First off, if you are not a Gaza resident, be advised to close this page and not to go on reading this piece. You won’t get even close to comprehending what I am about to write.
We don’t have a generator at home. This is part of the great misery of mine.
It is now 5:32 am. This means I have less than half an hour to enjoy the unthinkable bless of having power going on. After that, a hellish conflict from within will set off. The conflict is easy to comprehend, for I am now venting my anger and writing this piece so as to forget what sort of torture I am bound to tolerate. The conflict is easy describe in words, for I have just to chose between the devil and the deep blue sea. but you never feel it.
Time goes by so fast, and I have to make my decision.
It is either I go to sleep now, or I never sleep. The reason is that God had opted to plague us with a blistering, boiling, baking, roasting, scorching, searing, sweltering summer day— I could reach my conclusion God is not pleased with us— and now power, hasn’t gone off yet, can run a fan. A fan will bring air. Air is what is missing. I can sleep, therefore.
It is 5:39 am. Time is closing in its deadline. And I have to define my priorities. But I am confused; I can’t focus. Continue reading
Since the moment a friend of mine, Bashar Lubbad, informed me of an imminent meeting with the widely-known veteran Palestinian journalist, Laila el-Haddad, I waited anxiously so that I can sit at one table with the woman whose name kept showing up to me each time I came to read some piece on the ongoing situation here in Gaza.
Honestly, when I was first told the guest of our meeting would be Laila el-Haddad, it never crossed my mind that it is the same lady whose interview on the Electronic Intifada I went through time and again, taken aback by the genuineness and profundity and of her speech. It didn’t cross my mind, it is the same lady whose name numerous times topped diverse pieces of news on world-wide websites such as the Haaretz, Al-jazeera, and the Guardian. I wasn’t very familiar with Laila, but I came across her name more than once, and I should have known I was heading toward the Laterna to meet this very Laila el-Haddad.
I arrived at the meeting, and there already had gathered the bloggers who were to take part in the meeting. Continue reading
A Commissioner Writing His Diary
The piece is fictitious and was written by a 18-year old Sarah Ali.
Well, it is not the right time to discuss whether going there is the right thing to do or not; it is too late. The order had been made, and I was officially assigned to be the commissioner. When I was asked why they had chosen me, my commander said, “You have always had the ability of giving the sweet talk. You can do something good for your people, and you can get us a fair compromise.” I was supposed to feel flattered by his words. It felt horrible, however.
I have never been through what my people are constantly suffering, not as far as I can remember. And now I am supposed to defend their rights— my people’s rights, but how can I? Never have I believed in such a farce-negotiations, not in this exact situation of ours. Never have I thought I would be part of it, not to mention one of the main parts. The thoughts kept assailing my mind all through the way to the headquarter where the negotiations were supposed to be held.
After three hours driving, we were finally there. I took a look through the jeep’s window. It was 11:00 AM. Everything was glittering, though. As I stepped out of the car, I felt like a kid entering a fancy palace for the first time. Well, that’s what I thought, only the Israeli Association was not a palace, not to me. The traditional photographed procedures went normally: I walked on that red lavish carpet as two Israeli bodyguards surrounded me along with my own two. I shook hands with some men, and I drew that fabricated smile you all know. Continue reading