All the rituals of writing have fled. I possess nothing but a blank sheet of paper and a qalam rasas, a pencil (rasas in Arabic also means bullets)—though I object to calling it a qalam rasas, for I want it to be a pen of life. Life is precious now in Gaza. Many insist on plucking it like a flower, hastening its burial. Especially the small blossoms—because they are beautiful, hands seize them and will not let them live. Our children have become flowers stripped of their petals, their colors, their nectar. I feel the pain now…!!
All the rituals of writing have fled, ever since the soul slipped out of the body so simply—while she was preparing the iftar meal (breakfast during Ramadan) for her family, she and they were buried beneath the rubble of their home, without warning…!! Thus do the nymphs depart the earth in Gaza, with their families. Everything happens suddenly. All the time, you run and run, searching for something always lost. You feel constantly pursued, watched by eyes lying in wait.
All the rituals of writing have fled. Some love you to the edge of death, others hate you to the edge of death—and you have done nothing but be Palestinian, a man or woman displaced from villages in occupied Palestine, to become a refugee in the Gaza Strip. Gaza is the very mixture of life of all refugees—it is the taste of Palestine and its scent. The airstrikes burn their flesh now, severing their hands, sometimes their heads, before they even close their eyes. My heart is weary of narrating these stories, oh fellow humans! I do not wish you to see Gaza as anything but a rose… a rose that still keeps its head, its stem, its roots—and most of all, its fragrance. My heart is weary of describing to you these horrific scenes, and I have forgotten the rituals of writing…!!
We have been running away from strikes all the time, and we are exhausted from our running—our screams, our wailing—until we have begun to grow numb to our daily pain. All of you have slaughtered Gaza. All of you have struck at its heart, closed your doors and ears to it. You decided Gaza is the dark stain upon your beautiful lives, a burden upon your comfort. Before the assault, all of you helped to break its spirit, saw the sustenance of its children reduced to begging…!! You said what should never be said of it. Yet each time, it reminds you it is more loving than to talk about your wrongdoings—for who among us is without sin? Still, it is a rose whose pure fragrance has shattered through a sea of blood, restoring your reason, your love—and perhaps your hatred. Some have declared that hatred, some have retreated, some have turned blind, and some have drawn strength to siphon its nectar amid the hiss of Israeli warplanes…!!
I have forgotten the rituals of storytelling, how grandmothers once told their tales. I have forgotten when the assault began, for we have never known rest. We always sense eyes watching us—watching our whispers, our stillness—even our attempts to gather our wounds, to quarrel at times because the cage has grown narrow and suffocating. Yet the eavesdroppers and spectators were many. We were running before the assault; we continue to run during it; and we are no longer certain we will ever stop running.
How shall we restore life’s radiance after the souls of children have been plucked? A man carries his child’s body in his own arms—no coffin is needed; his hands have become the coffin for his child wrapped in a winding-sheet. He walks with his head held high, tears streaming down his face—yet he is fortunate: he has survived to bury his son. Entire families have been buried within their homes, leaving no one behind to mourn them. So simply—within this “civilized” world of rights and conventions: the right to life, the right to housing, the right to education, the right to expression—rights that are not for Palestinians, but for others.
Who cares for the women as they run in their prayer garments—the nearest clothes at hand—trying to escape when hatred strikes them atop an explosive missile, shattering their dreams and reducing them to a ready morsel of suffering, oppression, and pain? She carries a child, carries a bleeding heart, carries anguish… and forgets her own self, leaves her heart in a corner of the house. She fears to look back lest she see her loved ones drenched in blood…!! She runs, and keeps running into infinity—for if she stops, she will never run again…!!
There is no space for life. No place to return. All of Gaza bids each other farewell every night and hugs those who remain alive each morning. They examine their bodies, then reach out to the living among them, close their eyes, open them again, and call each family member by name—one by one—so that memory will not let their names fall, nor their souls vanish. Who mourns whom? The unfortunate one is the one who remains alone, alive, after their entire family has perished…!!
The little fairies whisper to us each dawn, each night, so that we might smile before drifting into a brief slumber while we are still running… running toward life.
I have no words left. All the rituals of writing have collapsed. In Gaza alone, the story lives—despite occupation—and Palestine remains alive, beating in the hearts of those who have departed and those who still endure.
By Hedaya Shamun, MA (Palestinian writer, journalist, researcher, and novelist)
Translated by Nael Hijjo, PhD (Palestinian educator and translator)
Published in Diwan Al-Arab on July 14, 2014
https://www.diwan.diwanalarab.com
Hedaya Shamoun 
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