Letters from Palestine (29 page)

From this excerpt, you can see why I very
quickly grew fond of Shireen and always looked forward to her
letters. But more than that, it was young people like Shireen who
came to represent to me the future of Palestine and gave me the
feeling that, with passionate and committed advocates like her,
Palestine, no matter what adversities it may continue to have to
face, would one day surely overcome oppression so that its people
may live once again under the flag of freedom.

Is everyone allowed to be alive?

Is everyone allowed to be alive? I actually
do not know the answer to that question. The last time I checked I
was told the life is one of the basic human rights that cannot be
violated against innocent people. But in the place I come from,
this right was threatened to be taken from me every second I
breathed, every step I took, every street I walked, every night I
slept, and every morning I was trying to get through.

At the moment, yes, I am alive. I am
breathing. I am moving, talking to people, going to classes,
smiling, laughing and crying. But am I doing these things as a
normal human being or are these things just a result of certain
situations that I was put through? I did not feel anything, I did
not know what to say, I did not cry, and I did not laugh. I am
looking at people, but I can’t see anyone. I am hearing voices, but
I can’t listen. People are touching and shaking me, but I can’t
feel them around me. It is like I am in a dark circle, trying to
get out but it just keeps going and going. There is no exit! I was
blank. I was not even able to speak. I could not. I forgot words. I
actually do not know what to say or how to say it. I do not know
what I am supposed to say because there was nothing in my mind or
my heart. I was like a piece of wood standing there, feeling the
space next to my brothers and sisters. I was just looking around
and observing, and the only thing that came into my mind was . . .
why?

It was a warm nice night. I had not seen my
dad in more than two weeks, since he had to stay away from home to
go and work so he can support the family. That’s what every
hardworking man was doing during the Intifada. Just go out at dawn
one night when everyone is sleeping and no one knew when he might
come back home—that is, if he came back and was not killed or
arrested.

That night, I came back from my cousin’s
house, opened the door, and there was my dad sitting, waiting for
us to come back! It was the best feeling in the world! I really
missed him, and I needed him to be close to us in these hard
situations. But I could not blame him for being away because I
understood that he had to work in order to support us. I was just
happy that he was there, that was all I cared about.

There was no time for blaming or for any sad
emotions; I just wanted to have as much time as I could with him. I
wanted to play with him, tell him about my school and the good
grades that I got, and to complain to him about my brother who kept
using my stuff instead of using his own. I just was hoping that
this night would never end because I knew tomorrow I may wake up
and he would not be there anymore. Then I would have to wait at
least two more weeks before I could see him again.

It hurt deep inside, but I know he could not
come because of all the checkpoints and the cost, and the curfews,
and the shootings, the risk, and arrests. Why would he come back,
when every day he might skip he would lose more opportunity to
support us? He used to amaze me every day—how he would think only
of us all the time, and he actually never really cared that much if
he might get shot at one of the points if he got caught or that he
might be taken to jail! All what he cared about was us, what we
needed and what we wanted!

That night, my mom asked me to come and help
her to prepare dinner for the whole family, and we made this
wonderful dinner. It was so delicious! I will never forget how the
table looked. It was so great. My mom was happy, my dad was happy,
and my siblings were happy. It had been a while since I had seen
all of these smiles at my house at one time, since all we’d seen
and heard lately was that a hundred people were killed here and
others were arrested there, and so on. We sat down, we prayed, and
we started eating and talking, although it is not my mom’s favorite
thing at the dinner table. But she actually allowed it. We were
talking, laughing, making a mess, playing around—we were actually
having fun!

While all of that was going on, all of a
sudden, and out of nowhere, a rain of bullets came through the
window that was just above our heads. It was raining bullets,
flying over our heads in the middle of our dinner table! I did not
move. I forgot what I was supposed to do. I was trained for such
situations. I had been in them before in my school bus and my
classroom, and I knew what I supposed to do. But this time I was
disabled and paralyzed!

I looked at my brothers—they were all on the
floor. One of them was digging into the floor, trying to find a
hole or an exit to run away and disappear. Another was holding my
other brother’s hand, both of them crying like crazy. They did not
know what to do either. The other one was shocked, looking at
everybody, just like me.

My mom was holding my two-year-old sister in
her arms, trying to protect her from the bullets. My dad was
screaming, but I honestly can’t tell you what he was saying at that
moment. The food was scattered around everywhere. It was like the
world froze.

I can’t hear. I can’t hear anything! It is
too loud! What is going on? I was just smiling and laughing with my
dad. I am daddy’s girl. This is my time. This is my family time. We
did not do anything, and we were just eating. What is going on?

All that I remember was I began to run into
another part of the house where I knew I might be safer. I do not
know how I was even running. It was just that my legs started
moving, and I took my little sister, who wouldn’t stop crying
because the noise was scaring her so, and my other brothers and ran
to hide in another room.

My older brother was so frustrated and lost
that he put music on for my little brothers while our house was
being demolished to make them stop crying and dance! But who is he
fooling?! We are dying. The house is shaking. Where are Mom and
Dad? I can’t see them!

I look, and mom is crashing down, yelling at
my father who could not run with us to the other side, asking him
if he was still alive! She could not see anything. Everything was
white from the paint on the walls, and she could not hear him! She
thought her husband was dying, the man with whom she had shared
years of marriage! Dad? Where is Dad? My heart sank! Tears started
falling out of my control! I was just in his lap; how could he be
dead now?

Hold on! We saw a hand waving and someone
yelling at us to stay back!

“Dad?”

“Yes! It’s me. I am okay!”

That’s all what I remember and all that I
cared about at that moment. He is alive! He kept talking, but I do
not remember what he was saying. I saw curtains on fire, holes
everywhere; the food that we did not finish is full of bullets,
glass everywhere. I blacked out.

The shooting stopped after a while. Water is
running everywhere. People are yelling at us from the streets to
show a sign if we are alive. People are calling. My cousins,
everywhere, are talking to me and my brothers, checking on us to
see if we are okay or if we got hurt. Ambulances. The house full of
people who are walking everywhere, cussing out the Israeli
occupation, cleaning up, even the media is here.

This was supposed to be my night with my
father. Now people are offering places for us to sleep until the
house is fixed. But this is my house. I want to sleep in my room,
in my bed. I told this to my mom, but she said it was not safe.
This might happen again. We can’t be here tonight. I could not
argue anymore; I did not have the energy. My body was moving, but
my mind was frozen—it won’t even let me feel anything. They offered
us food, a place to sleep, and some quiet time. I was thankful for
the kindness of these people, but it never felt like home. It was
not where I belonged.

The next morning, everybody was looking at
me in a sympathetic way, but I did not like those looks. I don’t
want you to feel sorry for me. I am okay! I will always be okay!
They were asking me how I felt. What did I do? How did it start?
Why did it happen? And so on.

I just wanted them to leave me alone. I was
mad, hurt, and sad. Not just because of what happened last night.
What had happened last night happened to me while I was in class,
in the streets, in the school bus as well. But because when I woke
up, my dad was not there! He had to leave, and it took me another
two weeks before I could see him again!

It took me almost a week to look back at
everything and actually be able to think about it. There was an
investigation about the shooting which involved asking the soldiers
why they attacked the house. Their answer was because they thought
that a gunshot had come from a spot that was “close” to the house!
And their government decided that their reaction was justifiable
because it stopped possible attacks that could have happened to
them.

Really? And a long laugh was my reaction
when I read the report in the newspaper! Eight members of one
family could have been killed because of an attack that might have
been made on the soldiers from a place that was “close” to the
house! What kind of sense does that make to any human being who is
able to understand these words? If even one person can come up with
one rational answer to this question, that person would be able to
prove the impossible.

The fact of my living throughout the
conflict and at the same time being a peace activist just creates a
lot of questions and concerns in my mind. I can’t hate, I am mad, I
am sad, and I am confused and frustrated. I use these emotions as a
motivation for my peace activities to work harder. Some people
think I am crazy for doing that, others support me, and sometimes I
even ask myself, is what I’m doing right?

I believe it is right. Violence is not the
way! Violence does nothing but create more violence and hatred.
History has been made. Mistakes were made. Isn’t it too late to say
this should have been done and that should have not? People have
been paying for these mistakes for more than sixty years now. How
many more generations have to pay for what has already been done?
How many more people have to die before living is allowed? How many
people have to cry until they can smile? How many people have to
starve until they can eat? How many years does it have to rain
until the sun can shine again? And how many questions do I have to
ask until I have the answer?

In every step I take forward, I face a
hundred steps to pull me backward. But again, I think about it: if
I stay mad, if I hate the other side, and even if I wanted to be
destructive as well, what is the point of that? Is it really
helpful to anything? Is it going to change anything? Is it the
solution?

And surprisingly, I have the answer for
these little questions: no! It will not help anything, it will not
solve anything, and it certainly will not change anything.

Some people will think that I am crazy for
saying this, but I honestly do not see anything changing from
Palestinians and Israelis killing each other. We need to overcome
our differences. We need to plan for a change and work for it.
Change is the path to the future; however, the type of change that
we choose determines the type of future we will have.

When someone has a white, clean, and open
heart, that person will see everything clear and beautiful. But
when someone has a dark, closed heart, he will not be able to see
anything but his own self, and that’s where the destruction
begins.

My way of thinking may not make any sense to
some people. Yes, I have lost family members. Yes, I have lost my
home. And, yes, I could have been dead by now. But my point here is
that I am not! And I know the feeling of it, and that’s why,
despite all the questions and frustrations inside of me, I have
made a promise to myself to help as many people as I can all over
the world in avoiding this feeling. I may not make a lot of change,
but I will make part of it. And part of the change is a change all
the same, no matter how big or small it is.

A garden starts from a single seed!
Passionate hatreds can give meaning and purpose to an empty life.
These people are haunted by the purposelessness of their lives and
try to find a new content not only by dedicating themselves to a
consecrated cause but also by nursing a dedicated complaint. A mass
movement offers them unlimited opportunities for battle.

I do not want to fall into this category of
people. I want to end my life knowing that I did not waste it on
hating someone, even if I might have a reason for doing so. But if
I were to succumb to such hatred, I would definitely know that I
would have wasted all these years on outrageous feelings about what
happened to me instead of trying to prevent it from happening
again.

My point here is not who is right and who is
wrong, who is Palestinian and who is Israeli, who is white or who
is black, who is native or who is not. My point here is we all have
one identity, which is humanity.

—Written by one of the strong Palestinian
seeds . . .

Gaza, a tiny strip of land lying just north
of Egypt on the Mediterranean Sea and measuring twenty-two miles in
length and six miles wide at its maximum, is effectively a prison.
Its inmates comprise about one and half million Gazans, most of
them children, almost all of them refugees. Its jailer is Israel,
which despite having removed all of its own settlers in 2005, still
continues, essentially, to occupy Gaza and controls all of its
borders, its air space, and surrounding seas. Since 2006, when
Hamas became the democratically elected government of Gaza, Israel
has imposed a tight blockade and continues to restrict passage of
essential goods and services to the people of Gaza.