tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29846170287855341132024-03-13T01:44:38.447+00:00State of هاويةولكم في القصاص حياة يا أولي الألباب
Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-68408014614046171812015-10-29T00:28:00.000+00:002015-11-01T15:01:52.467+00:00How to shit on a refugee's dream of return<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrjgs3K4i-VBetpFI_xrf3edgpp_7_6uWFEvSoqcBhX7u360cTxKq8qVJHpkfMAQAkKD-j8mQJwpcSB-QOOzsHups8BGemDNNxSYIdO24RD1d_4YQ-8FVkKNgVJzJ4lgIp30nPUgbBhVZV/s1600/20121114_165120.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrjgs3K4i-VBetpFI_xrf3edgpp_7_6uWFEvSoqcBhX7u360cTxKq8qVJHpkfMAQAkKD-j8mQJwpcSB-QOOzsHups8BGemDNNxSYIdO24RD1d_4YQ-8FVkKNgVJzJ4lgIp30nPUgbBhVZV/s400/20121114_165120.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A phony sliver of Israel's Haifa [Alsaafin/November 2012]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I met a man the other day, a friend of a friend who was sitting at the next table. He’s from a Palestinian refugee
camp in Beirut, and came to London a few years ago to finish his postgraduate degree. He sought asylum after he completed his degree and then later began working. In
two years time he will get UK citizenship, and he plans on going to Haifa, where he’s originally from.<br />
<br />
He said all of this in a semi-eager, semi-bashful way. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I couldn’t stop myself. I snorted. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He looked at me, politely puzzled by my reaction. I closed
my eyes, mortified since I thought my expression of derisiveness was safe inside my own head. I breathed deeply, and opened my eyes again. I apologized. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“It’s just…I didn’t like Haifa,” I said somewhat lamely.
“I’m sorry I’m probably ruining your lifelong dream to return, but I just can’t
bear to see how refugees romanticize their hometowns, villages and cities that
their grandparents were kicked out from.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I felt like a dick as soon as the words tumbled from my mouth. The grimace on my face was actually self-disgust. How could I say that? From generation to generation, refugees confidently answer the question of where they are from with the names of places they have never seen before, and only know about them by word of mouth, and here I was, telling this man his city is not worth it.<br />
<br />
Here's a research topic for those students, one that's been milked enough to shriveldom. Oral history and the importance of memory. Memory and remembrance. Identity and oral history. Refugees, remembrance, oral history, identity and-oh please, enough. Less words, more action. And here was a guy I met ten minutes ago, who was planning on doing just that, fulfilling a dream, a quest, a point to drive home-he's <i>returning</i> goddammit-and I was shitting all over his face.<br />
<br />
His expression remained neutral, friendly even. </div>
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“Actually, I’m interested in what you have to say,” he
replied in an even tone. “I’m aware of carrying that romanticized dream with me so you do have
a point. I don’t want to be crushed and disappointed. What’s Haifa like?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was startled by his frankness. <o:p></o:p><br />
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"Don't ask me," I said a bit roughly. "Ask someone who loves the city. Or someone who at the very least doesn't hate it."<br />
<br />
"Please," he said. "What was your experience there like?"<br />
<br />
It was so innocent. I wanted to bawl. I wanted to go to the roof of the tallest building in this city and scream at God at the unfairness of it all.</div>
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Why should I, with no ties to Haifa, and not even the
remotest inclination to search for some false connection that neatly weaves in the
narrative of my grandparents’ former lives before 1948 (like my grandfather going to the city for
business- which never happened) be the one to tell this refugee about the place
where he’s supposed to be from? Why am I the one who had the privilege to see
the city numerous times while he is more entitled to it than me but has faced
the impossibility of doing so? Perhaps privilege isn’t the right word, since I went there "illegally" without permission from Israel…it’s more
of a luxury. An illusion of a luxury which turns out to be nothing more than-
like the rest of the ’48 territories-a heartbreaker.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I swallowed. “Well…it is..it’s very Israelified,” I said.
“It's a bubble, similar to Ramallah but with more Israelis. It’s a city that is stripped of its Arab Palestinian identity, with the
Palestinian minority propped up on the bars and restaurants in one area. And
the whole bars and drinking excessively isn’t my issue with it, it’s the
impression that it’s the only thing the people there do. Which sounds unfair
because I haven’t met the entire population obviously, and just because that's what I experienced there doesn't mean that's all there is to it, but that’s just my
opinion. It’s such a shame, because it <i>is</i> a beautiful city, the parts that date
back to pre-1948 and aren’t gentrified or ghettoized or abandoned like ghost towns.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He nodded thoughtfully.<o:p></o:p><br />
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"Some houses on the Carmel are still empty," I rambled on. "Abandoned. Probably weren't in a good condition for the Israelis to settle in. Their windows are broken, and vegetation has crept in between the stones. It's creepy, sad, a bit voyeuristic. The fact that they're still there I mean."</div>
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“People are so pretentious there,” I added, feeling lightheaded now. "So nauseatingly...liberal."<br />
Shut your trap woman. Shut it now.<br />
“They’re not
that friendly. You have to be like them, act like them, dress like them to fit in. It’s weird. Their Arabic is peppered with Hebrew words. To me it felt like a slap in the face every time I heard <i>beseder</i>. In Akka it’s a different feeling, you actually feel some semblance of belonging
to it. It still feels Palestinian.” And then I muttered, “Sorry.”<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No, it’s ok,” he said. “I have a friend who was like
me…came from Lebanon to here, and as soon as he got the British passport he
went straight to Yafa, where he’s originally from.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I stared at him acutely aware of not painting a more positive picture of his hometown before blurting out, </span>“Yafa is so
depressing. When I went I was literally crying in the middle of the street.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yeah…he had this rosy image of what he would find there and
his expectations were so positive and high. But they all collapsed once he
went. He said he felt so out of place, so alienated…to the extent that he
actually told me he wish he’d never gone in the first place so he can still
have this illusion of return.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
We lapsed into silence. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some people settle. Others decide to do something and become embroiled in a mental battle of wills, the seesawing of “it’s worth it” to the “there is no point.” Others run away to a different part of the world and drink to forget and to stop dwelling on bygones and current realities so that they could delude themselves into thinking they are finally living, even if it's just for a bit. They turn into cliches, running away from who they are. It's all so tiresome.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
"Well I hope you get your chance to go, and I hope you like it," I said apologetically, cringing inwardly. You are a dick, a dick, a massive dickhead I told myself.<br />
<br />
"Thank you."<br />
<br />
As I glared at the tabletop, shame coursing through me, he carried on smoking his argeelah, his expression still friendly, maybe even a bit relieved.<br />
<br />
Just maybe.</div>
</div>
Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-54910640556980826852015-09-11T19:20:00.001+01:002015-09-11T19:20:26.910+01:00Stereophonics<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2STXvhafHXrJfVhOeMisqw0Spz0MCaeBWIGoev5bazi-vtTceWE6nQJjJy5FMrfsPPDE9x8o-q-e7g7EhXv_M98lWarsvpNoZ-6mocchSCcQglf256eoDZqa5yJ-uh0K8w9BSf0km_I8S/s1600/IMG_20150911_182047.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2STXvhafHXrJfVhOeMisqw0Spz0MCaeBWIGoev5bazi-vtTceWE6nQJjJy5FMrfsPPDE9x8o-q-e7g7EhXv_M98lWarsvpNoZ-6mocchSCcQglf256eoDZqa5yJ-uh0K8w9BSf0km_I8S/s400/IMG_20150911_182047.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stereophonics frontman Kelly Jones performing at Mode in London on 10 September 2015 [Alsaafin]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Their latest album "<a href="http://www.stereophonics.com/news/post/keep-the-village-alive-is-out-today">Keep the Village Alive</a>" is out today. </div>
Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-20717911733168544662015-09-08T22:27:00.000+01:002015-09-09T22:37:24.062+01:00In the city<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I’ve taken to walking around listlessly again, listening in
on snippets of passing conversations and fighting the dull restlessness and
bewilderment that comes with trying to make sense of where my place is in this
conundrum that calls itself life. That wasn’t a very original description of
life, but writers are beset with clichés despite their commendable and-truth be told- laughable struggle to prove themselves by swimming against the current. That
will be discussed later, but for now, I must tentatively sip my black coffee,
jiggle my right foot a little, bask in the warm glow of a franchise coffee
shop, and record those inane, or completely meaningful snippets of
conversation.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, the train is fucking delayed mate.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thomas moved in the flat, and I fucking hate it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And like, what am I supposed to say to that? He wants to
meet my grandma!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The driver is shit.” Titter. “Excuse my language.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ve got this new CD from a band in Prague…can’t understand
it but it’s so cool.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I must admit, the last time I was walking around in public
doing this <a href="https://electronicintifada.net/blogs/linah-alsaafin/waiting-obama-ramallah">exact same thing</a> was when I knew that I had to leave the country or
I would wither up like an old plant and watch helplessly as my brittle leaves
crack. It’s quite the ominous sign. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s also quite perplexing. Changing countries like changing
the prescription on your glasses, every six months or every year because the eyes would get half a degree worse. They kept getting steadily worse but an operation
fixed them. What’s the equivalent to that in this case?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Too much whimsical thinking means that the dog will forever
be chasing its tail. I’ve simplified it using one diagram I can
remember from school, the Venn diagram. One circle is the WHAT DO YOU WANT
cauldron and the second one is the WHERE DO YOU WANT TO GO and the intersecting
middle part is the answer. So far, I’m having trouble finding it, because I barely
have any savings anymore. All thanks must be owed to the ill-conceived and
downright delusional idea of leading an independent, illustrious and filling
life in a place that takes and takes and takes as you hypnotically give and
give and give.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were sold the dream and now that we're living it, we realize how shit it is. That quote-which we all regarded with awe and considered as a golden nugget of a life truth- emerged from the haze of weed and alcohol, in a rare sober moment in a room full of like-minded, warm-hearted good people. Rare gems.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(And I know what you're thinking</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You're sick of that kind of crap</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But you'd better listen man</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because the kids know where it's at)*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of those people left this country by now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A bride stood outside the Anchor Brewhouse just off
Horseleydown Lane, and I snapped a photo of her like a true voyeur so I can
share that on my Instagram later, as if to say, my my, look at this wonderful
city, how many times have you seen a bride in the street before! What an
exciting life I must lead, go ahead and judge my exhilarating fun-filled
existence in this abnormally fast-paced capital. Wasn’t the mention of the street
names just an exceptional touch? Oh how genuine it all must be!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(A flock of cyclists just passed by on the cobbled street,
but that’s just not very interesting.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This city doesn’t stop. Everything works like clockwork, and
nothing goes backwards. If you happen to deliberately stop to question, to
observe, to record, to evaluate, to think, then you’re off the racetrack and
your presence will be disjointed, there but not really there, and there’s no
coming back, you can’t throw yourself back in the loop without comprising this
little space you’ve created outside the incessant rhythmic marching of this
city.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most conversation snippets occur on the train. I gave up
staring at passengers as if by reading their faces I could divulge some
interesting aspect of their lives, and previously came to the conclusion that they are all
dull boring people. How else would you explain the deliberate miss of eye
contact and mouths pressed into hard lines while in such close proximity with
other strangers? Cold, fake politeness. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The icebreaker is always a dog. In a rare occurrence, one
time most of the people in the train carriage oohed and aahed over a goddamn dog. And just
like other observers that do not hail from “first-world countries” I thought,
the dogs here lead a more privileged and comfortable life than the people back where I'm from.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dog sneezed, and I sucked in my breath as an effusion of
melting hearts filled the carriage. The dog pranced up and down on strangers’
legs, who bent down to scratch its ears and stroke its head. The dog responded
by licking their faces, to which the strangers happily received.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He’s a pet poodle,” the dog’s owner said, her voice nasally
and clipped. “I had to take him to trim his fur, it got so long.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dog pranced about near my legs, and I continued reading
from my book.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, he’s a bit disappointed,” the same clipped nasally
voice said. “Some people are not interested in him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked up from my book and gave her a soft, pitying look,
but without too much emotion. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These days I am itching for a fight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I read my books on the train, mostly Arabic ones, in order to ignore thinking about the lives of these people. It's a silly thing to do, making up little fantasies about them. I caught a glimpse of my own face in the black reflection once and saw grief etched there, below the resting bitch look. No one knows the feeling, and for a long time I was angry, furious that I couldn't make everyone feel the gaping hole in my chest, the disorientation, the feeling of helplessness, weakness, and the ever present grief flaming, burning my insides. I still find myself angry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You need to give yourself some time, someone said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Time doesn't heal though. It merely dulls the senses.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The strangers who do strike up a conversation are never from the
city. An old darling of a lady managed to find out where I live, where I work,
and what I do in less than 30 seconds. Very promising, I snorted inwardly, if I ever got on the end
of an interrogation by the authorities. (What kind of stupid thought is that to have?) In return, I found out where she’s
trying to get to, her opinion that everyone here is steeped in cold quietness,
and that her country and people are a loud bunch and therefore, naturally warmer. Bye-bye darling, she said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From the setting of the franchise coffee shop, I looked up briefly, and saw a family of four walking past.
The balloon attached to one of the boy’s hand pulled free and as the father
tried in vain to grab it, our eyes met. I gave him a
sympathetic look. He ignored me and berated his son
sharply, who shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. The family walked on. I shook
my head, ever the sanctimonious idiot, and carried on typing drivel to prolong the inevitable walk back and running away from poised, stoic reflections.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ipGhzrIi3s">In the City/Jam</a></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-72191197820992939162015-07-06T22:36:00.000+01:002015-07-08T00:46:53.842+01:00رسالة من عاصمة أوسلو<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div dir="rtl" style="font: 12.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">الى عزيزتي عزيزة</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">(المقدمة المشروطة لأي رسالة)</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">أما بعد,</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">هل تعلمين أن لغتي العربية الفصحى-سواء بالحديث او الكتابة-تطورت لدرجة أنني قطعت عهد مع نفسي ألا أطعن وأدنس هذه اللغة الجميلة بمحاولتي الركيكة لإستخدامها؟ لذلك-وكل الاحترام لعمنا سيبويه-سوف أكمّل حديثي معك باللغة المكسرة الشبه عامية. ولكن لعلمك, سأستمر بشراء روايات عربية وقراءتهم على القطار في طريقي الى الشغل وأنا في لندن, لتبقى بصمة جذوري المسخمطة حلق في أذني وربما, اتسلل الى منصب المفكر النخبوي. يا له من طموح غاشم.</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">أما بعد,</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">بعد مرور سنتين او ثلاثة من انهيار الانسة أفنان ع. والانسة لينة س. الفاضح في مقهى سنديان, أجد نفسي جالسة على نفس الطاولة التي تزحلقنا من كراسيها الى الأرض نجعر على طول صوتنا ومرارا وتكرارا: واتس ذا بوينت؟ </span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">كنا نحيب ونقهقه, بما أن شر البلية ما يضحك, وننظر الى بعضنا بعيون مغبشة, نرتجف على حفة الحفرة الجهنمية التي اسمها الرشد. الشيء الذي يضحك هو لو أننا عرفنا موقعنا وظروفنا الان, كان رحبنا وتمسكنا بتلك اللحظة بكل عنادة. فاليوم نجد أفنان تخلع طواحين في بلاد الفسق والفجور تحت راية ال سعود, تذهب بقهر من سجن الى سجن اخر. اما لينة, بعد ان خلعت مأزق صراع الهوية المبتذل, نجدها قد ادمنت على المحرمات والأرق في عاصمة اوروبية مليئة بالحيوية وجفاف الدم, تتعامل مع صدمة الموت المفاجئ واتساع ثقب الفراغ بجحشنة وعزل العالم.</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">اخ على زمن الخوالي يا عزيزة! اشتقنا لقضايا بسيطة تشغل بالنا..اشتقنا للسذاجة. واشتقنا ايضا الى شعور الهرولات على اكتافنا والصفعات على وجوهنا والمسبات الراقية من ذخر الوطن, الجهاز الأمني. اشتقنا الى الحج حول دوار المنارة والصفا والمروى في شوارع رام الله ولذة البطولة والتحدي, افنان تهتف "يسقط يسقط حكم العسكر" ولينة تناشد الفدائي يعيد الكرة, يخطف جندي ويحرر أسرى.</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">اشتقنا لشعور البطولة المذوقة بعدم الإنجاز في حياتنا. أكبر همنا كان ترك البلد لمدة كافية ونحررها بإرسال إشارات "تليباثيكية" للقطيع, لكي نعود ونركب موجة الإنتصار الوطنية والنسوية. الان نقول: كاف-سين أخت الحياة. نريد فقط المال والمزيد من المال لنفعل ما نريد- الأمر الذي ما زلنا نعاني منه بسبب جهلنا على ما نريده بالفعل.</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">رجعت إلى البلد يا عزيزة لفترة قصيرة, في محاولة لترتيب أمور عائلتي, وحرق المزيد من الجسور. أتلهب بزيادة من داخلي من كرهي وشوفة الحال على كل ما له علاقة بالقوقعة التي اعتبرناها مرة ذرة النضال والنشاط. </span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">ضفت على منظري نظاراة شمسية كبيرة, تغطي نص وجهي-اللي قد التعريفة على رأي إمي المرحومة-ومشيت بالشوارع (اذا احتجت للمشي) دون الإعتراف على احد. إنني اختبئ من الواقع.</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">في ناس عمرهم ما بتغيروا. بياع الكعك على قرنة دوار المنارة مثلا. (الدوار والقرنة, ما في اشي منطقي.) الشحادين. المحلات. بياع القهوة الضريرالذي يردد-أهوة أهوة! مرة ابن خالتي المعنتر قال لي: هاد الزلمة وسخ بس بديش احكيلك قصته لإنك بنت. كل ما اعرفه أنه كان يشتغل بالإذاعة في غزة, ومحسوب على فتح, وتصاوب أيام معركة الحسم في ٢٠٠٧, ثم أتى إلى عاصمة أوسلو يبيع قهوة.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">العمال على نفس حالتهم, وضعهم يتمواجى بين السيئ والأسوأ…النخبوية على نفس وضعهم, المفكرين على نفس وضعم, في نفس المقاهي, يتكلمون بشغف تحت مفعولٍ ما عن الديالكتيك والفساد وحراك الشارع, يقطفون أوراق الوهم لتغطية حياتهم الفارغة. والنشطاء مازالوا يتكتكوا على الكيبورد, في سبيل الشهرة وكسب اللايكات والمتعة والمهنة المحبوبة عند الجميع, المزاودة. أما النشطاء الذين رأوا النور واستقالوا, فمنهم يتزوجون, او يفرون من البلد, أو يسمعون إلى موسيقى صوفية ويعاتبوا الاخرون على ذوقهم الوقح والمستشرق.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">على رأي الشاعر:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">لا تسأليني عن مخازي أمتي</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">ما عدت أعرف-حين أغضب</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">ما أريد</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">وإذا السيوف تكسرت أنصالها</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">فشجاعة الكلمات…لا تفيد!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">اقترحتْ علي أختنا الفاضلة ريتا أ.غ صياغة رسالة لأفرّغ كل خراء بطني. ما عادت الكلمات تفيد, والحديث عن أيا كان ممل ومتكرر. لا أفضّل مراجعة أيام الخوالي, لأننا كنا على قد نيتنا الطيبة الساذجة لدرجة المياعة الساحقة. أكتب ما أريد, يوجد هناك غيري يكتبون عن الأمل والإفادة من التجربة وضرورة الخبرة وامتداد النفس الطويل وبركة الشباب وحلاوة الحياة. أعلم ذلك, هم يعيشون في واقع بستطيعون كتابة الهراء بإبتسامة, لكنني أريد أن أكتب بحدية لأفرّغ خراء بطني لأنني أحتاج إلى خروج شيطنة الطاقة المشحونة في رأسي والثقل المعدني في قلبي, حتى لو كانت بطريقة سادية. ربما أتمتع من جرح شعور الناس لأنني قادرة على جرحهم. إمي كانت طيبة ومحبوبة. أريد أن أكون مثلها. ما هو سر تحطيمي؟ الحديث عن إمي في صيغة الماضي. أريد فقط النوم. السعادة تمكث هناك. أيهما أفضل, السعادة أم الراحة؟ هل السعادة تجر الراحة أم العكس؟ ما الفائدة من كل هذا..</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">لنبدأ من جديد, من أول الفقرة: اقترحتْ علي أختنا الفاضلة ريتا أ.غ صياغة رسالة لأفرّغ كل خراء بطني.لا أفضّل مراجعة أيام الخوالي, لأننا كنا على قد نيتنا الطيبة الساذجة لدرجة المياعة الساحقة. هل تعلمي ما هي قمة المياعة يا عزيزة؟ أن نقول أو نشعر بأن كلمة "إسا" تؤدي إلى النشوة. كان بدنا طخ والله.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">ما علينا. الحياة عبارة عن تجارب والإستفادة من مواقف سمجة وغلطات فاضحة. فلتذهب إسا إلى ستين داهية, ولتبقى أراضي ال٤٨ محرومة منا للأبد…فالصراصير في حمامات موقف باصات تل أبيب ماخذين راحتهم هناك أكثر منا,الأمر الذي شاهدته بعيني. وشتم مدينة اليكا ستخرجنا من ملة شرفاء فلسطين الأبية.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">تمسكت بنفسي وزرت بيتي. هل هذا معقول؟ من "يزور" بيته؟ أرعب الحارس بفرحته عندما رآني, عيونه مظللة بالحزن. أغلقت الباب ورائي, وسقطت على ركبي, كأن النفس قاطعني, وبكيت بحرارة. لففت يدي حول خصري واشتد البكاء إلى نواح, هذة هي ردة الفعل التي منعتها عن نفسي عندما دخلت البيت قبل ستة أشهر لألقي العزاء بوجهي. اخذت أفتح الخزائن كلها, اطوف بين الغرف حتى تملكني الغيثان. اسندت ظهري على الحائط, أتنفس بصعوبة, أفكر بقلبها الكبير, قلبها المتضخم. ثم غادرت, ونظاراتي الشمسية على وجهي مرة أخرى.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">ماذا علي أن أفعله يا عزيزة؟ لا حياة هنا, ولا هناك. علقانين بين حملة متسكتنيش/متحركين/مكملين وحملة كل واحد حر بحاله. لا أعرف ما هي ترجمة ليمبو, والإنترنت نوّري بعدة مصطلحات: نسيان, ردهة, جهنم, لا يقين, موطن إهمال الليمبوس دهليز في جهنم, الخ.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">ذهبت مع ح. إلى الحديقة السرية ومارسنا الرياضة واليوغا. جمعنا الصنوبر وحطمنا قشره تحت حجر. ثم جمعنا الحجارة وبدأنا رشق هدف غير معلّم. انفعلنا بزيادة, وأصبحنا نصرخ "الله أكبر" مع كل رمية, صوتنا يعلو وتهيجنا يكثر,نزعق ونرد على بعضنا-تحية لكتائب-عز الدين!. نرمي ونصرخ "قسام!"وننفجر من الضحك, ثم انطويت على َمدة تطل على المدينة, وصفنت وصفنت.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">تخيلي لو سمعونا, قالت ح.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">قبلها بليلة أو ليلتين, مشينا في الشوارع الخلفية بصمت ثقيل. قعدنا على رصيف الشارع وقالتْ: في اشي غريب مع الناس..بعرفش اذا دايما كانوا زي هيك أو احنا بنلاحظ أشياء عشان فش حدا ممكن يستوعب ايش بنْمُر فيه..في اشي غلط فيهم. صفنا وصفنا, والثقب زاد اتساعا.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">أحاول أتجنب رام الله ودكاكينها. زيّنتْ سيارة عرسها من الوردة الحمراء. اشترتْ فستانها الخمري المخمل من هيليوبولس. كانت تشتري الكنادر الشتوية من هذا المحل, والمعجنات من هناك. في أشياء-غير الناس- ولا ممكن تتغير. صالون رائدة, قائم منذ التسعينات, منذ طفولتي. المساجد. القبور. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">مددت رأسي فوق ضريحها حتي كاد أنفي يلمس الحجر واسمها المنحوت تحت اسم أمها وهمست: رح أرجعلك ماما, سلام.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">هذه هي الخلاصة يا عزيزة. رح أرجعلها. أو بالفصحى, سوف أعود, وأنهي معركتي.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: large;">تحياتي</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial;">ل. <span style="color: #232323;"> </span></span></span></div>
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Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-72171030156162926762015-04-13T23:52:00.001+01:002015-04-13T23:52:48.802+01:00In Defense of the Word by Eduardo Galeano<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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One writes out of a need to communicate with others, to denounce that which gives pain and to share that which gives happiness. One writes against one's solitude and against the solitude of others. One assumes that literature transmits knowledge and affects the behavior and language of those who read...One writes, in reality, for the people whose luck or misfortune one identifies with- the hungry, the sleepless, the rebels, and the wretched of this earth- and the majority of them are illiterate.<br />
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...How can those of us who want to work for a literature that helps to make audible the voice of the voiceless function in the context of this reality? Can we make ourselves heard in the midst of a deaf-mute culture? The small freedom conceded to writers, is it not at times a proof of our failure? How far can we go? Whom can we reach?<br />
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...To awaken consciousness, to reveal identity- can literature claim a better function in these times?...in these lands?<br />
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...Our own fate as Latin American writers is linked to the need for profound social transformations. To narrate is to give oneself: it seems obvious that literature, as an effort to communicate fully, will continue to be blocked...so long as misery and illiteracy exist, and so long as the possessors of power continue to carry on with impunity their policy of collective imbecilization through...the mass media.<br />
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...Great changes, deep structural changes, will be necessary in our countries if we writers are to go beyond...the elites, if we are to express ourselves....In an incarcerated society, free literature can exist only as denunciation and hope.<br />
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...We are what we do, especially what we do to change what we are...<br />
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In this respect a "revolutionary" literature written for the convinced is just as much an abandonment as is a conservative literature devoted to the...contemplation of one's own navel...<br />
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Our effectiveness depends on our capacity to be audacious and astute, clear and appealing. I would hope that we can create a language more fearless and beautiful than that used by conformist writers to greet the twilight.<br />
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...In Latin America a literature is taking shape and acquiring strength, a literature...that does not propose to bury our dead, but to immortalize them; that refuses to stir the ashes but rather attempts to light the fire...perhaps it may help to preserve for the generations to come..."the true name of all things.#<br />
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<i>-Eduardo Galeano, 1978</i><br />
<i>from </i>Days and Nights of Love and War (1983)</div>
Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-19554941381302039482015-03-17T15:28:00.000+00:002015-03-17T15:29:11.778+00:00Top 15 quotes of Ayman Odeh, the quintessential Israeli Arab<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.haaretz.com/polopoly_fs/1.643362.1424392590!/image/2430927795.jpg_gen/derivatives/landscape_640/2430927795.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.haaretz.com/polopoly_fs/1.643362.1424392590!/image/2430927795.jpg_gen/derivatives/landscape_640/2430927795.jpg" height="231" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Defenders of Zion/ Photo Credit Rami Shlush, Haaretz</td></tr>
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Last year I was invited to give a talk at Leeds University
on Israeli apartheid and colonialism. In the subsequent Q & A session, one
student asked me my opinion on Palestinian citizens of Israel voting in Israel
elections.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I folded my hands, fixed a neutral smile on my face, tilted
my head somewhat apologetically and answered, “I can’t answer the question
because I am not a Palestinian living in Israel, so I can’t impose my views
when I don’t face the struggle that they do in their daily lives.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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What a crock of bullshit. Afterwards, I told the same
student my real opinion and garbled something about normalization, accepting
the colonial master’s tool, and turning the whole cause into a matter of equal
civil rights as opposed to an anti-colonial struggle for liberation, justice
and self-determination.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The past two weeks I have inundated myself with dozens of
articles in English and Arabic on the messiah-like role of the Joint List, why
more Palestinians in Israel are voting this time, how boycott was the moral
thing to do, how boycott is the outdated counterproductive thing to do, how the
three Arab parties have skillfully rallied under one banner, how the three Arab
parties are destined to break up once they secure their seats in the Israeli
parliament, or Knesset because they loath each other, and so on. Communists
hate the nationalists, nationalists and communists hate the Islamists,
Islamists hate the communists, etc. How is Aida Touma, a communist member of
Hadash and self-professed feminists, in a coalition with Talib Abu Arar, a
member of the Islamists who is married to two wives?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s all a masquerading stupor, waving the flag of fake
unity to get into the Knesset where no Palestinian Arab leader or party has
ever made a positive difference to the lives of Palestinians in Israel. Haneen
Zoabi serves as a reminder of how racist the Knesset is, with her perfect
Hebrew “defending terrorists” and calling out her fellow MKs as fascists, but
how is that an achievement? Ahmad Tibi the clown uses the podium to recite
funny little poems in better Hebrew than his Israeli counterparts, but how does
that alleviate the poverty that half of Israel’s Palestinian citizens live in?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every Palestinian voting in the Israeli elections, not to be
all melodramatic and sensationalist, has forgotten the roots of t<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I won’t go into why I don’t support Palestinian
participation in Israeli elections, “for the master’s tools will never
dismantle the master’s house” as Audre Lorde said. The point is that, even
though the term “Arab Israelis” is an abhorrent one, unfortunately, it exists.
It resoundingly exists. Those who see their life’s journey as one fighting for
an equal Israeli state for all of its citizens, who speak like true Israeli
leftists- those are not the Jewish Israelis, no. The Israeli left is the Arab
Israeli, the one who calls for an end to the occupation of the 1967 borders,
the one who opposes the construction of settlements in order to divert that
money to improve the socioeconomic conditions of Israelis, the one who believes
in the establishment of a Palestinian state alongside an Israeli one, the one
who’s ego in so inflated he compares himself time and time again to Martin
Luther King and the struggle for civil rights. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Israel has succeeded. Israel has divided and conquered us
with such aplomb, such ingenuity, such simplicity. There is no one united
Palestinian people. We are separate entities, in non-contiguous geographical
spaces, with a different set of laws that govern our reality. Gaza, West Bank,
Jerusalem 1948 territories, refugee camps, diaspora. The best hope we have is
to for each of the Palestinians in their separate areas, those who still care
about romantic conceptions of liberation and justice and an end to
colonization, fight until they secure those goals, and then we can form a
confederate of Palestine. COP. A confederate of the republic of Palestine.
CORP. Hamas will liberate Gaza, the poor sods in ’48 will get rid of house
Palestinians and Zionists, a natural disaster will wipe out the West Bank for
good, a Kurdish fighter will lead an army to liberate Jerusalem, an army of
children will announce autonomy for the refugee camps in neighboring countries,
and so on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, this was all a rambling prelude to the top 15 quotes
of the model Israeli Arab, Ayman Odeh-the head of the Joint List, a member of
Hadash, a lawyer, and if he were younger, he’d be a <a href="http://www.haaretz.com/news/features/.premium-1.560904">Haifster</a>. As it is, he’s a
40 year old father of three who “has a dream.” Sit back and enjoy these
gems.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->My ideological transformation was part of my
political maturation, choosing to become part of the greater whole.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You assimilated to Zionism, a racist supremacist ideology
premised on the massacres and ethnic cleansing of an indigenous population.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I tell you, I want two nations here by choice. I
want two cultures here. It adds something important for me. We are all richer
because there are two nations and two cultures here. Let’s focus on the
positive things that unite us and not what separates us.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Positive things: we both enjoy drinking <a href="http://www.haaretz.com/misc/podcasts/1.627526">Tubi</a>. Negative
things: um..Zionism<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Instead of wasting money in the occupied
territories, money should be spent here in Israel for the good of all of us-
for education, for health and for social programs.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bravo! The model Israeli lefty has struck again! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Abu Mazen is a pragmatic person, a peace loving
person, in everyone’s opinion-other than the opinion of the Israeli government.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seriously beginning to question if Odeh is a closeted drug
addict. Hallucinogen pills anyone?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->We need to extend bridges to the Jewish
community. Martin Luther King fought for blacks, and democratic whites where
with him.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except, in a twisted diseased society like Israel’s, where
racism is institutionalized and drilled into their children, there are no
democratic Israelis. They’re raving mad Ayman! On second thought, your idea of
democracy is shit so maybe you do make sense here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->We will be an alternative camp, the democratic
camp-where Arabs and Jews are equal partners, not enemies.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can we equate all Jews with the ones in Israel? Is it so
hard for Odeh to say “where Arabs and Zionists are equal partners, not enemies”?
He won’t even notice it’s a conundrum! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">7)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->It would be correct to say that the Arab
citizens of Israel are among the pioneers of civil resistance in the world.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cough, splutter, snicker. Pray, do tell us more about the
amazing civil resistance Arab Israelis engaged in- I must have been living
under a rock all these years!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">8)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->We intend to march on Jerusalem, echoing the
civil rights march in Washington led by Martin Luther King more than 50 years
ago to demand justice and democracy.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here it is folks, he’s dropped the big bombshell. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">9)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->From Nazareth to Jerusalem, like Martin Luther
King on 28 August 1963, I have a dream. We want the participation of tens of
thousands of Arabs and Jews, because they’re clever.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not sure I understand the “clever” part, but at this point I
can no longer bring myself to care.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">10)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We recall
that to this day, any Israeli withdrawal from an inch of Palestinian land has
occurred through the political weight of the Arabs in Israel.</i></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
More hallucinatory talk. The last
time Israel withdrawed from Palestinian land was Israel, which it then promptly
blockaded for good two years later. And before that, more Jewish settlers colonized
more Palestinian land in the West Bank. Great story.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">11)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An Arab
who works and pays taxes is good for everyone.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Jeez, so much for the pioneering
civil resistance part.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">12)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as
Jews in the US joined Martin Luther King, I’m sure hundreds of thousands of
Jews will join the struggle for civil equality in Israel. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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Gotta love his conviction, bless
his soul. Remember when hundreds of thousands of Jews (Jews again, not Zionists
according to this fella) marched in protest of the high prices of cottage
cheese? And when an Israeli Arab tent was set up, it got attacked with bags of
feces? Good times!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want
Jews in the national symbols, but want to see my face there as well.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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My ego brings all the boys to the
yard, damn right it’s better than yaaars<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->We want to create a Palestinian state on the
1967 borders alongside the state of Israel.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Huzzah! The two state solution
lives on in the delusional minds of shit-talking politicians!<o:p></o:p></div>
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</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I believe that the Jewish people have a right to
self-determination, which the state of Israel has fulfilled.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
And that, dear every Palestinian
refugee, that was the sound of a huge phlegm-heavy spit landing right at the
centre of your faces. Kkkkkhhh-tfoooo!</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh ye droves of Arabs, descend upon the polling stations
like model citizens, thinking that this is your way to stick two fingers up at
the Israeli right-wing. I mean, Herzog promised to invite you all to his house
and treat you like his equal, no? Oh wait, he’s also a right-winger dressed in
the Israeli costume of a leftist politician. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those Israeli Arabs are not my people, they do not represent
an iota of what I stand for nor do I belong to them. If anyone asks, I’ll be watching the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i9NNunTsO1c">Nahal Oz</a> video
on repeat for the rest of the day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-23763552286731558042014-12-20T12:13:00.003+00:002014-12-20T12:13:53.763+00:00The Scream<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXf-OCCEOOnf85HFJZfJDRqLt0XOKZPaoL3GTakrY_qF928ulgBW60k8EqU7p4AX1FtrruqOQys41CLaYiWrbfLjnvj5m7jdOntLksFRpKf28wFhLDk0KdpJO83xZmVwhdvCK-cfNzYIT0/s1600/TheScream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXf-OCCEOOnf85HFJZfJDRqLt0XOKZPaoL3GTakrY_qF928ulgBW60k8EqU7p4AX1FtrruqOQys41CLaYiWrbfLjnvj5m7jdOntLksFRpKf28wFhLDk0KdpJO83xZmVwhdvCK-cfNzYIT0/s1600/TheScream.jpg" height="320" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By Edvard Munch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Everything was grey and dark and filled with glittery charcoal dust. It was a warped setting, and I was traveling in between time zones. The scenes flitted every few seconds but there was something constant, and it was the feeling of dread, that heavy leaden weight in the pit of your stomach.<br />
<br />
Finally one scene was forming into something concrete. My uncle Mahmoud was standing against a wall, anguish etched into every fiber in his body. I looked around and saw people sitting on mattresses, bowing their heads and silent. It was a funeral wake. There was a bombing. Someone had died. The people were blurred, their setting not important. Mahmoud was propped up by the wall, his face ashen and smeared with dirt and dust. Where were his children?<br />
<br />
My mother suddenly appeared and was standing next to the wall. And then Mahmoud spoke, in a mechanical way of someone forced to speak.<br />
<br />
"I didn't want to take all the children out of the house. I wanted to leave the girls behind, perhaps the house would be safer for them. But we all fled."<br />
<br />
What was he talking about? How many girls did he have? I began naming them on my fingers...ah that's right, three boys, five girls..the twin girls are five years old now, followed by the youngest, who is three. Mahmoud stared right through me.<br />
<br />
"If I had insisted on the girls staying behind, then the twins wouldn't have been killed."<br />
<br />
"Stop it," my mother whispered. "Stop blaming yourself, stop."<br />
<br />
As the realization dawned on me, the scene began to flake away, dissolving into darkness. I woke up gasping for breath, my mouth open in a silent scream, the sheets drenched with tears.<br />
<br />
A few hours later, when the sun was properly up, I read the news that for the first time since the summer invasion, Israel had bombed the Qarara area of Khan Yunis. No one was killed, but another layer was added to the post-traumatic stress disorder to the people there. Mahmoud's family woke up screaming, and I wondered if they preferred to be alive screaming or to die all together to end this nightmare once and for all.</div>
Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-42674484058252159722014-12-16T22:59:00.000+00:002014-12-20T12:16:38.650+00:00My son was my dream. My dream has been killed.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>My son was in uniform in the morning. He is in a casket now," </b><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/12/16/taliban-school-attack_n_6332056.html"><span class="s1"><b>Tahir Ali</b></span></a><b>, cried out as he came to collect his 14-year-old son's body from the hospital. "My son was my dream. My dream has been killed."</b></span></span></div>
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I often wonder how people are so comfortable in bringing children into this world. Schoolchildren are "soft targets" for dangerous psychopaths. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
132 of them. Plus 9 faculty staff.</div>
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<br />
Over 1,000 schools targeted since 2009.</div>
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<br />
The leader of the monsters <a href="http://bigstory.ap.org/article/38b772cee85e4b9eba35df035df1d15a/pakistan-taliban-attack-military-school-kill-2"><span class="s1">said</span></a>: "We targeted their kids so that they could know how it feels when they hit our kids."</div>
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<br />
The smallest coffins are the heaviest. </div>
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<br />
Recycled quotes. No analysis, no theorizing, no poem, no ad nauseum essay on humanity/inhumanity.</div>
<br />
<div class="p2">
<br />
There are just no words.</div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://news.bbcimg.co.uk/media/images/79757000/jpg/_79757645_hi025134784.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://news.bbcimg.co.uk/media/images/79757000/jpg/_79757645_hi025134784.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Source: <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-30493691">BBC</a></td></tr>
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Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-16149314507825161522014-11-29T18:46:00.001+00:002014-11-30T13:24:37.217+00:00District Line<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://www.novidadediaria.com.br/wp-content/gallery/biografia-de-simon-bolivar/biografia-de-simon-bolivar-10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.novidadediaria.com.br/wp-content/gallery/biografia-de-simon-bolivar/biografia-de-simon-bolivar-10.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
Stopping, guttering, surging forward, slowing down<br />
Bodies swaying, heads lolling, nodding off<br />
A rhythmic pattern<br />
With a book open on my lap<br />
Eyes drooping, then flashing awake again<br />
Marking Simon Bolivar's cry of "We shall never be happy, never!"<br />
The montoneros rose up, surged forward,<br />
only to be cut down brutally, exterminated<br />
There's a creativity in stopping their motion<br />
A horrific creativity that belies evil<br />
Let's go to Latin America this summer, we agreed<br />
We'll drink with the peasants, have tempestuous affairs, destroy the system, or become martyrs<br />
for a cause that's a million miles away from our home.<br />
The lulling again<br />
A shiny patent leather heel emerges underneath an expensive coat<br />
My mud-stained shoes wink and grin<br />
A herd of cattle avoiding eye contact in rush hour<br />
and all other hours<br />
I rest my head on the glass panel<br />
The flag was burned, and a few people objected<br />
The majority whooped and cheered<br />
Another stop, followed by a fluid motion<br />
A land, because of its richness, made its people poor<br />
Final destination<br />
We were pulled out of the womb<br />
And avoided making this world a habit<br />
Fish swimming against the current<br />
How harrowing<br />
No rest for our arms or respite to our souls until we break the chains of those who oppress us<br />
He said. How do we get out of this labyrinth?<br />
No standing on the left.<br />
We shall never be happy, never!<br />
<br />
<i>- an attempt at a poem</i></div>
Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-68780051837065895742014-11-23T18:34:00.000+00:002014-11-23T18:35:50.439+00:00Dog's Walking Song<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br /></div>
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I will eat clouds with you, my famous Verónica. </div>
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It will be the night of sirens, of police searching </div>
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empty apartments for a starfish, </div>
<div class="p2">
of the bird that wanted to be a girl. </div>
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It will be the day when the school flew.<br />
The bicycles, the rollerblades<br />
have worn down the moon and you don’t come<br />
for teatime at home when it snows. Don’t you know?<br />
I see a forest spinning in the washing machine.<br />
But whenever you want, when you say so,<br />
I will eat with you the hot apples<br />
that tell us: time is a dream, too, the lost fisherman<br />
who in the heavens made of linen wouldn’t know how to read my cards anymore.<br />
Just a bit, a story, a small fragment.<br />
That’s what we are,<br />
drifting cupcakes.<br />
But OK, what are you saying, so solemnly.<br />
Now it doesn’t tend to rain and sunshine doesn’t come in: everything’s different,<br />
say it like this,<br />
everything’s in a different way.<br />
It’s OK, it’s OK, what I want to say<br />
is that we’ve seen things no one would believe:<br />
for example, the harbor on the roof of the room.<br />
I remember vaguely having once gone ashore there,<br />
and everything was orange, the cars, the merchants shouting,<br />
and the machines’ cranes cawing, and mosques in flames, insurrections perhaps.<br />
No one knew to tell me: so many people in turbans.<br />
What will I do with these fragments,<br />
this work of burying bones.<br />
There’s an antique piano on the hill.<br />
When you return Ornella. The privateer plunders the Estate<br />
Delegations in each village.<br />
That’s also how I remember being happy<br />
and another way was by invading the freshness, the years<br />
were leaping forward like trout, the crystal was breaking<br />
and that was our fortune. You came singing in the avalanche.<br />
And now you already see it: inclined this way, I couldn’t spread the morning over us,<br />
the yellow rollerblade that was scraping lines on life.<br />
Oh llamando, llamando, llamando. This is the voice of the shepherds calling.<br />
I wanted to live there and solitude<br />
would ring out at times because you<br />
were speaking or returning from work. And the children tell me<br />
about our trip from yesterday, the moments never<br />
will return and they are mine.<br />
Perhaps our home wasn’t beautiful, deserted in twilight,<br />
with the centuries breaking in like branches?<br />
Do you like this outfit?<br />
I will open the walnut shell’s windows.<br />
With perhaps a little bit of our childhood, with a rusty gesture,<br />
with the white words of winter, with the longing to be<br />
fugitives and young, learning to swim in the adventure,<br />
with that living moment, with the moss on my snout,<br />
traveling through the land from rooftop to rooftop,<br />
with some sort of smile, with the first months of love,<br />
with the days that fall from our ellipse,<br />
with your embrace, which is water, with the things we were,<br />
binding all of this, who knows,<br />
perhaps we have a satchel,<br />
a happy satchel and to walk, to walk.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
* By José Luis Rey, translated by David Francis</div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<i>h/t Budour</i></div>
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Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-53658228709382012002014-11-22T16:49:00.001+00:002014-11-22T16:54:24.252+00:00ما نشهده من الماضي والحاضر والواقع<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>انني</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>أشعر</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>أكثر</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>من</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>أي</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>وقت</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>مضى</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>أن</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>كل</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>قيمة</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>كلماتي</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>كانت</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>في</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>أنها</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>تعويض</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>صفيق<i> </i></b><b>وتافه</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>لغياب</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>السلاح</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>وأنها</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>تنحدر</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>الآن</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>أمام</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>شروق</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>الرجال</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>الحقيقيين</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>الذين</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>يموتون</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>كل</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>يوم</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>في</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>سبيل</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>شيء</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>أحترمه،</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>وذلك</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>كله</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>يشعرني</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>بغربة</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>تشبه</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>الموت</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>وبسعادة</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>المحتضر</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>بعد</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>طول</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>إيمان</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>وعذاب،</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>ولكن</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>أيضا</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>بذل</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>من</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>طراز</b><span class="s1"><b><i> </i></b></span><b>صاعق</b><span class="s2">.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s2">-غسان كنفاني</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I feel, more than any other time, that the value of my words is like a silly compensation for the absence of resistance weapons, and that it now bows in front of the glory of the real men who die every day for something I respect. All of that makes me feel a sense of longing similar to death, and the happiness of a dying person after a long journey of faith and torture, but also a striking sense of humiliation. </span></div>
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-Ghassan Kanafan</div>
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Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-61230971760723126342014-11-19T02:07:00.001+00:002014-11-20T15:09:00.082+00:00من اتعس ما يكون<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">I.</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> اليوم كان ابن كلب مسخم وملعون. علمونا أن لا نشتم الدهر ولكن نحن فعلياً نقصد الأحداث, والله يعلم ما في القلوب. الاجتماع مع المديرة الساعة ٩ صباحا.. وطبعا فقت من النوم الساعة ثمانية ونص وخمسة ابرم واتمتم والطش هون وهناك, ستيانة, بلوزة, فرشاية أسنان, جرابات.. وين الجينز؟ يلعن ها- لبستهم اختي وطلعت على الجامعة وأنا نايمة…كإنه فش جينز في كل البيت إلا تبعوني, طيب, رح اورجيها لما تروّح -- فش وقت للردح يا بنت اتحركي. اللي بعده, انت يا بنطلون تعال البسني. صحيح رن المنبه بس رجعت أنام, رجعت للحلم. كنت أحلم فيه للمرة الثانية وحرارة جسمه لما احتضنا خدعتني وفكرت أن الحلم هو الحقيقة.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> وصلت المكتب الساعة التاسعة الربع ٩، إنجاز عظيم. طليت على المديرة متوقعة أن تعبس بوجهي ولكنها فاجأتني بابتسامة صادقة:
"أهلين , صباح الخير. آه يلا. "
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<span style="font-size: large;"> حضرت نفسي وجلست بمقابلها.
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<span style="font-size: large;">"إحنا بدنا نعمل تقليص.. فش تمويل واللي بوخدوا رواتب صعب نكمل معهم. "
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<span style="font-size: large;"> وافقتها الرأي. كنت أنظر إليها ولا أرى سوى إبريق القهوة السادة الساخنة وسيجارة الصباح تلوّح لي. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">سكتتْ ثم قالت: "يعني انتِ كمان . بس أنا متأكدة رح تحصلي على شغل تاني, هيّك بتكتبي منيح. بعدين معطيتك شهر ترتبي أمورك, منيح؟"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">منيح . رسمت ابتسامة سخيفة على وجهي وهززت رأسي بشكل أوتوماتيكي. تصورت نفسي وانا أقلب المكتب على ظهره وأجعجع بأعلى صوتي ، ولكني بلعت الغصة الحامضة وتركت الغرفة..لم أهتم كثيراً لعملي هذا فلماذا أهتم الآن لتقليصي؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">ركبت سيارة سرفيس للبلد ..ومن هناك سرفيس آخر لسجن بيتونيا/ عوفر.. وبعد أول نقطة تفتيش سرفيس آخر لنقطة التفتيش الثانية. سمعني المجند المغفل البدين وأنا أتكلم بالإنجليزية مع صديقتي الكندية وسألني: من وين إنتِ؟
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<span style="font-size: large;"> تجاهلته. كم مرة يجب أن يسلو أسئلة غبية؟! على الحواجز, عند نقاط التفتيش, على جسر اللنبي, وأحياناً أثناء المظاهرات السلمية.. أيعقل أن فتاة فلسطينية ترتدي الحجاب وتتقن اللغة الانجليزية! يا له من اندهاش عظيم!</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">أشارت المجندة لي أن أتبعها بعد ما أمروني بخلع جزمتي ووضعها على ماكينة الأشعة. لم أشعر أن الجحرة والشتائم الداخلية التي وجهتها لهم كافية.</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">تبعت المجندة إلى غرفة التفتيش الشخصي، بدأت تمرر ماكينة الفحص اليدوية بين رجلي أكثر من مرة.. أمرتني أن أرفع بلوزتي. رفعتها والحقد ينقط مني.. أما الكراهية فتمركزت في فتحة أنفي. سلمية سلمية, أجائتني رغبة أن أضحك بصوت عالي. أمسكت المجندة بستيانتي من الأمام وأدخلت أصابعها بالداخل وهي تنظر إلي، حدقتُ في وجهها ببرودة. أصابعها لازالت بالداخل. وانزلق الكلام بشكل تلقائي من فمي: "شو, شايفة من كبرهم أنه مهرّبة بلطة أو شاكوش؟!"</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">تجاهلت كلماتي وقالت لي: "لفي.." إستدرت برشاقة راقصة الباليه. رفعت رأسي وركزت بصري على الحائط. تبنيت اللغة الفصحى المبالغة والتي يستعملها الأشرار في مسلسلات الرسوم المتحركة وخاطبتها ذهنيا: "لن أهتم بك يا وسخة, لن أكترث لاستفزازك يا بغيضة."</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">انزلقت يداها بجيب البنطلون وهي تعصر وتدير أصابعها على مؤخرتي. نظرت إليها : "شكلك مستمتعة؟" رفعت حاجبها وابتسمت بشكل بارد ثم نطقت: "أوكي, يو كان جو ناو."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;"> II.</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> مسحت يدي على قميصي وخرجت من الغرفة بكرامتي. ولم أشعرها أني تضايقت أو انحرجت أبدا. وصلت ساحة الانتظار حيث عائلات المعتقلين ينتظرون وقت محاكم أبنائهم.. تفاجأت عندما رأيت غرف المحاكم.. ما هي إلا عربات مثل كرفانات مستوطنة جديدة ..الحارس وراء السياج ابتسم لي وبعد ما أمرته (نعم, أمرته) بالانجليزي ( لا أحب مخاطبتهم بلغتنا ) أن يؤشر لي على العربة التي يحاكم فيها "فلان" اخبرني بكل نغاشة أنه لا يتكلم الا اللغة العربية.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">تذمرت: "والنعم .. ازغرد واصقفلك يعني؟"
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">-نعم؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">-ولا شي .</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">لا أعرف في أي عربة ستجري محاكمة " فلان." اخذت افتح أبواب العربات ( عددها ستة ) واطل برأسي داخلها حتى لاحقني جندي وبدأ يصرخ في وجهي. حاولت تجنبه لكي لا أفقد أعصابي. تدخل الحارس الذي لا ينطق إلا اللغة العربية بسرعة ووجهني إلى العربة الأولى.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">دخلت وكان فلان واقف, يرتدي زي سجن الاحتلال (الشاباص) يجيب اعلى اسئلة المحامي بكل هدوء..وكأن في هدوئه استحقاراً عميقاً ممتداً من المحكمة العسكرية للكيان الصهيوني بأكمله.
الجندي الذي كان يترجم من العبرية للعربية صغير السن ومن السهولة استحقاره, وكذلك القاضي الذي يجلس وعلامات الملل مرسومة على وجهه. المترجم والمحامي الفلسطيني تجادلا أكثر من مرة بخصوص الترجمة.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- سي في .. شو سي في؟؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- يعني السيرة الذاتية بالعربي
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- والكلمة العبرية؟
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">تدخل المعتقل فلان: اسمها سي في..مفيش كلمة إلها بالعبري.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> رن هاتف المجند الآخر الذي كان في الغرفة وأجاب دون أن يخرج من غرفة المحكمة. المدعي تثاءب ونظر حوله بضجر ليعْلمنا بطريقته ما أنه هنا رغماً عنه وأنه يريد أن يكون في مكحمة مدنية في مدينة أخرى احتلها هو وأجداده. رفع القاضي رأسه قليلاً وهو يستمع للجندي الذي يترجم والمحامي الفلسطيني وهما يتخاصمان على كلمة أخرى تم ترجمتها بشكل فظ.
المعتقل مازال واقفا بكل هدوء والحارس ينظر إلينا نحن الحاضرون بكل ارتياب.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">مسخرة.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">خرجت ودخلت عربة ثانية, غرفة المحكمة رقم خمسة. هذه العربة أصغر بكثير وفيها عدد من المقاعد المنزوعة من مكانها. انتبهت لهذا لاحقا لأن عيني تجمدت على الفتية الثلاث خلف القفص بقربي.. والذين أيضا يرتدون زي الشاباص وايديهم وارجلهم مكلبشة.
لسعتني الآية القرآنية: " إنهم فتية آمنوا بربهم وزدناهم هدى".
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">أولاد صغار! عيونهم تتراقص بين محاميهم والقاضي وأهاليهم..حاولت أن أطمئنهم بإبتسامة أدركت كم هي سخيفة.. ولكن ماذا علي أن افعل؟! وعلى ماذا يمكنني طمئنتهم؟ على سنتين او ستة أشهر أو شهرين حبس مع كفالة؟ هؤلاء الأطفال يشكلون تهديداً وخطراً أمنياً على دولة النازية. صدق من قال ان اللص دائما ينظر وراءه بقلق وتوعك.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">جلس والد أحد الاولاد بجانبي وكنا أقرب لهم وفوق ثرثرة القاضي والمحامي والمترجم, تحدث مع ابنه الذي كان أصغر واحد في المجموعة.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <i><b> </b></i></span><i><b>-محمد, كيفك يابا؟
</b></i></div>
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<i><b> -الحمدلله منيح
</b></i></div>
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<i><b> -امك وخواتك بخير وبسلموا عليك
</b></i></div>
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<i><b> -الله يسلمهم..سلم عليهم
</b></i></div>
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<i><b> -محمد بتنظم وقتك في السجن؟
</b></i></div>
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<i><b> -نعم؟
</b></i></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><b> -بتنظم وقتك في السجن؟ تضيعش وقتك ضلك اقرأ
</b></i></div>
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<i><b> -آه عم بقرأ كتير
</b></i></div>
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<i><b> -في كتب كثير؟
</b></i></div>
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<i><b> -اه
</b></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> نزق المترجم المجند, هدووووء! <i>شيكيت</i>!
تواصلت المحاكمة. هنا أيضاً يوجد جندي يتكلم ويلعب على تليفونه. همس الوالد بشكل حاد, مسخرة. ثم قال بصوت أعلى بقليل:
</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<i><b> -محمد بعد ما ضربوك في سيارة الجيب, ضربوك كمان مرة؟ </b></i></div>
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<i><b> -لأ
</b></i></div>
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<i><b> -أكيد؟
</b></i></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<i><b> -آه
</b></i></div>
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<i><b> -عندك اواعي وغيار؟
</b></i></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<i><b> -آه
</b></i></div>
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<i><b> -من وين؟
</b></i></div>
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<i><b> -أعطوني أول ما دخلت القسم
</b></i></div>
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<i><b> -مين اللي أعطوك؟
</b></i></div>
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<i><b> -السجناء
</b></i></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<i><b> -حاولنا نجيب اواعيك بس ما سمحولنا
</b></i></div>
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<i><b> -مش مشكلة</b></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">انتهت المحكمة بتأجيل الجلسة للأسبوع القادم . وقف الفتية. أسرع الوالد بآخر توصاية:
</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
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<b><i> -توخذش أدوية منهم
</i></b></div>
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<b><i> -بعرف </i></b></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<b><i> -حافظ على صلاتك..ابعد عن اللي بدخنوا..دير بالك ابني </i></b></div>
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<b><i> - سلام يابا</i></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">قبل أن نخرج جاؤوا بالفوج الثاني من المعتقلين. شباب في أوائل العشرينات من أعمارهم. حدقوا بنا، وضاق خلقي! احسست بلحظتها أنني صغيرة, تافهة, حشرة . اردت ان أتقيأ. جئنا لننتظر محاكمتهم وننظر اليهم كأننا في متحف ما وبعد ساعة نفترق. يرجعون إلى السجن ونحن نذهب إلى المقهى أو العمل أو البيت ونكتب عن التجربة من وجهة نظرنا وهي مازالت مطبوعة في ذاكرتنا الهاوية. هل يوجد أنانية أكبر من هذه؟ بلحظتها قلت لنفسي: كلنا في سجن واحد. أي سجن أكثر صعوبة؟ الزنزانة وساعة الساحة والكنتين والزي البني؟ أم السجن الأكبر المليء بالاوهام وحركة السير والمطاعم والأهالي وقيود المجتمع والفردانية بسبب عدم التأقلم مع كل هذا؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">من هو الأكثر صعوبة واكثر انضغاطاً؟
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;"> III.</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">أدركت لاحقاً أن من الممكن قد وقعت في فخ التفكير الليبرالي.
تذكرت عندما تجولت وسط المدينة عندما كنت في السنة الثانية من الجامعة لأسأل مجموعة عشوائية من الأفراد ماذا يعني لهم "السجن" وفقا لمشروع بحثي للجامعة. عندما سألت السؤال لصاحب مطعم وبار ركز مرفقيه على الطاولة وصمت لفترة. حاولت قراءة عينيه. هل عانى من تجربة الحبس أيام شبابه؟ هل سؤالي دفعه لتذكر التعذيب الذي تلقاه من الصهاينة؟ في النهاية نظر في وجهي, وقال ببطئ: السجن...هنا. أشار إلى رأسه. سقط فكي من مكانه. أغلقته وبلعت ريقي وانتظرته ليكمل.
</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"السجن..حالة ذهنية. احنا بنرسم لحالنا حدود وقوانين. عندما نحرر عقولنا, سوف نتحرر بالواقع."</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">تخيلت ردة فعل الأسرى إذا سمعوا ما قاله صاحب المطعم والبار. في المساء, عندما جلست وكتبت عن المشروع, اندرج كلامه في ورقتي تحت لعنة "الليبرالية."</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">فهمت وجهة نظره لاحقا, بعد الخروج من قفص الجامعة الذي يكبح ويمنع التفكير البديل ويدفعنا لتصنيف كل شيء بالأبيض والأسود. عرّف الفيلسوف السجن بأنه أكثر من مجرد حرمان الانسان من حريته, وضاف أن الروح تشكل حبس للجسم.</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">محمد ١٤ سنة. عندما انهالت عليه قوات الاحتلال بالضرب المبرح أثناء اعتقاله, كسروا تقويم أسنانه. محمد متفوق في دراسته. في برهة خاطفة, ابتسم لأبيه ثم خرج وعاد إلى السجن. بقي هناك شهرين بتهمة رمي الحجارة على المستعمرين. هنالك حالات لايمكن إلا ان تكون في سياق الأبيض والأسود. والحقيقة هي أن واقعنا عبارة عن كابوس مليء بالقضبان والسلاسل الخانقة.</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">عدت إلى رام الله. وصلت مكتبي. استقبلوني الأجانب الذين يعملون معي برواية أحداث ليلتهم الماضية يروون لي بالتفصيل الممل عن الحفلة الموسيقية (كنت حابة أحضرها ولكن لا أستطيع لأنها في القدس).</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">-كانت حلوة كتير .. لا لا كانت روعة..كتير انبسطنا.
</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">سئمت منهم. كل مرة بعد يوم الجمعة أو يوم الاثنين يأتون إلى المكتب بكامل طاقتهم وإشراقهم يتكلمون عن مغامراتهم في حيفا أو يافا التي لا تخرج عن سياق البار والبحر والنوادي الليلية ..تخليت عن فكرة التحدث معهم بخصوص الحياء والحساسية والأخلاق الطيبة والقضية الشائكة (لم يفهموا) من اعلان ورواية رحلاتهم إلى بقية هذه البلد الملعونة لشعب الله المغضوب عليه والمتقوقع في كانتونات.</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">ذهبت إلى المطبخ وحضرت القهوة السادة. ركزت مرفقي على المجلى ونظرت من النافذة التي تطل على الساحة الخلفية للكنيسة المجاورة لبناية المكتب. في وسط الساحة, تمثال مريم العذراء ينظر للسماء.
وجه مريم المرمري يبدو منهكاً وصبوراً ومتناقضاً. عيناها الفارغتان تخاطبان السماء بأسى, وشفتاها مدموغتان بالرضا. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">علمونا أن كل شيء مكتوب في اللوح المحفوظ, وأن القدر لا يتزحزح إلا بالدعاء المستجاب. وتعلمنا أن هذه البلاد تجعل من المؤمن كافر, أو تلقيه في حفرة المصير: هكذا تدور الحياة, قضاء وقدر, كل شيء مكتوب, هل تعترض على حكم ربنا؟ </span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">نعم, أعترض. أعترض على سخافتكم واسترضاء نفوسكم المريضة بصب لعنة الكون علينا تحت تفسير القدر. جائتني رغبة في أن أدير تمثال العذراء إلى مكان آخر يطل على التلال والأفق الممتد للبحر والحياة, وليس إلى السماء. فكرت بلحظتها وقلت لنفسي: "إذا طلعتي من البلد إوعك ترجعي. إوعك ترجعي للكابوس والقيود والسجن الملموس والسجن الذهني."
</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;"> IV.</span></b></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">ولكن..هل ينجو المرء من الحبس حتى اذا تركه؟
</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">أمهات السجناء العزابية من "الفرسان الثمانية" في ٢٠١٢ أخبروني عن أمنيتهم لأولادهم عندما كانوا يرتجفون بين الحياة والموت في "مذبحة الرملة" (مستشفى السجن): "نفسي أزوجه لبنت حلال وأفرح فيه". وبعد خروجهم واستعاد عافيتهم من الإضراب ، قالولي بإستحياء اجابة لسؤالي عن خطتهم المستقبلية: "ان شاء الله سأتزوج وأربي عائلة وأبقى فعّال في قضية الأسرى." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">اين هم الآن؟ انهم يقبعون. اعتُقلوا مرة أخرى عادوا يعدون أيام انتهاء مصيرهم.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> وماذا عن محمد وأبيه؟ خرج محمد بعد شهرين مع كفالة. مرّت اكثر من سنة بعد تجربته واستشهد أخوه الأصغر منه سنا عُروة يوم ١٨ تشرين الأول. اقتحمت قوات الاحتلال قريتهم سلواد, ورصاصة القناص الاسرائيلي لقيت هدفها ومزقت شريان رقبته لتخرج من رأسه, ورشت الأرض بقطع من دماغه. كان الوالد في الولايات المتحدة, وأسرع الى جنازة ابنه.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<i><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span> -شو صار يا محمد؟
</b></i></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<i><b> -تصاوب عُروة بس هيهم نقلوه للمستشفى </b></i></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<i><b> -شو صار يا محمد؟ </b></i></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<i><b> -يابا...استشهد.
</b></i></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> هل من مفر من كل هذا؟ قصصهم وروايتهم وتجاربهم واسمائهم واحلامهم وطموحاتهم واعتقالهم وحياتهم قبل الاعتقال وحياتهم أثناء الاعتقال وحياتهم بعد وحياتهم الآن..</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">كنت أعتقد أن "كل هذا" سيصبح ذكريات مغبرة بمجرد انتقالي لعالم آخر مليء بالأوهام والإلهاء المرحب، و لكن كل هذه الذكريات والمشاعر والقصص تجتاحني الان، لأجد نفسي على مركب قُذِف في بحر من أمواج الشك والاحتراس والتأملات.</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;">لا, لا يوجد مفر. نحن من الأدباء والكتاب (والاضافة الأخيرة إلى المعجم-المدونين) أصحاب الحس الذاتي و-بين قوسين-النقطة المقيتة التى تجعل العالم يدور حولنا اخترنا الهروب من الواقع ومستنقع الاشمئزاز والموت والظلم والاضطهاد على عدة مراحل. ولذلك تأخرنا. تعمقنا كثيرا, وتعرقلنا هناك.</span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> تخيلت الأسير فلان, الذي وقف بكل هدوء وتكتم في المحكمة وحاول يصحح الترجمة...تخيلته ينظر إلي من زنزانته (نعم, فهو أيضا تم اعتقاله بعد ثلاثة أشهر من خروجه) بشفقة ورثاء ويقول: استمري بالمنفى الاختياري, واستمتعي بهذه العاصفة التي لم ولن تفارقك أبدا. انها لعنة الدنيا, فلذلك اعفينا عن صراعك الداخلي. استمري بكتابتك الركيكة, فمن المعروف ان الفعل لن يأتي من اشكالك. البحر الهائج الوجيه الذي انتِ فيه أهون من السجن, الا تعلمين ذلك؟</span></div>
</div>
Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-28474265780739043662014-10-26T01:03:00.001+01:002014-10-26T01:03:04.951+01:00Inas Shawkat Khalil<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.middleeastmonitor.com/images/image-gallery-slideshow/2014/20141019_SettlerRunsOverPalestinianChildren/Inas-Shawkat-Khalil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://www.middleeastmonitor.com/images/image-gallery-slideshow/2014/20141019_SettlerRunsOverPalestinianChildren/Inas-Shawkat-Khalil.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inas Shawkat Khalil, killed by an Israeli settler on October 19</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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When I found out she was his daughter, I was jolted back to
ten years ago. Ten years...a single decade. I forgot older people continue to
grow. An adult is still on the ride, growing, developing, turning into
husbands, fathers, wives, mothers. <o:p></o:p>As a teenager you expect the adults in your life to remain stagnant, forgetting they also have lives of their own.</div>
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He was our driver for the first year we moved to Ramallah.
He took us to school every morning and picked us up every afternoon. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I can’t remember if he smoked inside the car or not. He
didn’t wear his seatbelt, because there wasn’t a fine against that back then.
None of us wore seatbelts. The car was always clean, and sometimes I’d feel
sorry for him as he’d stand patiently outside in the sweltering heat trying to
spot us from the shrill gaggle of chirping schoolgirls. A girls’ high school is
like hell on earth, with so much drama, wild imagination and sexual repression.
Not to mention that the teachers regarded any male outside the prison walls of
school over the age of puberty as a threat to their sacrosanct students.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He was polite, and made us feel at ease by either not
talking or sticking to generic subjects like the weather. Whenever we were late
coming down in the morning, he would good-naturedly sit in his taxi and wave off our
apologies, even it was a particularly frosty morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Gradually, school wasn’t the only place he would drive us
to. He got to know my grandmother’s and my aunts’ houses. As the months went
by, we gave in to small talk. I wonder what impressions he must have had of my
siblings and I, with our accented Arabic and excessive politeness. These are
the only memories I have of him because they've become watered down in the torrent of other blended years, representing something akin to the outer ripples from the stone thrown in the river. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I can’t remember his face. It's not as captivating as his daughter's. He was just another twenty-something year old
Palestinian young man who put too much gel in his black hair, wore the
low-waist faded blue jeans that guys his age found popular, and displayed the
inexplicable style of growing his pinky nail that a lot of taxi drivers adopt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We didn’t have a car back then, and it took us a couple of
years to finally settle down which meant that throughout that period, we lived
in five different houses. The last one was a 15 minute walk to school from the
main road. The only problem I had with that was enduring the daily verbal
sexual harassment from the uniformed and armed bastards, that is, the
Palestinian Authority security forces. I hated it, and I hated them, but there
was never a chance a crazy Israeli settler would run over and kill me. Guess
that’s one of the perks of living within the parameters of the PA compound
security zone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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His daughter looked like her mother. I’ve avoided clicking
on the link to the video where his wife, grief-stricken and shocked, cries as
she tries to speak while the camera encroaches into her space. In some of the other photos, she's clutching their daughter's Hello Kitty bag.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What were you going to learn at your nursery that day? Did you normally walk with your friend Touleen Asfour? Did your families teach you to hold hands whenever you walk on the road? Were
you a precocious child, who could already read and write and count to 100? Did
you enjoy painting, or colouring, or drawing? Why didn’t your father take you
to school that morning, Inas, oh God why didn’t he?! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I’m not blaming him, it’s not that. I don't even know if he still has his taxi. I forgot he got older, you see, and that he got married and became a father. Maybe it was such a routine walk for you
they had no reasons to worry or imagine the worst-case scenarios. It’s
devastating. I wish he drove you there. And then picked you up later that
afternoon, instead of from the morgue.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Rest in power, little Inas. It might comfort your parents
knowing that you’re above us, watching us. It might not. I don’t know. Ensuring
safe roads to walk on for God’s chosen miserable folk was never part of the
neoliberal state-building agenda. It just seems so inappropriate to turn this
into a surge of vitriol directed against the monsters that are in control of
the land and the vile beasts that profit from that control, who fill their
decadent hollow voids in their lives at the expense of little girls walking to
their nurseries. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Your father drove me and my sister and brother to school once upon a time. He's a good man, reliable and patient. Ten years is a long time, as well as a fleeting moment. You were born in the middle of it, and you're already gone. I hope your parents will have the patience to endure. It seems gratuitous saying that as you were snuffed out of their lives by that murdering cowardly settler. <o:p></o:p>Your sweet quiet smile won't be forgotten. It's not enough, it never is, and we're cursed with remembrance in the face of this continued atrocious impunity. </div>
</div>
Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-43576155222373324982014-09-23T22:12:00.000+01:002014-09-23T22:12:42.259+01:00The Yes Folk<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWjKy0kQQGtK0DmYS2IeYBnJhPZ-bfOFgiXBdqz7pqfWcUF08hgAAijYp5Hs7H1tta3R4EIEHxxVlErjo2210lbs9AZId7AqOJAr29l1WgJJzgJFWtc5RxFzMH27hDv-CuaWOmpW5D-Of/s1600/IMG_20140923_220946.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWjKy0kQQGtK0DmYS2IeYBnJhPZ-bfOFgiXBdqz7pqfWcUF08hgAAijYp5Hs7H1tta3R4EIEHxxVlErjo2210lbs9AZId7AqOJAr29l1WgJJzgJFWtc5RxFzMH27hDv-CuaWOmpW5D-Of/s1600/IMG_20140923_220946.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>I.</b><br />
<br />
On a warm grey morning in Glasgow, the city of decisive contradictions and figurative language involving tiresome Braveheart renditions of "Freedom!" and kilts and haggis, I clambered into a taxi just off of George Square. My previous experiences reporting live from the belly of the beast in attractive war zones taught me that it never gets old to equate an entire country with one city and jumble them all up with repeated stereotypes and imagery. I was eager to begin my intensive, award-winning analytical journalistic probing of the most loquacious specimen of any given native in a foreign country: the driver.<br />
<br />
As a white van nearly corralled us off the road by veering into our lane without so much of a blinking indicator, the driver-- as testament to the universality of all other cab drivers in the world-- swerved to one side and swore.<br />
<br />
"What the fuck are you doing you stupid wanker!"<br />
<br />
My alien but otherwise cultured self savored the swear words as my senses tingled with the colloquial litany. I briefly imagined myself at a dinner party relaying to a captive audience the unique experience of being in a car with a foul-mouthed taxi driver. I smiled inwardly. Everyone will be so jealous of my awesome adventures, I thought.<br />
<br />
We pass by Queen Street, and I seize the opportunity to get the conversation flowing.<br />
<br />
"I bet that name will have to be changed once independence comes," I remark offhandedly.<br />
The driver chortles.<br />
"Pity the queen loves Scotland," I press.<br />
"Aye, it's true. She has an estate called Balmoral she always comes to. Look, I don't mind the queen as a person, I just hate what she stands for, you know, the entire establishment."<br />
"So are you voting yes?"<br />
"Of course sister. And I'll give you two reasons why. Bloody traffic!" he suddenly yelled.<br />
"Traffic is rather unusual at this hour," I offer.<br />
"I don't fucking get why though. It's never like this."<br />
"The vote..."<br />
"I'm getting to that. First of all, I want my vote to count. Whoever I vote for has to represent me and my community and not be in fucking Westminster all the way in London. The second reason is that I don't want my country to be involved in foreign bloody wars. Blair, Gordon, Cameron- what's the difference? They're all pricks."<br />
"Fair enough."<br />
"So where are youse from?"<br />
<br />
My insides deflate. "Palestine," I grumbled.<br />
"Oh I'd love to go there! Um..so you've got family there?"<br />
"Yes," I reply stoically.<br />
"Are they ok? Do you know any charities I could donate to? I'd love to help-"<br />
"The armed resistance? That's a good idea."<br />
The driver laughed nervously. Then he shouted, "Fuck! Stupid GPS just turned off! I have to pull in this road, this will only take a couple of minutes, sorry."<br />
<br />
Conversation ends.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>II.</b><br />
<br />
That night, at a packed dinner party that served vegetarian haggis and bolognese, J. walked in the room with a dog called Ruben that had a Palestine flag tied around its neck.<br />
<br />
"Some guys on my way here didn't like that," he said as I stroked the dog's head. "They were all like, is this Scottish independence or Palestine independence?" he rolled his eyes. "I told them I'm for the autonomy of all countries. They looked confused, like 'autonomy' was too big a word for them to understand."<br />
<br />
We talked more, about how we were hopeful and nervous and optimistic and cautious for the following day's vote.<br />
<br />
"All our lives we've been told, no you can't do this. No you can't live here. No you can't have this job. Yes is...it's different." He closed his eyes and lifted his face upwards. "When people hear yes, yes, yes, yes..it's what we need." He suddenly opened his eyes. "And fuck the socialists, the ones who have a mortgage to pay and are proper middle or upper middle class. How long are you here for?"<br />
<br />
"A few days."<br />
<br />
"I lived in London once. I actually liked living there. They were easily hiring anyone to build Canary Wharf, and they'd pay me a few hundred quid a week, banknotes straight in my hand. But the English are such arseholes. Once I asked someone for directions and he shouted-" here he imitated the inevitable Cockney accent-"I don't have any change! Get lost guvnor!"<br />
<br />
Before I left, J. gave me one last pearl of wisdom.<br />
<br />
"When we hug, we do it on the left side so that our hearts can touch. The British introduced the handshake, a formal way of greeting to show the other person that you weren't carrying a gun. We're having none of that though."<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>III.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I don't understand first world countries. They get offered independence like it's a fruit platter and they reject it politely with a "No Thanks." What kind of official anti-independence slogan is that in the first place?<br />
<br />
Want some tea?<br />
No thanks!<br />
Want independence?<br />
No thanks!<br />
<br />
The best reaction I saw was in Edinburgh. A guy, obviously still recovering from the crushing disappointment and drunken nights was walking with his two young children wearing a blue t-shirt with the words "55% of bed-wetters" emblazoned on it.</div>
Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-40622333741906799082014-09-10T21:51:00.001+01:002014-09-10T21:51:15.403+01:00Conversations from Gaza<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="p1">
Down in the underground vaults, he walled in Fortunato after chaining his hands to the stone. The amontillado was forgotten. And at the end before his final plea of "For the love of God, Montresor!" Fortunato laughed and laughed.</div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
This was a dark story of malice and revenge, and there's no comparison to the snippets of conversation relayed below. (This title is so generic by the way.) The only similarity in both is the laughter that seems so out of place. Our previous conversations never dwelt on the gravity of the situation, the horrors that she witnessed and still cannot speak of not even to herself, or the anger and depression and frustration that has been coursing through our bodies, tormenting us and depriving us from sleep for the duration of a month and a half. Instead, we breathlessly speak of the resistance, the journalists we don't trust, the foreign journalists we both worked with separately, and sometimes about our families. We talked about the future once or twice. We both declared there was no place to be in times of shelling, heavy bombardment and flat out ground invasion other than Gaza. We understood why. We understood each other. We viciously and deservedly tore apart the West Bank, the "solidarity" and the lack of anger that has failed to materialize in the streets, and mockingly praised them on their own self-congratulatory initiative of finally boycotting Israeli products, somewhat. We think of the larger picture, and the rest of the country. The cause that simultaneously became so clear and yet so far removed from reality. We imagine what we'll do once we see each other again. Tear this motherfucking place upside down (wherever that will be) is one suggestion we're quite fond of.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p4">
<div class="p3">
Why are you laughing?</div>
<div class="p3">
What else is there left for me to do?<br />
<br /></div>
Once she started with a premonition.<br />
<br />
<div class="p3">
"I think I'm going to die soon."</div>
<div class="p3">
"That's a very likely probability."</div>
<div class="p3">
"I had a dream I was getting married and was wearing a white dress."</div>
<div class="p3">
"Yep, no escaping from that dream. Death is upon you my friend."</div>
<div class="p3">
"I was wearing the dress, and I had a fight with the groom, and I ran away before the wedding started."</div>
<div class="p3">
"Wait a minute, that means you ESCAPED death! Oh my God! We can call you the living martyr now! You rascal, you escaped from the jaws of death!"</div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
We laugh and laugh. Peals of laughter cause us to briefly disappear from the screens before reemerging again, out of breath and mouths open. In the middle of it I'm suddenly gripped with an urge to cry and say, stop it, this isn't normal, we're talking and laughing about death. Instead, I fight the panic rising in me and laugh some more.</div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
Once we've calmed down again, we talk again about the first time we did this or the first time we tried that. Soon, we're laughing again. </div>
</div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
She<span class="s2"> </span>tells<span class="s2"> </span>me<span class="s2"> </span>there<span class="s2"> </span>are<span class="s2"> </span>things<span class="s2"> </span>she<span class="s2"> </span>saw<span class="s2"> </span>that<span class="s2"> </span>she<span class="s2"> </span>cannot<span class="s2"> </span>speak<span class="s2"> </span>of. She doesn't know if she ever will. She's not ready to verbalize the horrors branded in her mind with white hot fire. But sometimes, words tumble out. </div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
"They told me not to go in, but I did. I just had to see. I saw their bodies, six bodies on the bathroom floor. The blood. I shrunk back into the wall, and my eyes and nose were leaking. Hyperventilating and crying nonstop."</div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
We talk about relationships and people. Why don't our friends understand we want to be left alone, we'd rather mope and sulk and heal alone, go through the rounds of gripping depression alone, shut ourselves up in a dark shell all alone?</div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
"It gets harder as we get older…this whole interacting with people thing. Human relationships."</div>
<div class="p3">
"Selfish bastards. Why don't they get it?"</div>
<div class="p3">
"I always said humankind needs to be wiped out."</div>
<div class="p3">
"I pray for us to be nuked. The entire country. The people."</div>
<div class="p3">
"The resistance is on it. They're targeting Dimona next, just wait and see. Start fresh. New people. New country."</div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
She tells me what she plans on doing. Getting her driver's license and learning how to swim. I'm flabbergasted at the last one.</div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
"I can't believe it. I don't know you any more."</div>
<div class="p3">
"What, now I'm not a proper Palestinian because I don't know how to swim?"</div>
<div class="p3">
"Oh, it's not like you've lived your entire life next to the sea!"</div>
<div class="p3">
"I know..but it's not really a sea we have!"</div>
<div class="p3">
"I used to go early in the morning. You can wear a bikini and tempt the little fishies."</div>
<div class="p3">
"I want a beach where I can swim in the daytime, properly. So if you were thrown in the middle of the sea, would you survive?"</div>
<div class="p3">
"Probably not… I taught myself how to swim so I'm not the strongest. I'd panic and swallow a lot of water and drown."</div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
The reason for swimming is that she wants to jump off the wall in Akka. I tell her that's probably one reason I'd go back to the country, to jump off the wall as well.</div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
"Akka is beautiful. Once I asked the kids jumping off when they started doing it and if their parents know. One replied, duh! My dad taught me!"</div>
<div class="p3">
"Wow…so wonderful. I don't want to jump and drown, you know?"</div>
<div class="p3">
"Jump in wearing a tire around your waist..or floaties."</div>
<div class="p3">
"Har har."</div>
<div class="p3">
"Ok, another thing we're doing. We're jumping off that wall in Akka."</div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
She cries as she tells me what she did for work today. I try not to, but cry as well.</div>
<div class="p3">
"The mother told me stories of her three dead children…detailed stories. We were all crying. My taxi driver later told me from now on he'll wait for me in the car because he doesn't need to listen to this kind of shit."</div>
<div class="p3">
"It's so fucked up."</div>
<div class="p3">
"The F-16 missile hit the bedroom the children were playing in. There were no bodies, just bits of them blown to pieces."</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
On the night the air strikes were particularly heavy in her neighborhood, we spoke for hours. Talking animately, she suddenly froze as a loud boom resonated outside, loud enough for my room in London to hear and make my heart stop.<br />
<br />
"Thunder," I offer.<br />
She rolls her eyes. "Yes, thunder."<br />
<br />
She continues.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="p5">
"Nothing, absolutely nothing will get me to leave my home. Even if God came down and told me to leave I wouldn't. You don't see it…the living situation in the schools is absolutely terrible. Each classroom has a hundred people sleeping in it..the trash is all over because no one comes to collect it..infections are everywhere..harassment is everywhere…it's the dirtiest, overcrowded, most desperate place to be in. No thank you, I'd rather die in my home than evacuate to a fucking UNRWA school."<br />
<br />
Another boom. Louder this time.<br />
<br />
"Oooh, heavy thunder." I try to smile and end up grimacing.<br />
<div class="p3">
"I need psychological rehab. Thinking of going to Sinai for a few days once this is all over."</div>
<div class="p3">
"I'm glad you said that. If you said something like 'I won't heal unless it's in Gaza' I would have shot you."<br />
<br />
There was a reason we talked like this. There was a reason we deliberately ignored cursing Egypt like we usually do, at least twelve times a day. We believed that after this prolonged terror campaign and massacre, after so much suffering and people killed and homes demolished, after so many sacrifices, there will never ever again be a return to the status quo. It was the point of no return. It's a bit funny; as a population we are obsessed with return. But this time, no. The siege will be lifted our way.<br />
<br />
After the ceasefire, which has already been violated by Israel more than once, we talk again.<br />
<br />
"Everything is worse. Nothing is getting better. I don't want anything from this world, just my sanity and my happiness."<br />
<br />
We're waiting for change. She can afford to wait unlike others, but not for long. No one can.<br />
<br />
We didn't laugh this time.<br />
<br />
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Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-83493267788374491262014-08-29T18:08:00.000+01:002014-08-29T18:13:46.834+01:00One of us: الشهداء منا وفينا<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">الشهيد القسامي مصعب علي<br />
The martyred resistance fighter Mus'ab Ali</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">الشهيد<span class="s1"> </span>القسّامي<span class="s1"> </span>مصعب<span class="s1"> </span>علي<span class="s1"> (24)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1"></span>مصعب<span class="s1"> </span>من<span class="s1"> </span>هؤلاء<span class="s1"> </span>الذين<span class="s1"> </span>أُدرِجوا<span class="s1"> </span>تحت<span class="s1"> </span>بند<span class="s1"> "</span>مجهول<span class="s1">" </span>في<span class="s1"> </span>قائمة<span class="s1"> </span>الشهداء،<span class="s1"> </span>لا<span class="s1"> </span>لشيءٍ<span class="s1"> </span>إلا<span class="s1"> </span>لخوفنا<span class="s1"> </span>الدائم<span class="s1"> </span>خلال<span class="s1"> </span>الحرب<span class="s1"> </span>وبعدها<span class="s1"> </span>من<span class="s1"> </span>العملاء<span class="s1"> </span>قاتلهم<span class="s1"> </span>الله،<span class="s1"> </span>ومن<span class="s1"> </span>قصف<span class="s1"> </span>منزله<span class="s1"> </span>بعد<span class="s1"> </span>استشهاده<span class="s1"> </span>كما<span class="s1"> </span>يحدث<span class="s1"> </span>كل<span class="s1"> </span>حرب<span class="s1"> </span>مع<span class="s1"> </span>كثير<span class="s1"> </span>من<span class="s1"> </span>المقاومين<span class="s1">. </span>اليوم<span class="s1"> </span>تنتشر<span class="s1"> </span>صوره<span class="s1"> </span>وأراها<span class="s1"> </span>على<span class="s1"> </span>صفحات<span class="s1"> </span>أناس<span class="s1"> </span>لا<span class="s1"> </span>أعرفهم،<span class="s1"> </span>مرتديًا<span class="s1"> </span>زيّه<span class="s1"> </span>العسكريّ،<span class="s1"> </span>حاملًا<span class="s1"> </span>سلاحه،<span class="s1"> </span>وأفضّل<span class="s1"> </span>هذه<span class="s1"> </span>الصورة<span class="s1"> </span>لسببٍ<span class="s1"> </span>أجهله<span class="s1">. </span>مصعب<span class="s1"> </span>درس<span class="s1"> </span>في<span class="s1"> </span>كليّة<span class="s1"> </span>صناعية<span class="s1"> "</span>تبريد<span class="s1"> </span>وتكييف<span class="s1">". </span>قدِم<span class="s1"> </span>إلى<span class="s1"> </span>بيتنا<span class="s1"> </span>قبل<span class="s1"> </span>بدء<span class="s1"> </span>الحرب<span class="s1"> </span>بأسبوع<span class="s1"> </span>وقام<span class="s1"> </span>بتصليح<span class="s1"> </span>غسّالتنا<span class="s1">. </span>لم<span class="s1"> </span>أرَ<span class="s1"> </span>شخصًا<span class="s1"> </span>في<span class="s1"> </span>أدبه<span class="s1"> </span>وأخلاقه<span class="s1">. </span>مصعب<span class="s1"> </span>كان<span class="s1"> </span>أحد<span class="s1"> </span>المقاومين<span class="s1"> </span>الذين<span class="s1"> </span>اشتبكوا<span class="s1"> </span>مع<span class="s1"> </span>قوات<span class="s1"> </span>الاحتلال<span class="s1"> </span>في<span class="s1"> </span>الشجاعيّة<span class="s1"> </span>وقتلوا<span class="s1"> 8 </span>جنود<span class="s1"> </span>صهاينة،<span class="s1"> </span>ثم<span class="s1"> </span>اشتبكوا<span class="s1"> </span>معهم<span class="s1"> </span>مجددًا<span class="s1"> </span>في<span class="s1"> </span>حيّ<span class="s1"> </span>السلام<span class="s1"> </span>شرق<span class="s1"> </span>جباليا<span class="s1">. </span>حاصرهم<span class="s1"> </span>العدو<span class="s1"> </span>جوًا<span class="s1"> </span>وقُصفت<span class="s1"> </span>العمارة<span class="s1"> </span>التي<span class="s1"> </span>كان<span class="s1"> </span>فيها<span class="s1"> </span>هو<span class="s1"> </span>واثنان<span class="s1"> </span>من<span class="s1"> </span>رفاقِه<span class="s1"> </span>بانتظار<span class="s1"> "</span>قوة<span class="s1"> </span>خاصة<span class="s1">" </span>إسرائيلية<span class="s1"> </span>لمهاجمتها<span class="s1">. </span>استشهد<span class="s1"> </span>ثلاثتهم<span class="s1"> </span>معًا<span class="s1">. </span>تم<span class="s1"> </span>إخلاء<span class="s1"> </span>جثث<span class="s1"> </span>الشهيدين<span class="s1"> </span>في<span class="s1"> </span>اليوم<span class="s1"> </span>التالي،<span class="s1"> </span>ولم<span class="s1"> </span>يتم<span class="s1"> </span>العثور<span class="s1"> </span>على<span class="s1"> </span>جثة<span class="s1"> </span>مصعب<span class="s1"> </span>لأن<span class="s1"> </span>الركام<span class="s1"> </span>كان<span class="s1"> </span>كثيرًا<span class="s1"> </span>وكانت<span class="s1"> </span>المنطقة<span class="s1"> </span>لا<span class="s1"> </span>تزال<span class="s1"> </span>خطرة<span class="s1">. </span>في<span class="s1"> </span>هدنة<span class="s1"> </span>الخمس<span class="s1"> </span>أيام،<span class="s1"> </span>وبعد<span class="s1"> </span>مرور<span class="s1"> 8 </span>أيام<span class="s1"> </span>على<span class="s1"> </span>استشهاد<span class="s1"> </span>مصعب،<span class="s1"> </span>تمكّن<span class="s1"> </span>أهله<span class="s1"> </span>من<span class="s1"> </span>إيجاد<span class="s1"> </span>جثته<span class="s1"> </span>تحت<span class="s1"> </span>الأنقاض<span class="s1">. </span>حفر<span class="s1"> </span>أبوه<span class="s1"> </span>وأخوته<span class="s1"> </span>بأيديهم،<span class="s1"> </span>وساعدهم<span class="s1"> </span>جيران<span class="s1"> </span>المنطقة<span class="s1">. 8 </span>أيام،<span class="s1"> </span>وخرجت<span class="s1"> </span>جثته<span class="s1"> </span>صحيحة<span class="s1"> </span>سليمة<span class="s1"> (</span>طبعًا<span class="s1"> </span>تحلّل<span class="s1"> </span>جثث<span class="s1"> </span>الكثير<span class="s1"> </span>من<span class="s1"> </span>الشهداء<span class="s1"> </span>لا<span class="s1"> </span>يعيبهم؛<span class="s1"> </span>هذه<span class="s1"> </span>كرامات<span class="s1"> </span>يختصّ<span class="s1"> </span>بها<span class="s1"> </span>الله<span class="s1"> </span>من<span class="s1"> </span>يشاء<span class="s1">). </span>بقي<span class="s1"> </span>تحت<span class="s1"> </span>الركام<span class="s1"> 8 </span>أيّام،<span class="s1"> </span>لا<span class="s1"> </span>يعرف<span class="s1"> </span>أهله<span class="s1"> </span>عنه<span class="s1"> </span>شيئًا<span class="s1"> </span>سوى<span class="s1"> </span>أنه<span class="s1"> </span>استشهد<span class="s1"> </span>ورفيقاه<span class="s1">. 8 </span>أيام<span class="s1">! </span>هؤلاء<span class="s1"> </span>أحقّ<span class="s1"> </span>الشهداء<span class="s1"> </span>بالذكر<span class="s1"> </span>والتبجيل<span class="s1">. </span>هؤلاء،<span class="s1"> </span>من<span class="s1"> </span>نتجنّب<span class="s1"> </span>ذكرهم<span class="s1"> </span>أمام<span class="s1"> </span>الإعلام<span class="s1"> </span>لأنهم<span class="s1"> </span>ليسوا<span class="s1"> "</span>مدنيّين<span class="s1">"</span>،<span class="s1"> </span>عاشوا<span class="s1"> </span>وماتوا<span class="s1"> </span>ليحيا<span class="s1"> </span>المدنيّون<span class="s1"> </span>بكرامة<span class="s1">. </span>هؤلاء<span class="s1"> </span>أطهرنا<span class="s1"> </span>وأنقانا<span class="s1"> </span>وأكثرنا<span class="s1"> </span>فهمًا<span class="s1"> </span>للحبّ<span class="s1">. </span>هؤلاء،<span class="s1"> </span>الذين<span class="s1"> </span>يغادرون<span class="s1"> </span>بصمت<span class="s1"> </span>ويتركون<span class="s1"> </span>صورًا<span class="s1"> </span>فوتوغرافية<span class="s1"> </span>تُعدّ<span class="s1"> </span>على<span class="s1"> </span>أصابع<span class="s1"> </span>اليد<span class="s1"> </span>الواحدة،<span class="s1"> </span>لا<span class="s1"> </span>يأبهون<span class="s1"> </span>للتسميات<span class="s1"> </span>التي<span class="s1"> </span>يطلقها<span class="s1"> </span>عليهم<span class="s1"> </span>العالم<span class="s1"> </span>الظالم<span class="s1">. </span>في<span class="s1"> </span>بيوت<span class="s1"> </span>عزائهم،<span class="s1"> </span>يرعبنا<span class="s1"> </span>صمود<span class="s1"> </span>أمهاتهم<span class="s1"> </span>وجلدهنّ،<span class="s1"> </span>يرعبنا<span class="s1"> </span>يقينهن<span class="s1"> </span>الذي<span class="s1"> </span>سرعان<span class="s1"> </span>ما<span class="s1"> </span>أن<span class="s1"> </span>نتركهم<span class="s1"> </span>يتحوّل<span class="s1"> </span>إلى<span class="s1"> </span>شلّال<span class="s1"> </span>من<span class="s1"> </span>الدموع<span class="s1"> </span>لا<span class="s1"> </span>يهدأ<span class="s1">. </span>صبرٌ<span class="s1"> </span>وبكاء،<span class="s1"> </span>يمتزجان<span class="s1"> </span>ويفترقان<span class="s1">. </span>هؤلاء<span class="s1"> </span>من<span class="s1"> </span>في<span class="s1"> </span>جنائزهم<span class="s1"> </span>يبكي<span class="s1"> </span>الأغراب<span class="s1"> </span>ويردّد<span class="s1"> </span>الأب<span class="s1"> "</span>الحمدلله،<span class="s1"> </span>إنا<span class="s1"> </span>لله<span class="s1"> </span>وإنا<span class="s1"> </span>إليه<span class="s1"> </span>راجعون<span class="s1">. </span>الحمدلله<span class="s1">." </span>هؤلاء<span class="s1"> </span>من<span class="s1"> </span>استشهدوا<span class="s1"> </span>لنحيا<span class="s1"> </span>نحن<span class="s1">. </span>هؤلاء<span class="s1"> </span>من<span class="s1"> </span>صدقوا<span class="s1"> </span>الله<span class="s1"> </span>فصدقهم<span class="s1"> </span>الله<span class="s1">.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">(كتبت هذا النص <a href="https://twitter.com/Saritah_91">سارة علي</a> من غزة)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The martyred Qassam fighter Mus'ab Ali, 24 years old</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Mus'ab was one of those who were classified as "unknown" on the list of people killed in Gaza. It was done out of our constant fear from the collaborators (may God strike them down) during the Israeli aggression and after, and out of the possible demolishment of his house that happens during every war to a lot of the resistance fighters.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Today Mus'ab's pictures were circulated on social media and I see them on the pages of people I don't know. In those pictures he's wearing his military uniform and carrying his weapon. I prefer this picture [posted above] for reasons I can't quite explain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Mus'ab studied "refrigeration and air conditioning" at an industrial college. He came to our house a week before the Israeli aggression started to fix our washing machine. I've never met a person with such impeccable manners. Mus'ab was one of the unit of fighters that confronted the Israeli occupation army in Shuja'iyeh and killed eight Zionist soldiers. His unit faced the Israeli army again in the Salam neighborhood east of Jabalya. The enemy besieged them from the air and fired air strikes at a building he was in with two of his comrades as they were waiting to attack a "special unit" from the Israeli occupation army. The three of them were martyred together. The next day, the bodies of the other two fighters were pulled out from the building, but Mus'ab's body was hard to find due to the immense rubble, not to mention that the area was still very much under danger. During the 5 day ceasefire, that is eight days after Mus'ab was killed, his family were able to find his body under the debris. His father and brothers dug through the rubble with their bare hands, and were helped by their neighbors. His body did not carry any markings of decay. He remained eight days under the rubble, and his family knew nothing except that he and his friends was killed. Eight days!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">These martyrs are the ones that deserve to be mentioned and revered. These martyrs, who are avoided being mentioned candidly to the media because they are not "civilians"...these are the ones who lived and died so that the rest of the civilians could live with dignity. They are the purest and and the finest and compared to us, have the better understanding of what love is. They who choose to leave us quietly and leave us a few photographs of themselves that can be counted on the fingers of one hand. They do not care about the names that the cruel world calls and defines them by. At their funeral wakes, we are in awe of the steadfastness of their mothers. They shock us with their certainty that as soon as we leave, turns into waterfalls of tears. Patience and tears! They blend in together and are inseparable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">At their funerals, strangers mourn them and cry over them. And Mus'ab's father contains himself by repeating the verse, "Thank God, I am to God and to Him we return. Praise be to Allah." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">They are the ones who died, who chose the path of martyrdom in order for us to live. They believed in God and God in turn believed in them.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">As written by <a href="https://twitter.com/saritah_91">Sarah Ali</a>, translated by myself</span></i></div>
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Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-7349420494030576802014-08-26T16:25:00.000+01:002014-08-26T16:25:29.110+01:00نحن في غزة بخير, طمّنونا عنكم<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">نحن في غزة بخير, طمّنونا عنكم</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">نحن في الحرب بخير, ماذا عنكم أنتم </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">شهداؤنا ا تحت الركام</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">أطفالنا سكنوا الخيام ، يسألون عنكم، أين أنتم؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">نحن في غزة بخير, طمنونا عنكم</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">البحر من وراءنا لكننا نقاتل</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">عدوّنا أمامنا و ما زلنا نقاتل</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">لدينا ما يكفينا سلاح و طعام ، وعود بالسلام ، نشكر لكم دعمكم</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">نحن في غزة بخير, طمنونا عنكم</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">أرواحنا, جراحنا, بيوتنا, سماؤنا, وجوهنا, دماؤنا</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">عيوننا, أكفاننا</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">تحمينا من سلامكم, وعودكم, كلامكم</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">نحن في غزة بخير طمّنونا عنكم</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">إلى كل المزاودين, إلى كل المتخاذلين الذين خذلونا, إلى كل متضامن ومتضامنة من الضفة والقدس وأراضي ال٤٨, نقول لكم: نحن في غزة بخير...ومن باب الأدب والمجاملة, نرجوكم..من فضلكم..طمّنونا عنكم؟</span></div>
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Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-44454385505579752472014-08-22T15:55:00.004+01:002014-08-22T15:59:33.702+01:00PART TWO: Exposing the Israeli Left: On the Issue of Israel's Radicals<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://therealrevo.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/israel-peace-protesters-600x337.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://therealrevo.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/israel-peace-protesters-600x337.jpg" height="223" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tel Aviv protest against bloodshed in Gaza, and for a return to negotiations. <a href="http://beforeitsnews.com/opinion-conservative/2014/07/leftist-peaceniks-protest-in-tel-aviv-against-israel-protest-broken-up-by-arrival-of-hamas-rockets-2886080.html">Source</a></td></tr>
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<i>Written by Linah Alsaafin and <a href="http://budourhassan.wordpress.com/">Budour Hassan</a></i></div>
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While it's necessary and urgent to delegitimize liberal Zionists, less clear is the position we should take from the anti-Zionist left. And although anti-Zionist Israelis are so few and far between and can hardly be considered a significant segment of the political or social sphere in Israel, they receive disproportionate coverage especially in progressive media outlets. We are aware, however, that this debate remains an elitist one centered on social media and the blogosphere and does not really preoccupy most Palestinians on the ground because they don't even know about the anti-Zionist minority. And frankly, they are not supposed to care either.</div>
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During the last month, anti-Zionists have organized several small vigils against the aggression on Gaza in Tel Aviv and in Jerusalem. Those protests were often attacked by right-wing mob, as were individual and human rights organizations that are outspoken against Israeli crimes in Gaza. Veteran Israeli activists would quickly point out that this level of incitement against them is unprecedented and would go on to say something to the effect: "Leftists are the new Palestinians," or "Palestinians and Israeli leftists are the victims of this new wave of Israeli racism." The common theme in all that they say and write is the portrayal of Israeli leftists as victims.</div>
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No, dear Israeli radical leftists, you are not victims. You are part of the problem. You are part of the reason why our people continue to suffer. Your very existence at the moment comes at the expense of the refugees who were ethnically cleansed from Palestine and who continue to be bombed by Israel in Gaza. Just because you are beginning to experience a tiny fraction of what Palestinians face on a daily basis doesn't mean it's okay for you to play the victim role or even imagine the possibility of equating your "suffering" to that of the Palestinians.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">
Social price</span></b></div>
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We often hear about the social price that anti-Zionist dissidents are forced to pay, such as the fact that they are sometimes shunned by their own family and slandered and demonized by their society. It does perhaps make you feel better when you go home from your weekend activism but hey, don't we all need to please the self-righteous part of us sometimes and pretend that we are sacrificing massively when we are in fact doing very little? It's always nice to go home and say, "We were attacked by fascist mob because we opposed the war." Western media would love it. Even Arab media would applaud you for your courage and will write poetics about your heroic actions. And some Palestinians would consider you a partner. Otherwise we'd be called racists because pointing out the privileged of the good colonizer constitutes racism apparently.</div>
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The "hard choices" you made are your minimum moral obligations as a colonizer and as an essential part of the system that oppresses Palestinians. You are not doing anyone of us a favor by appeasing your conscience. The choice to oppose racism and Jewish supremacy and murder is the least one could do. And one definitely doesn't expect to make hard choices without paying a price.</div>
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If you want to know what hard choices look like, ask the Palestinians who were displaced from Palestine and had to walk in the desert for weeks to reach Kuwait. Ask the Palestinians who had to choose between dying under Israeli bombs or fleeing their houses to nowhere in Gaza. This is how our hard choices look like. And regardless of whatever social price anti-Zionists pay, their colonial privileges remain intact.</div>
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To seek admiration for your heroic stance or satisfaction from lessening the guilt complex you have is missing the point entirely, especially if this comprises the goals or aims you have. In fact, the less you think of yourselves as unsung heroes, the better it is for your ego, mental state of mind, and for Palestinians as we will stop rolling our eyes on an almost permanent basis.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">
Within the system</span></b>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
Another striking feature of the small antiwar vigils in Tel Aviv is that they were held under the protection of the Israeli border police to prevent confrontations with the right-wing mob. By accepting this, anti-Zionist leftists remain confined within the system they supposedly seek to dismantle. After all, it's not the right-wing mob who bomb Gaza and murder protesters in the West Bank. It is the very army and border police that protect the antiwar protests in Tel Aviv. Thus, unwittingly or otherwise, those antiwar protestors contribute to the promotion of the facade of Israel's democracy and tolerance for dissent.</div>
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The same applies for Israeli – and Palestinian - leftist human rights organizations that still rely on the Israeli judicial system to "defend" their freedom of expression rather than recognizing that the judicial system is an arm of the Israeli occupation.</div>
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It’s fair to say that dear anti-Zionists, your presence isn’t doing anyone any good. The Israeli society hates you, and the Palestinians don’t care about you. Do not go looking for sympathy, (or empathy, whatever you prefer), because we have run out of both. Your remaining in the country does not constitute any form of <i>sumoud</i>.</div>
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Instead, it only amplifies the state of privilege that you live in, such as the goddamn freedom of movement (it must be so hard to organize a carpool to go to the West Bank, no?), the right to have an Israeli partner wherever they live in the country, and the absence of institutionalized racism leveled at you at whatever you set out to achieve, whether that be education, getting building permits for your home, or finding a job.</div>
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Do not fool yourselves into thinking you are allies or partners for “peace” by virtue of a few token Palestinian acquaintances, because the fact of the matter remains glaringly obvious: you are too insignificant to make a difference to change your genocide-loving government or to win the hearts of the oppressed.</div>
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It’s best to leave the country. That way, you’d be doing us a favor of laying out the naked truth for all to see. It’s time to be honest. Your numbers are too little to compose a minority. The resources you have at your hands may have duped some of the western and increasingly Arab media—who absolutely love a feel-good story and buy into that whole Israeli-Palestinian joint struggle or common purpose—into believing that you are a small but plucky group risking it all to fight for the Palestinian side.</div>
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It's not surprising that all those movies about "joint struggle" would attract attention and admiration. Not because they reflect the reality on the ground but because they show the world what it likes to see: the Israeli who fights with the Palestinian hand-in-hand. Yet that is not the case at all. How can it be, seeing that you come from a much more superior standing? Whether you like it or not, and as hard as you try to ostracize yourself from the others, there is no escaping that you benefit from the occupation system. Put your resources towards a better investment. Raise awareness for the Palestinian struggle outside of Israel. It is no secret that the (hypocritical and complicit) international community’s favorable narrative in support of the Palestinians will be a welcome asset to our struggle for self-determination and an end to the occupation. </div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">
Making the distinction</span></b></div>
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With all that said, we are still capable of making the distinction between anti-Zionists who are third-generation settlers and anti-Zionist leftists who made <i>Aliya</i> and settled in Palestine by virtue of the Return Law. The latter might have seen the light at last and discovered the evils of Zionism but insist on directly benefiting of the racist "Return Law' when they could easily go home to where they actually belong.</div>
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We also make the distinction between anti-Zionist Israeli settlers who live in Palestine by choice and those who want to leave but cannot afford it. And there are anti-Zionist leftists, who lie on the margins of the movement and who come from the underclass. Those individuals-who can be counted at the fingers of one hand- are in Palestine because they have nowhere else to go but don't use the Palestinian cause to make a career. They are aware of their privileges but you won't find them writing articles about the hard choices they made. The rest, however, are a privileged bunch of dual citizens or upper-middle class attention-seekers who believe they can change the Israeli society.</div>
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And to be quite honest, we do not care about the Israeli society. We don’t care to humanize or dehumanize them, although the latter is more appropriate. We will never buy into this two-sides two-equal-suffering all-we-want-is-peace bullshit. We don’t want peace with Zionists or with anyone that reaps the profits from a inherently violent jingoistic colonial system.</div>
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And this might disappoint you greatly, but we don't advocate for transitional justice nor do we have the luxury talking about truth and reconciliation when being bombed, fragmented and deprived of our most basic rights. Transitional justice is for white people. We want revenge from the system that stripped us of our humanity.</div>
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To the Israeli society in general: Coexistence is not on the agenda. We do not have the time to waste waiting for Israel's radicals to make a social revolution or convince their society that Zionism sucks. We are not imploring, beseeching, or asking you. We demand an end to the occupation, for you to break out of the prisons you have for minds, and for the love of all things good and holy, end the siege on Gaza. </div>
</div>
Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-28696545096557562992014-08-20T13:07:00.001+01:002014-08-21T01:04:46.660+01:00PART ONE: Exposing the Israeli left: The “cottage-cheese warriors"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://38.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m1mftdGJml1rn7et8o1_500.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://38.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m1mftdGJml1rn7et8o1_500.png" height="312" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the <a href="http://shitliberalzionistssay.tumblr.com/post/20091639890/liberal-zionist-problems-israel-losing-its-moral">Shit Liberal Zionists Say Tumblr</a></td></tr>
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<i><b>Written by Linah Alsaafin and <a href="http://budourhassan.wordpress.com/">Budour Hassan</a></b></i></div>
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When Israel launched its most recent aggression on the Gaza Strip, dubbed Operation Protective Edge, the overwhelming majority of the Israeli public supported the aggression. Support for the massacre was by no means limited to right-wingers and blatant fascists; the cheerleaders also included Israeli Labor party (the largest "opposition” party in the Knesset), liberal minister of Justice Tzipi Livni, and Meretz, the self-proclaimed social democrats and "only Zionist leftist party". The latter would eventually backtrack just like they did in the 2008- 2009 massacre, even claiming that they never actually supported the war from the get-go.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Peace Rally"</span></b></div>
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On 16 August, Meretz, along with Hadash, Peace Now and other "peace-loving" movements, organized a "peace rally" in Rabin Square in Tel Aviv, attended by thousands of Israelis. Organizers of the rally described the turnout as a victory for the peaceful solution. Some went as far as to declare that the rally is a testament to the strength of the left and working-class in Israel.</div>
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<br />
Israeli Jahan M. <a href="https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=10152309605481149&id=503901148&refid=17&_ft_&__tn__=*s"><span class="s1">gushed about the protest</span></a> on his Facebook by writing: "Probably the largest Gaza anti-war protest in the world happening inside Israel itself, signs of the potential of workers and left activists in Israel, yet so much of the left across the world still doesn't see this. Israel, like every other country in the world has a working class and like other workers and oppressed it is their fundamental interest to overthrow the rich who exploit their labour."</div>
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Jahan M. effectively normalized Israel's illegitimate existence; ignored the colonialist nature of Israel, and decontextualized working class solidarity from the inherent racist and Jewish supremacist ideology perpetuated by the Israeli labour union ever since its inception. Never mind that the rally was by no stretch of the imagination the largest anti-war rally in the world. Not even close! Never mind that the bulk of the organizers and participants represent the white bourgeoisie in Israel. Never mind that for most of those privileged cottage-cheese warriors, class struggle is nothing but a slogan they raise when they are bored or drunk. And never mind that despite the lamentation and crocodile tears, this rally received far more praise that it warrants.</div>
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Let's put all of that aside for a moment. The rally wasn't even about peace in the first place.</div>
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In this glorious peace rally, a song was dedicated to the Israeli soldiers who bombed the hell out of the besieged Gaza Strip, murdering over 2000 Palestinian men, women and children. One antiwar protester opposed war so staunchly that he wore-a Meretz t-Shirt while carrying an M-16 rifle. It was more of a show of patriotism, a platform to equate the suffering of Palestinians in Gaza with the "suffering" Israelis, and a desperate attempt to offer a different image of Israel.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Cosmetic presence</span></b></div>
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To complete the show it was necessary to present Palestinian voices on stage, inviting Mohammad Barakeh, Hadash chairman, and another Palestinian activist from the Zionist group "Combatants for Peace" to join in the chorus of peace and love. Yet again, the Zionist left benefits from the collaboration of “house Palestinians” in order to reinforce the myth of joint struggle. The cosmetic Palestinian presence apart, the one protester who carried an assault rifle and wore a Meretz t-shirt epitomized all that the Zionist "left" stands for: the marriage between militarism, nationalism, and sham peace.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Twisting words</span></b></div>
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There is something peculiar, if not downright absurd about how Zionists twist words and their meanings to always cement their position on that righteous pedestal made out of salt. It is, after all, the natural inclination that the oppressor’s mentality automatically takes on. If belligerence doesn’t work, then a decontextualized uppity moral standing seems more persuasive: "Dear world, we want peace, but for all the wrong reasons."</div>
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We want the army to stop bombing Gaza and to stop killing the Palestinians there because the images of dead babies kept in ice cream freezers due to a lack of space in the morgues make us slightly uncomfortable. (But don't you dare talk about accountability.)</div>
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We want the army (which is very ethical but occasionally makes mistakes like just another army in the world) to take more precaution and to know better than to strike boys playing on the beach in the presence of the foreign press.</div>
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We want the army to act in accordance with the principle of proportionality, because you know, Israel never targets civilians and if it does, let's just blame it on disproportionality and Khhhamas human shields, because heaven forbid we use the term genocide!</div>
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We want a return to the status quo and futile negotiations where Gaza will remain under siege for another lifetime; where the West Bank will revert to the Palestinian Authority-dictated open arms policy of normalization and sweet occupation; and where the pestering Palestinian youth in the 48 occupied territories preoccupy themselves with superficial things other than accumulating the kind of consciousness that rejects the very existence of Israel and breaks up once and for all with the citizenship discourse.</div>
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We want to silence the air sirens and have run out of ways to amuse ourselves in in bomb shelters. Taking selfies in shelters is longer a sufficient entertainment, honestly. And having to wait for temporary truce to get sunburned on the beach is insanely cruel.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Just Peace</span></b></div>
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It's not an overstatement to say that those liberal Zionists are just as dangerous as their honest counterparts of Lieberman, Feiglin, Netanyahu and co. The Zionist left promotes the Jewish supremacy and oppressive colonial structure that has dispossessed and subjugated Palestinians for 66 years, albeit under the cloak of peace and co-existence and without paying any regard to achieving long-standing justice.</div>
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Suffice to say that peace without justice is a silly state of things that only serves to perpetuate the status quo by sugarcoating the colonization and occupation with a false rose-tainted aura of blamelessness and guiltlessness that does not rectify or deconstruct the damages inflicted by a fascist ethnocentric state that absolutely has no right to exist. The correct outlook that “just peace” very clearly invokes the dismantlement and end of the apartheid colonial occupying regime Israel is, the return of the 6 million Palestinian refugees to their homes and villages, towns, and cities they were ethnically cleansed from, the obliteration of Zionism in all of its forms, and self-determination for the Palestinian people in a country that will not tolerate oppression.</div>
</div>
Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-66030442093617454602014-08-11T16:41:00.001+01:002014-08-11T16:52:22.627+01:00How not to Write about Gaza<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/incoming/article9639810.ece/alternates/w620/gaza-airstrike-smoke-fist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.independent.co.uk/incoming/article9639810.ece/alternates/w620/gaza-airstrike-smoke-fist.jpg" height="272" width="400" /></a></div>
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<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Do not
infantilize it by God-awful chants such as the morbid “Gaza Gaza don’t you
cry/We will never let you die.” Gaza has withstood a seven year siege, three
invasions in six years, and a resistance movement that despite the odds has
developed itself and given life and hope to Palestinians. That is only in the
last seven years. Look up Gaza’s rich history, one that extends beyond being
the spark of the first intifada in 1987.</span></li>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Gaza is not
Palestine. It makes up less than 2 percent of the country. Gaza is not the
Palestinian cause. It is part of it. The Palestinian cause encompasses all the
territories that the occupying power has divided and ruled over such as the
West Bank, Jerusalem, the 1948 occupied territories, and Gaza. And then some,
considering the millions of refugees still waiting for their right of return in
camps in the neighboring countries of Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, and Egypt.</span></li>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Gaza is no more
an “Arab cause” than it is a “Muslim/Islamic ummah cause.” The former are
collaborators with the Zionist regime, the latter does not exist. So save your
takbeers (unless it is to cheer on the resistance) and empty rhetoric on saving
al-Aqsa mosque (it’s not the one with the shiny golden dome by the way) for
when Salah al-Din emerges from his grave. </span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Continuing on in the same vein, bury that stupid slogan of "You don't need to be a Muslim to support Gaza. You just need to be human." NO. Just. NO.</span></li>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Also, don't "Pray for Gaza." Thank you very much.</span></li>
</ul>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Gaza is not a
charity basket case. Use those bake-sales to attain something oh so slightly pettier.
We don’t want money to ameliorate the disastrous conditions. We want an end to
the siege and a border crossing we can be in charge of. We want dignity.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
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</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Gaza is not a
cool warzone for you to add on your CV and Facebook albums. So pseudo
journalists, fuck off. Orientalist journalists, the same applies to you.
Foreign journalists who love reporting about the location of resistance rockets
fired-endangering whole neighborhoods- the darkest depths of hellfire await
you.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Gaza is not a
cool slogan. Gaza is not cool for you to parade your activism shamelessly. Gaza
is not an acceptable mainstream easy activist protest where flags of parties who
are actively involved in killing civilians such as Hezbollah can be waved
around. </span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Gaza is not a
platform to use for your political and public speaking career, George Galloway.
Gaza is not for bigots, no matter how “good” of a speaker they are.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Gaza is not a
“feel-good call of duty even though I am so angry by all the killings there.”
If you want to protest, do it right. Do not hold hands for the umpteenth time
in front of the Israeli embassy chanting “Free Free Palestine” like a broken
record. Do occupy or smash up the embassy. Quality over quantity.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Gaza is not for
selfies.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Gaza is not to
be used for people to further their own careers and star-studded personalities
who support oppression elsewhere. Gaza is not for hypocrites, like Abby Martin.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Dear West Bank
especially, and the rest of Palestine in general: Gaza is not a neighboring
country. Do not protest in “solidarity” by holding candles and gathering at
city centers. Rise up against the slavemaster’s puppets, the Palestinian
Authority. Rise up against the slavemaster, Israel. Shove your solidarity to
somewhere where the sun don’t shine.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Dear the rest of
Palestine: do not internally Orientalize Gaza. That includes describing singer
Mohammed Assaf as “dark-skinned but with a great personality.” Perhaps it is
too much to ask to get rid of your colonized minds.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Gaza is not for
your own fetishization. Do no</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">t fetishize Gaza.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">If you do not
understand what is meant by “Gaza is Hamas, and Hamas is Gaza” as Israel
relentlessly bombards it with thousands of tons of heavy weaponry and massacres
then do not even torture us with your senseless analysis.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Do not use “We
teach life, sir” to the point where the phrase’s essence loses its meaning
every time you see a photo of Palestinian children enjoying themselves.
Children are children. They quickly adapt to their surroundings and find ways
to have fun.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Gaza is not for
your sympathy. Gaza is a call for direct action against the complicit
hypocritical world.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Gaza’s murdered civilians
are not just “women, children and elderly.” <a href="http://www.jadaliyya.com/pages/index/18644/can-palestinian-men-be-victims-gendering-israels-w">Men are civilians</a>.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Gaza is not to
be resoundingly victimized as hapless and helpless. Simultaneously, Gaza is not
under any circumstances to be compared to the colonizing, occupying Zionist
regime.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Do not talk
about Gaza, liberal Palestinians and foreigners. Do not ask why there are no
bomb shelters in Gaza, like that stupid sellout rap group DAM did (who have since deleted that July 13 post on their Facebook page. The powers of screenshots poses their question in Arabic below). Do not ask
why people in Gaza “don’t just leave.”</span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div>
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<b><span style="color: red;">سؤال لحماس-</span></b></div>
<div style="font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
<b><span style="color: red;">غير انه عندكم استراتيجية ل-تخويف العدو<br />هل في برنامج لجلب الطمأنينة للشعب؟</span></b></div>
<div style="font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
<b><span style="color: red;">يعني غزة دايماً كانت مستهدفة، بس بين هجوم لهجوم هل في بناء ملاجئ؟<br />(سؤال)</span></b></div>
</div>
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<span data-reactid=".0"><a aria-live="polite" class="UFILikeLink accessible_elem" data-reactid=".0.0" href="https://www.facebook.com/amani.agbaria/posts/10154381439620254#" role="button" style="background-color: white; clip: rect(1px 1px 1px 1px); color: #6d84b4; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; height: 1px; line-height: 15.359999656677246px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; text-decoration: none; width: 1px;" title="Like this">Like</a><a aria-live="polite" class="UFILikeLink" data-ft="{"tn":">"}" data-reactid=".0.1" href="https://www.facebook.com/amani.agbaria/posts/10154381439620254#" role="button" style="background-color: white; color: #6d84b4; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.359999656677246px; text-decoration: none;" title="Like this"></a></span></div>
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</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Impartiality
does not exist in Gaza.</span></li>
</ul>
<br />
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Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-46217028274707444952014-08-01T19:33:00.002+01:002014-08-20T23:20:35.155+01:00 (III) موسم الاجتياح, والكلاب<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKoRTFbvALYVKQCsJfTHc2y9Gd2dDX7D7e8zuP-hpCNE8nDaKndAvQrkbheqTlurPvamSB40qSPGmwXgfuA8TOv6lgZKcGVUiikCN2RggPvKhx82-FOa6R2fwxqcWNkB0Gw-l-sdytlqcv/s1600/IMG_20140801_200725.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKoRTFbvALYVKQCsJfTHc2y9Gd2dDX7D7e8zuP-hpCNE8nDaKndAvQrkbheqTlurPvamSB40qSPGmwXgfuA8TOv6lgZKcGVUiikCN2RggPvKhx82-FOa6R2fwxqcWNkB0Gw-l-sdytlqcv/s1600/IMG_20140801_200725.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">المنظر من بيتنا في مدينة غزة</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">المدينة تلتهب بموجة الحر هذا الاسبوع<span class="s1">,</span> ولكننا بالكاد لاحظنا وقلوبنا تحترق من أخبار بلادنا<span class="s1">.</span> من منا تُفضّل ان تترك هذا الوهم وتكون في وسط أحداث العدوان؟ نحن اللواتي لديهن أهل يعيشون باستمرارية تحت القصف والدمار والخوف وترقب الموت وعدم الأمن والأمان<span class="s1">.</span> بينما نحن<span class="s1">, </span>في بلاد المتحضرة التي استعمرتنا والسبب الرئيسي لمصيرنا اليوم-هذه المدينة الجافة والمشبعة من الكياسة المبالغة وحسن التعامل الذي لا يتجاوز المنظر الخارجي-نحاصر معاناتنا بعيدا عن الحضارة وتساؤلات الأصدقاء الذين لا يعرفوا<span class="s1">,</span> ولا يستطيعوا أن يتخيلوا حجم الألم والرهبة المتغلغل في أعماقنا<span class="s1">.</span> نقضي أيامنا بين جدران غرفنا في السكن<span class="s1">,</span> مدمنين على الأخبار ٢٤ ساعة كل يوم<span class="s1">.</span> مع كل تغريدة<span class="s1">,</span> مع كل <span class="s1">"</span>شير<span class="s1">"</span> لصورة على مواقع التواصل الاجتماعي<span class="s1">,</span> نذكّر ونكرّس في نفوسنا أسوأ شعور ممكن نختبره في ظل هذه الظروف<span class="s1">:</span> العجز<span class="s1">.</span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">نحن غير قادرات على عمل أي شيء بينما أهالينا يتلقون الارهاب من كل الجهات دون أي رحمة<span class="s1">.</span> نحتقر أنفسنا<span class="s1">.</span> نخبئ انهيارنا العصبي<span class="s1">-</span>هذا سر ولكن نعم<span class="s1">, </span>تمر علينا ايام لا نقدر أن نتحرك خارج غرفنا<span class="s1">, </span>لا نستطيع الأكل ولا النوم<span class="s1">, نمشي من السرير للباب للسرير مثل السجين المحموم, او الحيوان في القفص, ونبكي بحرارة</span> ثم نعلن أننا صرفنا كل دموعنا وليس لدينا الطاقة<span class="s1">,</span> القدرة<span class="s1">,</span> المروّة لنبكي مرة أخرى. نهرب من مشاعرنا<span class="s1">.</span> نكذب على بعض. أصبحنا محترفين بالكذب<span class="s1">.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>بموت اذا صار اشي لستي او لبنت اختي</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>ماما اتصلت علي تسألني وين يروحوا بعد ما أجالهم امر لإخلاء عمارتهم<span class="s1">..</span>وين يروحوا؟<span class="s1">!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>مبارح الشجاعية واليوم خزاعة وبكرة وين رح تكون المجزرة؟ بستنى إسم عائلتي يطلع على الأخبار<span class="s1">..</span>يا رب<span class="s1">..</span>يا رب<span class="s1">!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">يا رب. يا رب احميهم<span class="s1">. </span>يا رب<span class="s1">, </span>لو لا المقاومة كان فقدت أيماني<span class="s1">.</span> كان اعطيتك ظهري مثل حنظلة تماما وغرقت في محيط الصمت والبؤس والغضب<span class="s1"> والضياع والواقعية.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">اتصلت بأهلي أخيرا.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">عمتي تسكن في منطقة التوام, شمال غزة . أخلوا بيتهم, للمرة الثانية خلال سنتين. آخر مرة قضوا ليلة سوداء وهم منبطحون على بطونهم في الممر على الطابق الأول يدعوا ويتسلخطوا ويصرخوا . البيارة حد بيتهم انقصفت اكثر من اربعين مرة والبيت يرتفع وينزل . تكسرت الشبابيك . انخلعت الأبواب. </span><span style="font-size: large;">شراشف النايلون اخذت مكان كل فتحة شباك .</span><span style="font-size: large;"> آثار الدمار كانت موجودة عندما زرتها بعد اسبوع من انتهاء العدوان في ٢٠١٢. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">(-اذا بدك تستخدمي الحمام حطي عصاية القشاطة على الباب عشان يتسكر حبيبتي)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">هذه المرة, اتصلت على رقمها. مصطفى رد ولكن لم يتكلم الا بعد ما عرّفت على حالي -ولك انا لينة بنت خالك - وطمأن امه ان المتصلة منهم وليست من جيش الاحتلال تحمل تهديد.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">-اه يا ماما , يا حبيبتي يا عمتو , احنا كويسين تقلقيش علينا بس تنسيناش بالدعاء .. ادعيلنا .. احنا مناح, اه طلعنا من البيت ورحنا على مخيم الشاطئ.. انقصف البيت اللي قبالنا وبعد يومين رجعنا على بيتنا..وين بدنا نروح؟ اه ابراهيم (صغير العائلة ) هيّو مغلبني .. بيتصرف كإنه كل شي عادي وبيضحك لما القصف ينزل عندنا بس أنا عارفة انه بكون مرعوب. اه والله الشباب مغلبيني كمان .. عامر ومصطفى بقولولي انهم رايحين يصلوا التراويح في المسجد بس بروحوش يصلوا, بروحوا يتفرجوا.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">دار عمي ساكنين على آخر طابق في عمارة بمنطقة تل الهوا. ويا حبذا لو قطعت الكهربا وينجبروا على صعود الدرج ليصلوا إلى شقتهم. مرت عمي روتلي عندما قرروا يخلوا البيت آخر مرة, كانت حاملة صغيرة العائلة رغد ويزيد ربط جسمه حول رجلها. البنات الثانيات سبقوهم بخطوتين ولحظة ما توجهت مرت عمي الى الدرج تكسر الشبابيك بوجهها من قوة الانفجار الذي اهتز العمارة كلها .</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">هذه المرة , يرفضون اخلاء بيتهم . اين سيذهبون؟ هذه المرة الثالثة في ستة سنوات و لن يسمحوا للاحتلال تعطيل حياتهم اكثر من ذلك. رغد ويزيد لا ينامون الا بجانب امهم . مستعدين يضلوا سهرانين طالما امهم لم تحيطهم بجسمها . هيا ودينا لا ينامون الا اذا الغرفة مضوية , واختهم الأكبر ندى متضايقة جدا من هذا الوضع. اخوهم ادهم يتصرف كأن القصف شيء عادي, لا تسترجوا تسألوه اذا مرة بحياته خاف او ما خاف , مفهوم؟</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">ستي لا تستطيع الوقوف من الخوف...لها قناعة أن هذا العدوان سيقتلها, وعندما كلمتها على الهاتف, بكت وأبكتني معها. ستي وجيلها لا يزالون يعانون من صدمة النكبة وكل الحروب بعد ١٩٤٨ومع كل قرقعة صوت او انفجار كبير تصرخ على ندى: اليهود! اليهود اجوا يقتلونا!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">طلبت من ندى تبعثلي صورة ستي. ردّت علي: ايوة! عشان تتهمني انه رح اعطي صورتها لليهود!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">مررتْ التليفون لستي.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">-مش قادر, مش قادر, والله مني قادر..بضلهم فوق روسنا</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">-شدي حيلك ستي والله يقويك ويجمعنا عن قريب ان شاء الله..أول ما يفتح المعبر رح نكون عندك..حضري الحناء عشان نحنّي شعرنا..وتقوليلنا قصة مايا وابن السلطان..</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">-فش منه..فش منه</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">-شو هو اللي فش منه؟</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">-المعبر مسكر..بضله مسكر</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">-لا ان شاء الله يفتح. تفو على مصر وعلى كل العرب, بس رح يفتح.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">بكت. صرت ارمي كلام في الهواء, وجبرت حالي امسك دموعي.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">-الله يطعميهم يوم من حياتنا..وينتقم منهم ويوخدهم. هالمرة رح تعدي ستو, والله رح تعدي ورح تكون اخر مرة</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">تبكي وتبكي. انتهى الحكي. عندما ودعتني, اشعرت بنوع من الحسمية. (مع السلامة يما..الله يرضى عليكِ يما..الله يحنن عليكِ..مع السلامة حبيبتي.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">ستدفعون ثمن كل دمعة نزلت من عيني ستي يا أولاد الكلب. ستدفعون بحياتكم.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">عمي الثاني في خانيونس. غرفتين نوم تحصن عائلته المكونة من عشر أفراد والسقف من الزينكو يهب وينزل مع كل قصف. عمي لا يحب ان يتحدث عن ايام العدوان لأنه يتأثر بشكل كبير عندما يرى اولاده متجمدين من الخوف او يصرخوا على طول اصواتهم. رأيت الألم في عينيه قبل ان قام بتغيير الموضوع. حنان تتحول لعمود صغير من الرخام. كل عضلات جسمها تتشنج وتفقد القدرة على التحرك تماما. فرح تبلغ من العمر سنتين ونص وهذه المرة الثانية في حياتها تشهد القصف المبرح. من مفردات لغتها الجديدة " دَبّة دبّة !" التي تلي كل انفجار.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">اعترفت لعمي الأقرب على قلبي عن المظاهرات في لندن.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- بطلعوا بالالآف عمو .. مظاهرة يوم الجمعة كان فيها عشر الاف واحد. وثاني اسبوع طلعوا تقريبا مئة ألف..بس بحبش اروح واعتبر انه وقفتي انجاز وافتخر بإنه هيني طلعت..مرّات بتقاتل مع الناس هناك...انا مش جاية اتضامن وانتو تحت القصف! بس فش اشي ممكن اعمله!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">ضحك وقال: ومفكرة انه طالع بإيدينا نعمل اشي؟ بنضلنا محبوسين بالبيت نسمع ونصرخ وندعي.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">-انتو عندكم المقاومة على الأقل</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> -مزبوط..واحنا عندنا روح التحدي..يعني روح ال challenge زي ما بتقولوا عندكم في لندن..حتى الناس العاديين زينا بدهمش أي هدنة إذا طلعنا بصفر...شو بنستفيد اذا كمان سنتين اجالنا وزير (اسرائيل ) تاني قرر <span class="s1">يقصفنا كمان مرة؟ الكل يترقب.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1" style="font-size: large;">يوم العيد, عرفت اخر اخبار عمي في خانيونس. اخلى بيته مع اولاده الثمانية بعد ما قصف الاحتلال أرضه. تضرر البيت, ودبّر سيارة لكي يذهبوا إلى المخيم. الاحتلال قصف السيارة التي كانت أمامهم مباشرة. قُبض أرواح أصحاب السيارة الأولى, ووصل عمي وعائلته المخيم بنفسيات مهترئة.</span><br />
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<span class="s1" style="font-size: large;">الكل يترقب. أرواح الشهداء يترقبون. عائلة أبو جامع و أطفالهم ال١٨ يترقبون. الإم واولادها الثمانية من عائلة القصاص يترقبون. كنان وساجي الحلاق يترقبان. عائلة الكيلاني واولادهم الخمسة يترقبون. شهداء مجازر الشجاعية وخزاعة ورفح وجباليا وبيت حانون كلهم يترقبون.</span><br />
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Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-78914740025879715312014-07-22T15:43:00.000+01:002014-08-02T14:50:55.516+01:00(II) موسم الاجتياح, والكلاب <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">أبي عندي. ينتظر شغل جديد. برنامجنا عبارة عن الالتصاق باللابتوبات لمتابعة الأخبار كل دقيقة. نسينا نعاتب رمضان كما تعودنا في أول الاسبوع من هذا الشهر الفضيل. (أنا مش صايمة - أصلا الصيام حرام إذا بيشبه العذاب ونمتنع من الأكل </span><span style="font-size: large;">لعشرين ساعة - مفروض نسافر على جنوب أفريقيا, الساعات هناك أقل - إذا صمت رح أفطر على توقيت القدس مش مكة لأنه فيها كفار ). نسينا كل هذا. قبل ساعة من الافطار نريّح اعيوننا نذهب الى المظبخ. عليه الطبخة الرئيسية -بامية, ملوخية, كشك - وأنا علي إحضار السلطة والشوربة. نفطر. والشاشات مازالت مفتوحة. بعدها, الأنشط منا يعمل القهوة ونقعد ونتحدث عن الأوضاع والسياسة, عن المقاومة, عن ستي, عن موشيه عباس.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- بقولك الصواريخ عبثية..في أكبر جاسوس من هيك؟ المتحدث الرسمي للاحتلال!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- كلب ابن كلب</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- بابا, تستخدميش كلمة خرا أو فاك على تويتر, بيضر بسمعتك كصحفية</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">كل شيء بالتدريج. نجحت باستخدام إشارة البعبوص أمامه كلما نتكلم عن السلطة دون اي عقوبات او محاضرات: محمود عباس - خذ !- وجمال نزال - يوخذ هو الثاني - وعريقات - خذ خذ خذ!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">المقاومة ترفع معنوياتنا. نغيّر كلمات اغاني صباح فخري ( ابعتلي صاروخ, صاروخ, صاروخ وفجّرني ) ونضحك زيادة عن اللزوم. أحاول أقرأ وأكتب رسالتي ولكن دون أي جدوى. اذهب الى غرفتي واشاهد فيديوهات القصف على بيوت الناس ومشاهد تعصر القلب مثل دموع وتضرع أبو ساهر النانوس فوق جثة ابنه ( جبتلك لعبة يا بابا!) وردة فعل الأم والأب بعد ما انكشف لهم اولادهم في ثلاجة المستشفى وصدى صراخ الإم يدوي في رأسي: يما يا اولادي يما! ردوا علي يما!سامحوني يما!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">أبي سافر ليبدأ حياته مرة اخرى في بلد ما. عائلات بأكملها استشهدت سويا. حمد, البطش , كوارع, حلبي, الحاج, أبو دقة, أطفال عائلة بكر وعائلة شهيبة. عاهد وزكريا ومحمد واسماعيل بكر, أولاد عم..لقطتهم عدسة قناة فرنسية وهم يركضون بعد ما استهدفتهم أول قذيفة على شاطئ بحر غزة.. ومع إطلاق القذيفة الثانية لم نرَ سوى الدخان ..ثم أجسادهم الممزقة مرمية على الرمل مثل الدمى. قُضي على أربعة قلوب, ودُمّرت حياة ذويهم. صراخ ولطم وتكفير من أهاليهم.. العواطف الخامة تنطلق من حناجرهم..الثياب تشققت.. وبعد بيوم, ارتقوا فلّة وجهاد ووسيم إلى ربهم.. كانوا يلعبون مع الصيصان على سطح بيتهم. ما هي الفكرة من طيور الجنة يا الله؟ ما هي العبرة من أن تمتحن الأهالي بفقدان أطفالهم بأبشع طريقة ممكنة؟ أن يذوق الوالدان بطعم الصبر المرير؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">مشان الله, بيكفي. تخليش طائرات الموت تقتل أطفال</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">(( ولا تهنوا ولا تحزنوا وانتم الأعلون ان كنتم مؤمنين ))</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">أخرج وأشاهد بزوغ الفجر - بعد ساعتين من فلسطين - وألاحظ التفاصيل الصغيرة في الشارع. كل عمود كهرباء مزين بالورد ولكن لم تنتبه إلا إذا رفعت رأسك.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">لا أجرؤ على الاتصال بأهلي هناك. أركن ظهري على الحائط وأصل إلى مرحلة الانهاك. أفيق ويصيبني الفزع - اسم المرأة, اسمها, شو اسمها, اللي استشهدت في مبرة الرحمة؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">اسمها سهى. سهى أبو سعدة, ٤٧ سنة. من الاشخاص ذوي الاحتياجات الخاصة. عندما عثروا على جثتها, كانت فاقدة لأحدى رجليها. علا وشاحة استشهدت في نفس الغارة على المبرة.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">- يا ربي ارحمني</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">قصف عنيف. الخوف والعجز مرة أخرى. صفارات الإنذار تدوي في القدس وتل أبيب وحيفا. نفرح وينشرح صدرنا.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">- إلي من مبارح ما نمت</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">هُدّمت البيوت. ألاف من الناس أخلوا مناطقهم وذهبوا إلى مباني وكالة الغوث. ادركنا بمعركة السودانية شمال غزة وكيف أوقعوا وحدة خاصة من الاحتلال في كمين نصبته القسام. نمشي بقامة منتصبة.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">- خلصونا اقصفوا الدار, نعسااان</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> هذه ليست أمنية أنس قنديل. أنت تعلم ذلك يا الله.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">(( بل احياء عند ربهم يرزقون ))</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">سهرت ليلة وفاتني آخر قطار. وقفت تحت أراضي المدينة بشكل ثابت وعمال الليل يراقبونني بطرف اعينهم. ركضت صديقتي على المحطة, مسكتني وجرّتني الى مكانها. اتابع الاخبار. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">وصلت لمرحلة دنيئة جدا بسبب عدم القدرة على فعل اي شيء مؤثر, او التجميد بسبب الخوف, أو كره جزء ولو بسيط من نفسي<span class="s1">,</span> او الثلاثة. الأنانية مقززة. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">لأول مرة نمت قبل طلوع الشمس. لم اتصل بعد. قلبي يدق يدق يدق. </span></div>
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Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-76519064850438267182014-07-17T13:58:00.000+01:002014-08-01T19:40:43.132+01:00 (I) موسم الاجتياح, والكلاب<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">"اصلا اسرائيل بتُقصف فينا في الشتاء عشان نتدفى .. قولوا عنها عاطلة ."</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>"عااااااطلة!"</i>*</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh60ccKU8xVl08wjeTPc4D1twDGeqnwc78iXewwF9tvlxCNTwJf-5TxwHMe-R-IwUmB6nlFX0piIElWCV67OXecLNuCY4rilFXj_KwZ_6TduCiXMKTKxZXe0Jagf2q5A0t6yymu3PPc3D7k/s1600/20121130_125247.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh60ccKU8xVl08wjeTPc4D1twDGeqnwc78iXewwF9tvlxCNTwJf-5TxwHMe-R-IwUmB6nlFX0piIElWCV67OXecLNuCY4rilFXj_KwZ_6TduCiXMKTKxZXe0Jagf2q5A0t6yymu3PPc3D7k/s1600/20121130_125247.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">صورة التقطها بعد العدوان على غزة ٢٠١٢</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">امي لها عادة مخصصة كلما تستنفر إسرائيل بغزة. مع كل عدوان, كانت تبسط أمام التلفاز ٢٤ ساعة. كنت أنام في سريرها بعد ما وضعت فرشة قبال التلفاز. في النهار, تجلس على الكنبة وتقلب بين قنوات الأقصى والجزيرة وفلسطين اليوم واحيانا الميادين, بينما تشتم قناة فلسطين ومسلسلاتها السخيفة </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">ب ( ياخونة يا كلاب!) </span><span style="font-size: large;">التي </span><span style="font-size: large;">تتجاهل الوضع في غزة.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">في الليل, تتمدد على الفرشة تحت البطانية وتشاهد الأخبار </span><span style="font-size: large;">وصور المجازر لحد ما تطلع الشمس. بعد غفوة قصيرة تعيد الروتين ابتداءً مع فنجان القهوة, وأراقب تعمق الدوائر والسواد تحت عينيها يوما بعد يوم.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">مرّات, تتصل وأنا في شغلي لكي تطمئن.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- وينك؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- بالمكتب</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- مطولة؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- آه, رح أضلني لليل</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- مفروض يدفعولك أكثر</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- طيب</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- تنسيش توكلي</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">أحياناً, بكذب وبقول اني في المكتب ولكن الحقيقة هي أنني أسير في الشوارع أحاول الفرار من المدينة الوسخة وسكانها. رام الله من أحقر المدن التي يمكن أن يعيش فيها الانسان. أهرب من شارع ركب ( سكروا محلاتكم يا كلاب , اللي استشهدوا مش أرقام, سكروا محلاتكم ) وأجد نفسي في منطقة المصيون , أو الطيرة أو بطن الهوا أو </span><span style="font-size: large;">الشرفة أو البالوع. أبحث بشكل محموم عن ذرة من الاكتراث في وجوه الناس, ذرة من الغضب، ذرة من الكرامة. ولكن..تبقى بعيدة المنال.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- وينك</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- أنا…بإجتماع</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">الحقيقة انني في طريقي إلى بيتونيا. وصلت سجن عوفر وأقف خلف الشبان الأقرب إلى البوابة والذين لا يزيد عددهم عن خمسة عشر. جنود الاحتلال موجودون هم أيضاً. اليوم بليد جدا. الجنود يشغلون أنفسهم برمي عدد من قنابل الغاز وقنابل </span><span style="font-size: large;">الصوت بين الفينة والأُخرى. لا داعي للهتاف هنا. لا أعرف أحدا ولست خبيرة برمي الحجارة. عندما وصلت الأمور إلى ردح وشتائم بالعبري الموجهة الى الجنود من قبل الشباب, سحبت حالي ورجعت لوسط المدينة, اليأس مترسخ في </span><span style="font-size: large;">عظامي.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> أمّي لا ترى أي هدف من مسيرات رام الله, وكالعادة كنا نتجادل أنا واختي معها كلما خرجنا.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- هدول بدهم صواريخ, مش تروحي إنت وأختك على الهبل السلمي تبعكم وتهتفوا يلا ارحل يا احتلال</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- طب اذا هتفنا يا قسام يا حبيب اضرب اضرب تل ابيب؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- أحسن! عشان ييجوا يوخدوكم الكلاب. مش ناقصنا مصايب.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">كنت أتضايق من موقفها رغم أنني متفقة معها, ولكن في ظل الظروف التي نعيشها، المسيرات البايخة كانت على ما يبدو الوسيلة الوحيدة للعمل. ما هو المانع من تحويل حاجز قلنديا العسكري الى ساحة نضالية؟ حاجز الخوف والسيطرة النخبوية. بعد كل مسيرة كنت أكره نفسي أكثر. نحن الأبناء المدللون لهذه المدينة الحقيرة التي تتضامن مع أهلها في غزة عبر الشموع والاحتجاج الحضاري والهتافات المؤيدة لدولة العملاء, دولة أيلول.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">هذه المدينة.. كم أبغضها! كل يوم كنت أمشي جنب جدران المقاطعة لأصل بيتي.. ومع كل خطوة الكراهية تغلف حالها إلى كرات معدنية في حفرة نفسيتي. لا يأتيني النوم, وقبل أذان الفجر صوت التدريب ل " رجال الجدد " يصل بنايتنا وأنا أغلي, أغلي.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">في عدوان ٢٠٠٨ - ٢٠٠٩ , خرجوا وانهالوا علينا بالهراوات والكلام البذيء والغاز. عدنا بعد المعركة وجرست امي بالمطبخ, </span><span style="font-size: large;">رائحة الغاز تعشش في ملابسها ووجهها شاحب اللون.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> -الله ينتقم منكم , الله يوخدكم ويريحنا منكم .. هدول بشر؟ هدول فلسطينيين؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">( هدول كلاب )</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">في عدوان ٢٠١٢ , كرّسوا في عقول المواطنين المهذبين الصالحين نمط التظاهر الحضاري ثم حولوه إلى تضامن حضاري متمركز في أوساط المدن بعيدا عن أماكن الاشتباك. خرجنا باتجاه مستعمرة بيت إيل وقمعونا. خرجنا مرة أخرى واخواتهم بالرضاعة, الاحتلال, ضربونا. في المرة الثانية, شاهدت أمي على التلفاز اعتقال أختي ولاحقا, الضرب الذي لحقت بي وبغيري.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">وفي عدوان ٢٠١٤, تبين لي أن المسافة بين رام الله وغزة, ولندن وغزة هي نفسها. أسير بين الشوارع مرة أخرى, أفر من شعور العجز والخوف على أهلي, أتابع الأخبار, لا انام, الجبن يحتاجني, والحوار الداخلي يخلخل عقلي. اتصلي يا بنت, اتصلي بأهلك واطمئني عليهم. لأ, بديش. طالما فش اخبار يعني لساتهم عايشين. ولك اتصلي يا جبانة, اتصلي. خلص!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">مسيرات هذه المدينة ايضا لا تختلف عن عاصمة أوسلو الا بالكم الهائل من المتظاهرين. هنا أيضا تحيط بنا الكلاب, ومساحة التظاهر محددة, ونعم لها وقت معيّن, والهتافات سلمية بايخة رقيقة مضجرة. القمع ليس موجود, ولا داعي له أصلا بما أننا نلتزم ونفرض على أنفسنا قوانين النظام الحاكم. أتشاجر مع الناس, افرز عصبيتي أخيرا بالذي رفع علم حزب الله, أمزع يافطة الشخص المعتوه الذي كُتب عليها "هتلر كان على حق", امتص جو الكرنفالي وصور ال"selfies" للمتظاهرين بالكوفية وعلم فلسطين المرسوم على وجوههم, وأكره نفسي. أحس بالعزلة. شعور العجز يتفوق. الاختناق يزيد. ولم اتصل بأهلي.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">*تصريح عمي محمود عندما ذهبت الى غزة مباشرة بعد عدوان ٢٠١٢, والرد كان من الجميع في البيت</span></i></div>
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Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-71394128685588975832014-06-30T14:55:00.001+01:002014-06-30T14:55:47.381+01:00Fight the Palestinian Leaders<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>Mohammad, 83 years old, lives in al-Azzeh camp, the smallest in the West Bank and where the unemployment rate is high. “I cannot explain my feelings with one sentence,” he says. “Those who have no country have no dignity. I have no dignity. I always think of the past. Life was better then. We had our land. Now if you don’t work, you don’t eat. I feel angry. I was a fighter against the British and the Zionists. If I had the strength to fight, I will fight the Palestinian leaders.</i></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">This photo is one in a black and white collection by French photographer Anne Paq, titled "Generations of Palestinian Exile" published on the </span><a href="http://electronicintifada.net/content/photos-generations-palestinian-exile/13506" style="text-align: left;">Electronic Intifada</a><span style="text-align: left;"> website.</span></div>
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Paq wrote:</div>
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"With the conviction that the right of return is not a side issue but is at the core of the so-called conflict, this series depicts a Palestinian refugee child with a grandparent, a first-generation refugee. Through it i hope to emphasize not only the duration of the plight of the Palestinian refugees, but also to visualize the extraordinary bond and solidarity that Palestinian refugees share across generations, preserving their dignity and determination during the long wait and fight for justice."</blockquote>
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For me, this 83 year old man's words resonated loudly. I don't believe anything else needs to be said, other than that Hajj Mohammad is still feeling angry, is not pacified, calls a spade a spade, and is not the typical stuck-in-the-rosy-past geezer.<br />
<br />
I'm reminded of one experience I had with old people in Qaddoura refugee camp in Ramallah. Many people don't even know a camp exists there, due to the construction of trade centers and buildings and the presence of a few bars around or a few yards away from the camp. I was writing a feature story for Al Jazeera English and I was running on a very tight deadline. I thought that it would be easy as pie; after all I needed was a quote from five different people, take their photo, and quickly transcribe/write the piece up. I wanted to interview people from the camp, workers in their stores, the falafel guy. I was politely rebuffed almost every single time. People didn't want their names to be written down, they sure as hell didn't want their pictures taken, and while some were willing to speak candidly they refused to be on record. I was in my full asshole journalist persona, and I was getting frustrated. I went to the cart-sellers and made small talk about vegetables before asking them sweetly if they would mind getting interviewed briefly. They did mind. "We don't want any trouble," they said. The falafel guy was more generous in his explanation. "I just had a run in with the Palestinian Authority a few months ago. They're watching me. I'm just a man who sells falafel. God be with you. <i>Allah ma'ik</i>."<br />
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Time was running low. What I thought wouldn't take more than an hour and half stretched into three hours, and I was tired of walking all over the city center begging people to speak into my recorder and pose for a photo. It was also something of an eye-opener for my fresh off the mill mind. The academics, the professionals, the NGO people, the elite activists--they all had no qualms in publicly speaking about a sensitive topic. Even if there were repercussions, they would be backed up some way or another. The other people however, didn't talk about politics not because they were indifferent or desensitized or "too stupid." They kept their mouths shut because there was a real threat against them, their families, their livelihoods. And they had no one to back them up.<br />
<br />
I made my way back to Qaddoura and noticed an old woman slowly shuffling by, wearing the traditional thob and carrying a load on her head. She smiled at me as I walked up to her, which was all the encouragement I needed.<br />
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After we exchanged greetings and she showered me with phrases full of blessings, I asked her the question. Immediately, her whole expression changed, she dropped her eyes from my face and stared hard past my shoulder.<br />
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"Oh look, my son is coming. I must be on my way. <i>ma'salameh</i>." She walked off at a brisk pace. I stared after her, standing there on that narrow street where there was no son, and no other people.<br />
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Fight those corrupt, exploitative, collaborative bastards. Fight the leaders.</div>
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Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984617028785534113.post-64769996515729927222014-06-29T11:58:00.000+01:002014-08-20T23:22:31.250+01:00عن الإيمان<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>لا تيأسي</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>انا مش يأسانة</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s2">-</span>لماذا ليس لصوت الشباب<span class="s1"> </span>والصبايا<span class="s1"> </span>من<span class="s1"> </span>بلدك صدى<span class="s1"> </span>ضد<span class="s1"> </span>الاضطهاد؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s2">-</span>هنالك<span class="s1"> </span>قمع<span class="s1"> </span>ودولة<span class="s1"> </span>بوليسية<span class="s1"> </span>واعتقالات<span class="s1"> </span>سياسية<span class="s1"> </span>وهيك</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s2">-</span>اعتقالات<span class="s1"> </span>سياسية؟ قصدك السلطة تعتقل معارضيها؟<span class="s1"> </span>لا<span class="s2">!</span><span class="s1"> </span>يا<span class="s1"> </span>للعار<span class="s2">!</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s2">-</span>اه<span class="s1"> </span>طبعا</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">الخلفية<span class="s3">:</span> حانة لطيفة قريبة من سكن الطلاب</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">الحدث<span class="s3">:</span> احتفال عيد ميلاد صديقة</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">الأشخاص<span class="s3">:</span> فلسطينية تعاني من رتابة صراع الهوية <span class="s3">,</span>كوردي من كوردستان يجيد اللغة العربية الفصيحة, وأشخاص آخرون</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">المشروب<span class="s3">:</span> <span class="s2">ginger</span> <span class="s2">beer</span> و بيرة</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">المزاج<span class="s3">: ما </span>بين<span class="s2"> </span>اللامبالاة<span class="s2"> </span>والسخط</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">-بنظرك, هل تعتقدين أن الوضع سوف يتحسن؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>انا طلعت من البلد</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>ناوية ترجعي؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>لأ</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">-لماذا؟</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">-اظن اذا سمعت اي حدا من هناك يحكيلي <span class="s1">"</span>مش باقي منك الا جلدة وعظم<span class="s1">"</span> ممكن افجّر حا<span class="s1">-,</span> قصدي<span class="s1">,</span><span class="s3"> </span>لأ<span class="s1">,</span> لا مش راجعة</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>ولكن<span class="s2">..</span>الوضع السياسي بشكل عام<span class="s2">..</span>هل توجد ضغوطات من جهات معينة ضد السلطة؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>لأ</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>جد<span class="s1">!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>اه<span class="s2">.</span> شوف يا زلمة<span class="s1">,</span> انا برضه بحب أسمع وأحكي عن أخبار لطيفة وراقية<span class="s2">..</span>توخدش عني فكرة غلط وتصورنيش بإنسانة محبطة مكتئبة ملتعن سماي وجاية ابعص, يعني أنكّد على انطباعات وارآء مناصري القضية الفلسطينية<span class="s1">,</span> مع انه ما بهمني رأيك كثير عشان لسه قبل شوي تعرفنا على بعض</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>أبداً<span class="s2">…</span>أقولك, عندما زرت الضفة رأيت كيف كان رجال السلطة يعيشون في قصورهم ومبانيهم الفخمة.. ورأيت كيف كان الشعب يعاني ليبحث عن لقمة العيش. ليس </span><span style="font-size: large;">عندي أي احترام للسلطة</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s3">-</span>طيب على مهلك شوي<span class="s3">,</span> مش الكل بيشحد بالشارع.<span class="s2"> المسألة انه فش حياة </span>تعيشها هناك خاصة -بين قوسين-لصبية متمردة</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>هل يوجد حراك شبابي يطالب بإستقالة السلطة؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>بكل جدية؟ لأ</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">أخذ رشفة من كأسه ثم ابتسم وقال: لا تيأسي<span class="s2">..</span>احنا مسلمين<span class="s2">.</span> عندما يأتي المهدي لا بد من الأوضاع أن تتحسن في فلسطين</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>عفوا؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>هكذا مكتوب في ديننا<span class="s2">.</span> الصراع على الأرض المقدسة سوف تستمر حتى مجيء المهدي</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">سكتت<span class="s2">.</span> فكرت اسأله اذا كان يعاني من نوع من انواع الانفصام ولكن دخلة الكعكة والعجقة التي دارت حولها صرف انتباهنا إلى صديقتنا المشتركة</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">بعد قطعتي الثالثة من الكعكة<span class="s1">, </span>تذمرت بصوت عالٍ:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>بالمقابل لازم نحط رجل على رجل ونستنى حضرته ليجي عندنا؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">فأجاب:<span class="s1"> </span>نعم</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>شو بتحكي<span class="s1">!</span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>هذا هو إيماني</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-إ</span>يماني انه اظن بكفيك شرب اذا بدك تخوض محادثة جدية معي</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>انا جدي<span class="s1">!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>بتقدرش تتوقع من شعب محتل منتاك عرضه كلهم <span class="s2">يآ</span>منوا <span class="s2">بإنه</span><span class="s1"> </span><span class="s2">مصايبهم</span><span class="s1"> </span><span class="s2">رح</span><span class="s1"> </span><span class="s2">تنتهي</span><span class="s1"> </span><span class="s2">لما</span><span class="s1"> </span><span class="s2">المهدي</span><span class="s1"> </span><span class="s2">يتشرف</span><span class="s1">! </span><span class="s2">وانه</span><span class="s1"> </span><span class="s2">اصلا</span><span class="s1"> </span><span class="s2">في</span><span class="s1"> </span><span class="s2">مهدي</span><span class="s1">!</span><span class="s2"> ومجبورين نوكل خرا بكل برود</span> وفي شخص واحد رح يخلصنا من كل همومنا<span class="s1">!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s3">-</span>طبعا<span class="s3"> </span>لا..ولكن هذه هي النقطة المركزية</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s3">-</span>شو هي؟</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">مرّت ومضة من البرق على وجهه وانشقت الغيوم لتكشف البدر ثم قال:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">ان يكون عندك الشجاعة لتؤمن بشيء كبير وخفي</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">ثم خرج ليدخن</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">الخلفية<span class="s3">: </span>محادثة عن فتنة<span class="s3"> </span>شعر<span class="s3"> </span>الجسم<span class="s3"> </span>عند<span class="s3"> </span>المرأة<span class="s3"> </span>تسيطر<span class="s3"> </span>على<span class="s3"> </span>حفلة<span class="s3"> </span>لطيفة </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">الشخصيات<span class="s3">:</span> الفتاة المستنيرة<span class="s3">,</span> الصديقة<span class="s3">,</span> وأشخاص آخرون</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s4">المشروب</span>:<span class="s4"> </span>ginger<span class="s4"> </span>beer</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">المزاج<span class="s3">:</span> سريالية</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s3">-</span>كيفك؟ عم تحكوا كثير انتِ وياه</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>ولك لقى الحل للقضية<span class="s1">!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>شو هي؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>المهدي<span class="s1">!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">-</span>طيب<span class="s1"> </span><span class="s2">حبيبتي</span><span class="s1"> </span><span class="s2">ديري</span><span class="s1"> </span><span class="s2">بالك</span><span class="s1">, لأنه </span><span class="s2">بكره العرب</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s3">-</span>لأ<span class="s3">, </span>بكره السلطة. بحب فلسطين...بتعرفي انه زار فلسطين؟</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s3">-</span>اه بعرف..أجى مع شركته على إسرائيل</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s3">-</span>بس المهدي..</span></div>
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<span class="s2" style="font-size: large;">ثم صفنّا ليوم الدين</span></div>
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Linahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11483827717434904594noreply@blogger.com0