Mornings in Jenin

Refugee boys live in a shack 350 far from Israel's boundaries.

Also published on Mondoweiss.

Far away from my noisy sisters fighting over a broken remote control, a desperate attempt to escape my death-entrenched life seeped through a rusty window as I gazed at a glittering sea. Somewhere on the other end, live another people with no “collateral damage” or “Rafah Crossing” or, indeed, on goes the list.

I have always thought of the insignificance of my life hanging at the mercy of uniformed Egyptian officers, M-16 steel rifles, closed zones, or swift but long-lasting power cuts. Always ready to be doomed the worst of fates and looming uncertainty.  Never in my life have I basked in the independency enjoyed by “outside girls” in my age. “Outside girls” a term we use to refer to those who get their hair dried without fearing power will be cut off before the hurricane swirling their heads is smoothed.

Still leaving my eyes unleashed at the human velvet covering the sea sand, I thought how fast sand can become sand again with one deafening airstrike from Israel.

Sometime this past week, I was weaving through the events of Mornings in Jenin, taking a handful of new vocabulary to my steadfast black electronic dictionary with every page I turn. It was a starry mild-weathered night where people ditched whatever lodge they carried and flocked to inferior sea-overlooking cafes.

“Absurd is the life that made heaven out of a sewage-flooded sea” I mumbled wishing my words could reach the idling throngs on seashore.

Back into the novel, deeply taken by its characters, I was reading: “Our terror in the kitchen hole had only strengthened the bond between me and Huda. She possessed a…” when a massive explosion shook the walls of my worn-out room. My heart sank and in no time I found myself bent over my baby sister as if offering protection from an F-16 missile. My sister screamed beneath, asking me frantically in an extremely babyish tone what the sound was. “That was thunder habibti it’s going to rain” I lied.

That night Israel killed three. One child was among the dead and the idling throngs flowed out to the streets in aimless directions. Everyone was desperately trying to find a safe place, a place Israel does not suspect of holding terrorists. In a moment, seashore cleared. I turned off the lights and consigned to my thoughts. That day I realized how short life can be and how easily blood can be spilled, yet unnoticed.  I brushed my forehead against the pillow trying to push away death pictures invading my head. It killed me how innocently my sister believed the “thunder and rain”.

My life had taught me to hate anything red. I can hardly remember the last time I purchased a red dress, t-shirt, purse or even a pen. Sometimes, colors bear bitter meanings. This particular color makes me automatically think of martyrs and forget all about Valentine’s Day.  Not that I do not feel grateful for Israel allowing my sight to remain intact, but that I feel shallow when colors tend to be something vicious and bloody.

A few days ago, I received an invitation for an iftar along with child victims of the 08/09 war on Gaza.  I fidgeted and decided not to go. Selfishly, I thought I’m already drooped with much pain and unfulfilled dreams to put on more weight. One hour before the adan, I prodded my conscience and rushed to the sleazy restaurant where the iftar was to be held. On my way, I was thinking how much I deserved the shower of bahdala, reprimand, my mother had guaranteed for me when she knew I had told them “I can’t make it today, really sorry”.

Dressed in my Tahrir-Square t-shirt, I dragged my feet to a hall where tables stood in rows and children fussed around wildly. Dozens of arms were recklessly thrown to the air, and noise swarmed into my ears like irritating jazz. My eyes blurred at the little excited bodies surging through the hall. I felt relieved that not only child victims attended the event. Relieved. Not for a long time.

Among the fuss, one brown-haired child was leaning on another boy’s shoulders as they ran across with other boys. Both faces bore gloomy expressions. The brown-haired is blind. The other was his chauffeur. Something painful pulled me back to my seat.  Later on, I learned the child’s name is Luai.

Half way into the event, following the iftar, it was time for competitions. A young lady announced that everyone should pick a number between one and thirty once they were selected to participate. Sympathetic to his condition, Luai was the first to be selected. “What is your favorite number, habibi Luai? came the lady’s empathetic tone. Luai wordless. “Allah is one, Luai, pick number one” a girl’s voice rose up from a plastic chair and successfully made its way through the silence.  Convinced by the brief suggestion, Luai consigned to one.

Colors again. Luai was now obliged to utter colors he doesn’t know, or, he once knew before Israel had decided to take away his sight forever. Back in 2008, Luai was playing soccer along with cousins and friends when mercilessly, Israel raided a bunch of playful terrorists –kids-.

Twisting with embarrassment, Luai haltingly listed the colors of the flag because of which he lost his sight. Black, White, Green and red. All black in Luai’s blank eyes. Colors.

During the remnant hours of the event, I had peeked at Luai’s scribbled forehead thinking how he might have looked like when Israel believed he posed a danger to its existence. Nothing could make sense to me and I found myself holding back a tear struggling at the edges of my eyes.

Life here has taken me aback and turned me into a vigorous reader thriving to find place within numerous books. Within the black-streaked pages of Mornings in Jenin, I swung between Gaza, where bombings are relentless, and Jenin’s refugee camp where lifeless bodies persistently cling to the “dream of return”.

Every night, as Israel’s bombs rock Gaza, I hold to my book, Mornings in Jenin, and tray away from everything including myself. I wear Amal, the orphan whose fear, uncertainty and complicated life turned into courage, success and love.  Things we long, and yet long for here in this little unrecognized spot. I tread along with Amal’s absurdity and stoicism until sun perks up and I wake up the other day finding Jenin still nestled in my neck.

I Turn On the Fan and Sit to Write

At a demo against Bait Hanoun's closed zone.

Also addressed in this article: Palestinian youth in Gaza skeptical about PA’s UN bid.

I turn on the fan, aim it right at myself and sit to write.

Throughout the internationally unrecognized but famous Gaza Strip, 1.6 million pairs of eyes are watching the news with fluctuating points of view over the September declaration of a Palestinian state. This is not the only topic hovering overhead within the Palestinian arena.  Indeed, Mubarak’s trial is not a less-discussed subject among people gathering around the table at the end of the day to break their Ramadan meals.

A walk through Gaza especially in the few hours preceding Iftar, attests to a life that despite everything thrives to get a sense of normality. Queues flowing out of popular food shops are commonplace in Ramadan. You would find those queuing to get Qettayif for the family, while others think of Hummus as an inevitable component for the perfection of the day’s meal.  Special banners promoting different kinds of food “especially prepared for Ramadan” testify to the efforts put forth to induce Gazan consumers buy “the irreplaceable dishes.”

Both complexity and simplicity are inseparable in any Palestinian’s life. While thoughts are buzzing with concerns about the future of their country, they never cease to pretend that everything is fine and by time solutions will prevail.  Though, this is not the case of all Palestinians as some insist to seek solutions themselves and criticize current ones.

Just a few days ago I was engaged in two discussions on two different topics. One was the on the September recognition of a Palestinians state, the other was on Mubarak’s trial.

In fact, the Palestinian street is divided into two: those who are for One State and those for the UN September recognition or Two States.  I’m for one state.

If the US did not veto our statehood bid and Palestine was recognized by the UN, I will be unilaterally recognizing Israel for the second time since Oslo. A quite compelling question here is:  if the PA recognized Israel in 1993 what is the point behind recognizing it again now? I think it is a matter of settlements and borders.

In 1993 when Arafat recognized Israel’s right to exist, Israel did not own as much land as it owns now. The segregation wall was not there to swallow up much of Palestinian land and Arab Maali Adumim was not yet replaced by ardent Zionists. Today 78% of Palestine is in the hands of Israel while the purported Palestinian state will be built on only 22%. Settlements are still being constructed and Palestinian homes are being demolished at the very moment! The second unilateral recognition means accepting Israel as it is now with its current settlements and borders.

But what about more than 5,000,000 Palestinian refugees who dream to return to their lands? The Palestinian government does not have the right to take decisions on their behalf. If they were given the right to vote, they would have voted against this bid. This is definite.

Those who wish to say “I come from the state of Palestine”, think that this recognition will enforce international sanctions upon Israel. Wrong. The UN is the UN and it will always be controlled by the US who will never refrain from backing Israel.

Even when Obama wants to sound like Mother Teresa as he speaks of justice, tolerance and how much he supports the Palestinian-Israeli attempts to achieve a “just” peace, the “audacity of hope” will always be directed at Israel. He will never betray the friendship.

Obama says he will veto the bid. Maybe he can do, but only then will he never be able to veto the One State and his conspiracy with Zionism will be so clear that Hilary Clinton will not be able to deny it.

Mubarak’s trial raised many questions, the most important is: if Mubarak was put on trial, where should we put Netenyahu and those who preceded him in 30 years? Honestly, I have no idea. I think we will need experts to figure out some appropriate answer.

The revolution fever has now reached Israel.  300,000 Israeli were protesting high cost of living yesterday in Occupied Tel al-Rabee’ (Tel-Aviv) but none protested Palestinian high cost of life! They protested high housing costs but not high house demolitions. It is also worth mentioning that the Israeli government did not fire tear gas or rubber bullets at protesters as it does with the Palestinians who protest the Wall.

Yesterday, I stumbled upon an article on Ynet which content brags about the “democratic methods” undertaken by the Israeli government to establish dialogue with the protesters. It goes further to compare between the responses of Arab and Israeli regimes to uprisings. It says: ” As Israel finds a way to deal with a social protest that encompasses several branches of society and present reasonable solutions, its neighbors, it appears, will be stuck in a mode of perpetual upheaval and instability, due to a lack of desire to find peaceful solutions and compromise.”

This “compromise” and those “peaceful solutions” are never applicable when it comes to Palestinians. When we protest Israel’s Closed Military Zone near Erez, we’re usually faced by bullets. The same scenario occurs in the West Bank. Even with children, Israel cannot find a compromise. During the Israeli offensive against Gaza, Israel couldn’t find peaceful solutions with a minimum of 300 kids and killed them. When young people spoke up for Palestinians during AIPAC, they were beaten up and taken to hospitals. Yes, Israel is the “only democracy in the Middle East.”

It is 2:14 AM now, a few days ago around this time, an airstrike struck Gaza. On the occasion, I shared this on Twitter:  ”Actually this airstrike saved my mom the daily struggle of waking up all of us for the pre-fasting meal. #Gaza #BrightSide“ thought this would be funny. Perhaps you smiled, perhaps not.

The fan is still on but it’s no more directed at me, my sisters turned it toward them. I think I should join them. It’s pretty late. Good Night. Ramadan Kareem!