Life is just more exciting in their presence. At least, they can break the deadly monotonous routine of a life that has to suffer under the inevitable presence of the unfavourable others. The others are in fact their historical enemy, and it was the enemy’s own choice to ruin the lives of my comrades and mine. They have taken it into their heads that it is their right to live here and that my comrades and I are no more than intruders who should be driven away from this land. The issue is that we just can’t live away from here.
“You’re destined to suffer all your life, then.”
This is bad news, for sure. And we will not be happy to know that we’re destined to suffer all our lives, but what can we do to avoid this?
It is most appropriate for a writer to begin things where they actually began, and what an unreasonable thing that is who omits one simple facet that is exclusively attached to the life in Gaza where those who are most subjected to its tortures are those who most enjoy its presence. The presence of a power outage. Oh yes, this is the same as the absence of power. This is not complaining at all. The power cuts have been turned into the very source of an empowering inspiration which, with a little assistance on the side of its subjects, creates a suitable time, place, and atmosphere where my comrades and I are brought on the scene.
The place was a confined, tattered, and out-of-order room at the doorway of one of a three flats at the fifth storey of an eighth-storey building that is old enough to recognise its ramshackle features at your first glance. Continue reading
by: Rawan Yaghi
I am a kid, at least this is what they call me. I cried once in my life, but no one ever knew why, not even my best friend. I didn’t cry when my mother died. I didn’t cry when my sister got married. Nor did I do so when my dad got sick. I didn’t even cry when the dentist pulled my tooth as hard as he could.
People always wondered why I never cry. I watched my friend bleed till death while I stood there with nothing to do. I went back home that day and kept staring at the old ceiling of my room for till the next night. I didn’t cry. I pulled myself together, I don’t actually know how exactly I did that only it was as simple as getting up from my bed. But I never convinced myself that this was the reason of my none sensitivity.
I once asked my mother why people cry; she answered “Because they’re humans, darling” she was always this mysterious and warm. After that I started questioning myself being a human. I told myself that I looked like one only I never cry.
When I turned 16 I had my ID card and my mother was in her worst conditions, so we had to move her to another hospital, a hospital behind borders and check points. Since I was old enough and my sister was too young and my Dad was already sick, I was the only one who could accompany her through her long exhausting 3 kilometers trip! We reached the point where one gives his entry permission to a 20 year old soldier so that he can allow you to get to the hospital behind the checkpoint, my hollow looks weren’t very appealing to the soldier, thus he didn’t allow me in with my mother. She had to go through it all alone. I didn’t cry when I exchanged the last looks with her; although, the stream of tears down on her face would make that cold moon melt down. My mother died the next day in the hospital behind the borders. I didn’t burst into tears imagining her all alone taking her last painful breath, thinking that it was my fault that the soldier didn’t let me in with her. All I did was pouring that bitter coffee for people, sympathizing with my family, for three days.
I think that there’s no need to mention how much I suffered during my life afterwards. That’s not the problem. I wonder what the problem is!