders of 1967.

Forget about the word Return. This is a term preserved only for Jews who claim to be displaced all around the world thousands of years ago. Palestinians who were tragically dispersed all around the world sixty two years ago should learn to just live where they are.

Forgive:

Be tolerant and learn to forgive. Forgive them the wars they wage, the massacres they commit, the blood they shed, the children they slaughter, the women they rape, the lands they erase, the trees they uproot, the torture they enjoy, and the humiliation they cause. Forgive them anything, and learn to live in Peace.

Forgive them and shake their dirty hands stained with your people’s blood and draw a smile upon your face before the camera for a shameful photograph.

Forgive them and smile to them while you ask your people to lay down arms and bid them farewell. Barehanded you stand before them, with not even a branch of olive, for you already lost that.

As long as you choose to live that peace, then our prayers to you to “Rest In Peace”.

Sameeha Elwan

17th September, 2010

Internationals and My Mother

It is a truth Gazally acknowledged that girls, those unmarried in particular, do not usually go alone after dark. This week, however, was pretty interesting for me. It brought with its beginnings two meetings with some internationals which, for my normal fortune, have to take place after feast, that is to say after it’s dark.

Never mind. I have never let darkness assume its control over my own life. In fact, I would simply use my secret tender weapon against it: My mother. My mother, who probably would be the last person to break any of our social rules, is just another typical Gazan with such a conservative mentality which many times for a long time I’ve considered unpleasant. Telling her about such meetings is probably the hardest part. I start very confident:
“Mom, guess what?! Today some internationals came to work and we had some really interesting talk.” She grins kindly showing some interest, “and you know what, they wanted to make an interview with us, and it would be videotaped.”
“Good for you, when is that?”
“Well, mother. 8 o’clock” I say, less confident.
“Isn’t that too early?”
“8 in the evening, mom!” knowing that she would not ask me to cancel it nor would she give me an immediate approval, I always have to wait till she think the matter over in her mind again and again as if she had not done it like tens of times before and she already has a set answer.
“Well, ok. I’ll be going with you then.”

Never has this matter had the least effect upon my life whether academically or socially. I can always take my mother along with me to any social occasion that might take place after darkness.

“Oh, very nice”, said Emmy, one of the three internationals I’ve met in the office the other day, shaking her head impressed by what one of my colleagues declared so proudly that her parents being very different and of a really opened mentality would let her go out at night with no companion. Their faces, however, frowned with a pitiful look when I simply said I’m not allowed to go out at night.

Their pitiful looks would not have surprised me at all, but what really hurt was the “Thank God for my parents” I heard from one of my colleagues. Astonished by the fact that I’m being hinted to have a family with a “backward mentality” or “not-illuminated free” family by one of my own people, I think I naturally started acting aggressive.

“It’s ok; I could always bring my mother with me. She can drop me by any time I want” A smile was drawn in Emmy’s face who must have thought this very interesting as she said excitedly, “She’s very welcome. I would love to meet her.” My other two colleagues were exchanging sarcastic looks and giggling, and then took the role of explaining to the international that unlike lots of other families, theirs are very fine and would give them the freedom to go out even at night which is something that many other “poor girls” do not have. I would not deny it; I did shoot them a scornful look.

The first thing “Emmy” got to ask me the next day when I arrived at the center after my mother dropped me there was “Where is your mother?”
She was then surprised when I told her that she dropped me by and went to a family visit as usual. “I thought she would be waiting for you here till you finish” said Emmy. I do not think I would give my mother such a torture. She never has limited my choices or restrained my freedom and never have I restrained hers. Well, to some extent.

I was expecting their following questions which is a common feature I have felt in most of internationals whom I met so far. They always try to investigate whether women are being oppressed in the society or not, whether they are happy with their position or not, and they are so good at the feminist talk of women’s right. Explaining that it is something to do with our parents protective nature, especially when it comes to females, besides religion and social customs and traditions, the subject swiftly drifted to more interesting subjects involving Literature “Shakespeare, George Eliot, Jane Austen, Suad Amiry, Edward Said” and many others. I was actually surprised to know that “Sharon and my mother in Law” was first published in Italy as Shantal, the other Italian international, told me.

When both my colleagues arrived an hour later, we had to start videotaping a discussion revolving around international role in the Gaza Strip. The discussion went pretty well till one of my colleagues stupidly repeated her remark about she being one of the elites whose parents have no problem letting her go out in the darkness UNLIKE others who do not enjoy such advantage. Obviously, another intended “Pity you and lucky me” or let’s say “You should be looking into the bright side of Gaza”.

That’s it. This has to be put to an end. Turning very aggressive this time, I guess I started talking about how internationals should really respect cultural differences. I’m from a different culture. If your parents allow you to go out alone after midnight, mine do not. Had this affected me in any way possible? Not the least. That’s it. Period.

My mobile phone rang. My mother told me she’s coming to get me. Emmy made another invitation for my mother. I said goodbye. I met my mother at the door who as usual took me to the nearest ice cream restaurant where we have our little chat. There echoed the words of my colleague in my mind, but this time with a wide smile as I was looking at my mother explaining her own adventure, “Thank God for my parents.”

Sameeha Elwan
18 August, 2010

A Stranger

“I am from here. I have memories” The words echo in my mind whenever I pass through those narrow streets, bothered by the crowd hitting me with each step I try to make into the probably most crowded street in Gaza with a simple grim upon my face, and a gaze that spins around the place as if checking whether everything is still the same or not in my lovely old part of the city.

Today is different. I am no longer one of the crowd. I am no longer the ordinary passerby whom no one cares about or is interested in, whom the sellers do not even come close to, knowing that I’m of no use to them, whom the eyes never pause to look at, nor the angry drivers, being in a hurry, stop to let pass.

The journey this time started very interesting and not as boring as it was just this morning. The car dropped me and the camera girl in Palestine square as usual. A Stranger, they considered her. A stranger I was, too. As strange as my companion, holding the camera in her hands and pausing at each little kid with a box of cigarettes, or balloons, or lighters, or a remote control hanging around his neck, and tightened by one hand while the other is moving in all directions and showing the goods he is simply marketing at his top pitch.

I was a stranger accompanying another stranger whose interest was not the children themselves but the misery of the pictures she would get out of those children. A good material, they’d be for the conventional stories of “Child labor”. I was a stranger who was getting no word of flattery this time while walking along the supposedly foreign new comer with her glasses lifting up her flying hair. How simple they might judge, sometimes, I naively thought. I was the stranger who was inquiring for the name, age, and social status of those people when only this morning, I did not care for any.

This morning as any other morning, I was familiar with almost all the faces, but never had the thought of penetrating that strange relationship that connects me to the place or its residents. I was one of them. That’s why their names, ages, or social status was of no importance to me. I was not interested in knowing such usual details. Knowing them does not mean I do know the people. I am satisfied with my familiarity with the place. I am familiar with their faces, with the way they sell their goods, with their tricks with the customers, with their words of flattery, with the smiles whenever I get close to that particular shop of nuts where the man pays me a smile and an inquiry upon my family whom he’s never met. I am familiar with each smell of the place, and with the millions of thoughts and memories each bring. The smell of the coffee from the most popular coffee seller in the place, the smell of Palestinian sweets, shawerma, nuts, cake, and perfume. They all mix in a perfect odorous combination. I am familiar with the kids. Those holding boxes of whatsoever. For years, a smile on the face of one of them could give me the strength to face the life with a persistent smile as that drawn in their faces in spite of the heavy burdens on their shoulders.

I was taking notes, mechanically. Not pretty interested in the details of the lives of those little children who have once been my every inspiration. I was simply doing my job. Name, age, family members, reason for working, school and income. Very dumb questions indeed. Does not the fact that the kid is not simply enjoying his time in the sea or in a camp or running effortlessly in the streets say it all? Will not the persistent looks and determined voice show how desperate this child might be? Would not the simple goods he sells say how much income, if he gets any, he enjoys?

I am still not interested in the details.

The event in itself was not the point. The very interesting thing about those children was their attitude towards the camera, the media in general. Every day, tens of cameramen come to take photos of the place.The children truly comprehend it all. They know better than you might think when you see them smiling to the camera and beg you to take a photo of them. They wouldn’t hesitate do every single motion they are asked to do while the cameraman is checking the right position.
Smiling to the camera in that miserable condition with the heavy box around his nick, his friend mocks him, saying “You’re happy they are making their wealth out of you!”. His words rang as bullets penetrating my already missed up thoughts of what exactly I’m doing here. I stop, stare at how little his figure is, and start rebuking myself on how stupid I am compared to that little child.

I go back home, thoughtful, open my note to start writing down an article on “Child Labour”, and feel shocked by the shallow information I took from the little children.

I vowed I would never come back to that place as a stranger. I am from here. I have memories. I will not make of the stories of those little children a sale. I will not deceive them. I open the notes, tear down the systematic information I found in there, and sigh. I did not write the article, and tomorrow, I’ll probably lose my job.

Today, I allowed myself to be the stranger, tomorrow I’ll run across the place as bored as ever.

Sameeha Elwan

31st July, 2010

Lethal Weapons Disclosed

Lethal Weapons Disclosed

Since it declared its existence as a state on Palestinian lands or even before it actually existed in 1948, Israel claimed its right to defend itself against all lethal weapons used to resist no matter what kind of weapons were these, no matter if no lethal weapons were really used to resist. With his bare hands, a Palestinian peasant defending his field of olive trees 62 years ago against Israeli soldiers has to be shot down mercilessly though he was holding no trifles, no guns, not even a stone. His cursing words from the bottom of his throat to those strangers with their guns to get the hell out of his field must have hurt their feelings that is to suppose they do have some. After all, Hamlet’s words were daggers. For this, the man has to be punished, killed in front of his olive tree, his lethal weapon of words was thus vanquished and with it the land was declared theirs. They, now, have to use all force to defend themselves against the brutal Palestinians who surprisingly for more than sixty years did not forget their right in this land.

“Israel’s Security” has always been the stated reason for any brutal or bloody act or any war Israel might wage against mere Civilians. Those Civilians are a threat to the “State of Israel”. To this lie, they would provide many trivial inappropriate evidence to the International laws and survive questioning by International community with its double standards. A burned car frame brought to International courts to prove the brutality of the Palestinians who blew themselves in their buses. Why? Well, Israel has not the least idea why those aggressive Palestinians are sacrificing their lives for? They must be crazy or bloody-thirsty. No, the world has found a new word for them. They are terrorists, and Israel has to help put those terrorist with all those, who support them or do not support them or simply stand by accident beside them, to death. After all, Palestinians are all terrorists; they deserve death.

The last war on the Gaza strip was a very normal reaction to the aggressive attacks on settlements by “deadly rockets”. Those homemade projectiles did actually cause a slight damage in the garden of an Israeli settler who might have been sitting peacefully on a couch in front of his TV watching with a smile on his face the Palestinians dying under the siege his state has imposed upon the Strip for his own security. On hearing the roar in the garden outside where settlers and Media have gathered to cover the “deadly attack”, he finally decides to get out to see what happens, he lazily gets off the couch, opens the door of his house, and on seeing the 2o cm. hole in his garden caused by the projectile, he gets a terrible hysteria which causes him and another four persons around him, taken by shock, to faint and be moved to the hospital. The Israeli TV then declares that the settlement was attacked by homemade “lethal weapons”, and five people were unfortunately injured. With such severe actions of terror against its innocent settlers, Israel decides that a war should be waged against terrorism. Those “fatal homemade rockets” become the excuse of a war that lasts for 23 days upon mere Civilians, who might be struck by the F16s while peacefully watching TV. A Palestinian doesn’t suffer hysteria, though, and is not transferred to the hospital at the moment. His body along with his wife’s and children’s have rather to stay under the rubble of the three-story house sinking 3 meters underground by the effect of a 2-ton-bomb of the F16. The bodies, for sure, are threatening the “Existence of Israel”.

And here is the Flotilla, the ships were inspected at each international European or Turkish harbors. Peace activists on the ship reiterated once and again that the ships carry no weapons but tons of aids to the people of Gaza who have been suffering under the siege for the last four years. Israel declares that the ships, carrying more than 700 peace activists from all over the world have connections to Al-Qaeda, Taliban, etc. (I wonder why I didn’t hear the name of Osama Ben Laden though I have probably heard the name of every organization declared as terrorist since the emergence of this term connected to it). The Ships being a national threat to Israel security and a menace which would put the right of Israel to exist on a tight spot must be stopped by any means necessary. The lethal weapons the ships are carrying which we to discover later are mere puppets, wheelchairs, and tons of food, and basic supplies have to be confronted and controlled before it arrives to its destination where terrorists in Gaza probably would use as they used “the F16” they have smuggled through the tunnels in the last war. Well, little Nagham who has lost her whole family in the Last war on the Gaza strip could use her puppet dull to play “ Beit we Beyaout” What? She’s thinking of a house? They should not let this go. Nagham must not get that toy by no means, or else Israel’s security is for sure threatened.

The Flotilla again disclosed the absurdity of their claims. An attack in international water which is a violation to international laws was to be justified by the same claims. Those peace activists are terrorists. They came to Israel with premeditative intention to kill every Israeli they might meet in Gaza. They came with lethal weapons. Food for Israel is a deadly weapon. Books are a threat or else why aren’t they allowed into Gaza. Puppets threaten the existence of Israel, as well. Being attacked in international water, the activists should show no resistance just as Palestinians shouldn’t as well. A soldier breaks into your house, holding a trifle in his hands headed to your little kid crying out of fear. You do not show any resistance whatsoever. Or else you die. You surrender. And you die.

So, if you happen to hear the word “deadly weapons” or “ leathal weapons” weapons on Israeli Media. Laugh from the bottom of your heart, and don’t let your imagination take you so far. I don’t think your imagination could think of wheels, books, puppets, or food as deadly weapons. Only Israel thinks them so. But, as long as these lethal weapons are causing this state of confusion to Israel! As long as Israel thinks of them as a threat, then, Long live our puppets! Long Live Our Lethal Weapons!

Sameeha Elwan

2/6/2010

The Land, The Gun, The Olive Tree

The Land, The Gun, The Olive Tree

In Memory of Nakba

By Sameeha Elwan

19th May, 2o10

He closed his eyes when the smell of the thyme found its way to the deepest memory his mind is still tirelessly clinging to. He opened them with a persistence to inhale as much of the smell as he can. Something that would help him live on the memory a bit longer. Something that would compensate the years of wait. They didn’t give him a chance to preserve that smell deep in his heart sixty two years ago; but it has been in his memory locked, never been forgotten since. He, now, couldn’t believe his eyes when the smell was combined with the real vision of the field. His field. He wished “Um Salem” would be there to pinch him as she always did when he was trapped between a vision and a reality. She was not there to share him the vision. “It’s not the time for mourning”, he thought. He was there, at last. For sixty two years, the scene of the olive tree he and his grandfather once planted and he watched growing up never escaped his memory along with the hymn his grandmother used to sing him while baking bread on “Taboun”. He remembers some of its lyrics. They were always so patriotic. “The land, the gun, the olive tree”.

His sons and grandsons have always mocked him for keeping the key of a house that most probably has turned into a military barrack, a prison maybe, or might have been simply inhabited by other people who if were willing to steal the house could never steal the memories the house arouse in him. They never believed him when he said he will return one day. They should see him right now, approaching that olive tree to shelter from the burning rays of the sun. He was burnt out. His old boy was covered with sweat, but he never stopped walking towards it. Towards his olive tree with his voice murmuring the hymn his grand mother was singing to him, “The land, the gun, the olive tree.”

“Grandpa, it’s raining, grandpa. You have to get back into the tent”.
“Yebna. Yebna. The gun. The Olive tree”
“We’re not in Yebna, grandpa. Don’t you get tired of having the same dream every single day?”
It took him a minute as usual to go back to where he really was. It was Not Yebna; he realized when he opened his eyes. It was his little granddaughter who was clinging into his clothes, trying to find shelter from the drops of rain which have now turned the camp into a swamp.
“Never. It is that dream of return that keeps us alive. Lobna” he bitterly answered

Toothache in Gaza

Toothache in Gaza

Sameeha Elwan

31st March, 2010

I woke up with the same painful toothache. There is no other choice, then. I have to go for a dentist. I tried to avoid it, but it was too late. My father was supposed to make me a dentist appointment. Unluckily, I had to wait for three more days to get an appointment. That was out of question. There’s nothing more annoying in the world than having a toothache headache. It is just unbearable. Hearing my moaning cries of pain, my father’s voice came from a distance, “If you can’t handle the pain, then we can just go to the ….” I think I either did not hear what he said pretty clearly or I simply thought he was kidding. Facing him, I enquired again,” To go where?”. Clearing his throat, that fearful word came out of his mouth pretty clear now “El WEKALA” “UNRWA Health Center”. My heart sank, and shivers ran over my whole body. The image of the place was suddenly all what I saw. On my way to school every day, I have to pass over two buildings for UNRWA, one is a health center while the other is the Central Department of UNRWA, the one which was attacked in the last offensive over Gaza. I guess it was not the white and blue buildings with the blue Flag of UNRWA which has always caught my attention. It was rather the scene of the crowded people lining or trying to keep the lines up to reach that fenced window and the voice on the microphone calling for either names or numbers. I always couldn’t but feel sorry for the people who have to wait there in line under the Sun of the hottest Summer day or the heavy rain of the coldest days of Winter. I never imagined myself lining up for any reason before. Never have I thought I would be standing there waiting for my name to be called and struggling to get to that fenced window with the hope that I would be one of those who are lucky enough to be called upon and not to wait and wait in vain.
That psychological trauma I was passing through had to wait. With that unprecedented pain, I surrendered. The visit has to be made whether I like it or not. After all, how bad would it be to stand there in the lines amongst other people who would be most probably having all kinds of suffering? Exactly, my own misery is just not enough.
A sleepless night passed. When I went to my father the next day, I didn’t have to say a word. His gentle look was trying to smooth my panic He said he had to go to the center first so that he could get me a place before it gets crowded. How could a place get crowded at seven in the morning, I wondered!

The way to the center has brought me much agony as I was thinking of how inconsiderate I have always been towards my father. He is caught in the same situation once a month or every couple of months. He has to stand up in line to get us the UNRWA supplies as we were amongst the lucky Palestinians who enjoy the advantages of the UNRWA Card. My mother is considered a refugee. I don’t know why some people looked at that card as a kind of privilege and I wonder why some of them hold it with such a pride which contradicts with the so little they get in comparison to what they have really lost. Would a bag of wheat compensate for the land they have once had? Would a bag of sugar make up for the bitter misery those people have always felt after losing their sweet homes and having to live in tents, sometimes? Would the two bottles of oil make them forget their olive trees that have been mercilessly uprooted as they themselves were? Or maybe, it is simply a declaration that they are temporarily refugees who have once had the land which as long as this card is still in their hands would still be waiting for them to return.
When I arrived at the center, no people were lining outside. I guess that fear was because of my almost unexplainable phobia of dentists. I think I was only exaggerating. The white and blue building seems like a real nice quiet place. My favourite colours have given me some sort of relief which unfortunately didn’t last for long. The voices of people babbling got clearer the moment I entered the clinic. Moving my head around the laughably small clinic which technically was several small rooms where above the door of each was a panel illustrating different kinds of treatment provided by this health center. The General Clinic. The Oculist. The Dentist, and the major part was devoted for Internal Medicine.
So, if you don’t have anything to do with those diseases. Sorry, you have to search for another place that offers the treatment. Let’s hope you’re not diagnosed with something serious that not only the UNRWA doesn’t offer its services to cure, but the medicine needed for your treatment is not allowed to enter the Gaza Strip. It is technically forbidden for some chemical and security reasons. Thank God, it is only a toothache, I thought.

My father found his way to me amongst the crowd. “Why were you so late? I got you a number. You were about to lose it”, he said. “No way, not the number, I can’t lose the number after all I had been through”, I thought. Sometimes, you have to forget about the fact that you are a human being and surrender to you being a number. I was no longer me. I was Seven. Seven was the only thing I wanted to hear at this moment. I sat down on the bench my father fetched me. Seeing the state I was in, he preferred to stand up like most of the people waiting for their numbers there. The slight difference was that it was not their choice. The five benches available at the room would by no means suffice the tens of women, children, men and old people crowdedly standing there. I got a glance at the woman beside me. My eyes caught the number on the card she held. 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… Where is Number six…”
A little girl wearing the primary school green uniform stood up. Alone, she got into the room. I felt ashamed of myself. She is not as coward as to bring her father with her. She was holding her school bag when she got in. So, most probably, she’s heading to school after having her tooth removed. In two minutes, the door opened again. That little girl got out with the same look of defiance on her face as if declaring “I had finally got you out of my mouth, you stupid little tooth.” It was not the cotton that made her mouth so bulging that made me ponder. I was thinking of the time this little girl spent in there. Two minutes. Not even enough to give her any sort of anesthesia… What a relief.

For a moment, I thought about running away. My father dragged me in after the number seven was summoned, he literary held my hands while I was dragging myself in. The three doctors seemed very nice. 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 need a surgical tooth removal, which, unsurprisingly, the UNRWA clinic does not offer. I forgot about the pain, all I wanted was to go out of that sterile room. I caught my breath no longer when I was out. I hurried for the exit of the place and with the same smile of that little girl, I looked into my father eyes, “See, they cannot help me, I told you.” My father laughed when he saw that my pale face has finally returned its usual colour. He raised the little pocket of medicine into my face, “At least, we got some pain killers”.
” Yes, pain killers”, thoughtfully, I smiled.

A Book Quest

A Book Quest

By Sameeha Elwan

All I wanted was a book; many books, in fact, but that one in particular is the one I wanted so bad. I’m not to blame, for who could resist a book with both “Sharon” and “My Mother-in-law” on its cover?! Though I wouldn’t want my mother-in-law to meet Sharon, not even if I wanted her dead, but probably she’s met him somewhere. Well, Sharon has always been a part of our life-long torture; the man never seemed to waste a scene of massacred Palestinians; a sole command to his armed soldiers have put an end to the lives of hundreds of Palestinians, including women and children, a sole command would put others behind the bars of Israeli prisons with no just trials for the rest of their lives. It seems that the man was filling his belly with the Palestinian flesh and blood and his thirst with the scenes of their suffering. I wonder why the doctors, treating him at Jerusalem’s Hadassah Hospital, in which he impotently lies, didn’t get that all he needed was Palestinians and any kind of lethal weapons to kill them with cold blood as he always did, and he might be back on his feet again, with the belly, of course.

All I wanted was that book. After I read some extracts of two of its chapters at one of my favourite sites, I truly was enchanted by Suad Amiry’s narrative style where she tells our stories of misery with such sarcasm, and I, who was mesmerized by the title, fell in love with the whole book, putting myself in a serious trouble; I started rebuking myself, “how could I fall in love with an unattainable book?”, and though feeling like a desperate lover, I didn’t lose hope, for hope was all I got. When I was sure I wouldn’t find such a book recently published (I mean by recently that it was published at the beginning of the twenty first century if not before) at any bookshop, I had to resort to an alternative. Though not as tempting as turning the pages of a hard copy, reading a soft copy didn’t seem like a bad option, for I had always resorted to it when I felt hopeless. With the help of my sister’s 3-cm-square mobile screen, I would hide under my bed’s blankets from mother’s sight because she would grab the mobile from my hands whenever she sees me clinging to it with non-blinking eyes. She used to say I would hurt my eyes, and I used to claim I had a real strong eyesight till a day came when I couldn’t open my eyes. Freaking out, I decided not to use the 4-cm-screen-mobile again for reading. After all, though reading is my passion, losing my eyesight wouldn’t have been a wise option. Therefore, I now use my computer screen; unfortunately, I can’t hold the five-kilo computer screen and hide under a blanket or enjoy reading under the sun’s rays at the roof, and I cannot choose the time of reading because all I have is 8 hours of electricity, which is barely enough for academic reading.

Oh God! They definitely knew how to deprive us of the sense of life!

I, rushing to his office at nine in the morning, was having daydreams about me spending the whole day in the company of that book even if I had to read on the mobile’s light if the electricity went off today. I had finally found the book in flesh and blood a week ago.  My teacher proudly declared he owns the hard copy. I didn’t blame him for having such a book in such conditions, where finding a book is just as impossible as finding a pin a pile of straw, gives one the impression of owning an ultimate power. Collecting all the courage I have, I asked him if I could borrow the book, but, alas, I was too late. Others, whom the book has apparently caused them to see Sharon in their dreams (which I think is not a good excuse for most Palestinians suffered such nightmares at times when Sharon’s tanks were turning their lives into hell after invading their homes, killing their loved ones, and arresting the rest) were in quest for the book as well.  A smile of victory overwhelmed my face when I got to the office, I would finally get the book, as he assured me yesterday. What he didn’t know was that Sharon’s name lying on his desk in the company of “my mother-in-law” would probably captivate others as well. My lovely book captured others whom my teacher couldn’t refuse their request to borrow the book and I stood there at his office, empty-handed, empty minded and on the verge of crying.

God! How hard it is to get a book when I, who was so enthusiastic about buying my first book with my own money, was struck by the fact that in a Palestinian bookshop, I wouldn’t see Ramallah on its shelves where there, amongst the many books, should be ” I Saw Ramallah”, a book written by the Palestinian Poet, “Morid Al Barghouti”, nor would I find “Orientalism” by Edward Said, or even “Men in the Son” for Ghassan Kanafani. How ugly my Gazan mind would go to get a copy of a 194-page book that I would think of asking my aunt, living in Egypt to smuggle me the book, as we’re smuggling other basic supplies through tunnels, and wait and wait for the light at the end of the tunnel.

I wondered a lot what threat a book would impose against Israel?! Why should we be deprived even of the books written by our own writers, why should we always wait for “Breaking-the siege” ships for the hope that they are carrying us what we can’t find on our own shelves? Why shouldn’t we decide what we want to read and read it whenever we want?  Those questions have never been so pleasing to think about. But I was sure that to be a student at any Gazan university means that you have to give up any thought of having your own hard copies of up-to date books. And now, could you imagine being a bookworm in Gaza!