How to shit on a refugee's dream of return

A phony sliver of Israel's Haifa [Alsaafin/November 2012]

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.

He said all of this in a semi-eager, semi-bashful way. 

I couldn’t stop myself. I snorted.

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.

“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.”

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.

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 returning goddammit-and I was shitting all over his face.

His expression remained neutral, friendly even. 

“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?”

I was startled by his frankness. 

"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."

"Please," he said. "What was your experience there like?"

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.

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.

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 is a beautiful city, the parts that date back to pre-1948 and aren’t gentrified or ghettoized or abandoned like ghost towns.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

"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."

“People are so pretentious there,” I added, feeling lightheaded now. "So nauseatingly...liberal."
Shut your trap woman. Shut it now.
“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 beseder. 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.”

“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.”

I stared at him acutely aware of not painting a more positive picture of his hometown before blurting out, “Yafa is so depressing. When I went I was literally crying in the middle of the street.”

“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.”

We lapsed into silence.

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.

"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.

"Thank you."

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.

Just maybe.

The Yes Folk

I.

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.

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.

"What the fuck are you doing you stupid wanker!"

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.

We pass by Queen Street, and I seize the opportunity to get the conversation flowing.

"I bet that name will have to be changed once independence comes," I remark offhandedly.
The driver chortles.
"Pity the queen loves Scotland," I press.
"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."
"So are you voting yes?"
"Of course sister. And I'll give you two reasons why. Bloody traffic!" he suddenly yelled.
"Traffic is rather unusual at this hour," I offer.
"I don't fucking get why though. It's never like this."
"The vote..."
"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."
"Fair enough."
"So where are youse from?"

My insides deflate. "Palestine," I grumbled.
"Oh I'd love to go there! Um..so you've got family there?"
"Yes," I reply stoically.
"Are they ok? Do you know any charities I could donate to? I'd love to help-"
"The armed resistance? That's a good idea."
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."

Conversation ends.


II.

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.

"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."

We talked more, about how we were hopeful and nervous and optimistic and cautious for the following day's vote.

"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?"

"A few days."

"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!"

Before I left, J. gave me one last pearl of wisdom.

"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."


III.

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?

Want some tea?
No thanks!
Want independence?
No thanks!

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.

Conversations from Gaza

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.

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.

Why are you laughing?

What else is there left for me to do?

Once she started with a premonition.

"I think I'm going to die soon."

"That's a very likely probability."

"I had a dream I was getting married and was wearing a white dress."

"Yep, no escaping from that dream. Death is upon you my friend."

"I was wearing the dress, and I had a fight with the groom, and I ran away before the wedding started."

"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!"

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.

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. 

She tells me there are things she saw that she cannot speak 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. 

"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."

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?

"It gets harder as we get older…this whole interacting with people thing. Human relationships."

"Selfish bastards. Why don't they get it?"

"I always said humankind needs to be wiped out."

"I pray for us to be nuked. The entire country. The people."

"The resistance is on it. They're targeting Dimona next, just wait and see. Start fresh. New people. New country."

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.

"I can't believe it. I don't know you any more."

"What, now I'm not a proper Palestinian because I don't know how to swim?"

"Oh, it's not like you've lived your entire life next to the sea!"

"I know..but it's not really a sea we have!"

"I used to go early in the morning. You can wear a bikini and tempt the little fishies."

"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?"

"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."

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.

"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!"

"Wow…so wonderful. I don't want to jump and drown, you know?"

"Jump in wearing a tire around your waist..or floaties."

"Har har."

"Ok, another thing we're doing. We're jumping off that wall in Akka."

She cries as she tells me what she did for work today. I try not to, but cry as well.

"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."

"It's so fucked up."

"The F-16 missile hit the bedroom the children were playing in. There were no bodies, just bits of them blown to pieces."

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.

"Thunder," I offer.
She rolls her eyes. "Yes, thunder."

She continues.

"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."

Another boom. Louder this time.

"Oooh, heavy thunder." I try to smile and end up grimacing.

"I need psychological rehab. Thinking of going to Sinai for a few days once this is all over."

"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."

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.

After the ceasefire, which has already been violated by Israel more than once, we talk again.

"Everything is worse. Nothing is getting better. I don't want anything from this world, just my sanity and my happiness."

We're waiting for change. She can afford to wait unlike others, but not for long. No one can.

We didn't laugh this time.

نحن في غزة بخير, طمّنونا عنكم

نحن في غزة بخير, طمّنونا عنكم

نحن في الحرب بخير, ماذا عنكم أنتم 

شهداؤنا ا تحت الركام

أطفالنا سكنوا الخيام ، يسألون عنكم، أين أنتم؟

نحن في غزة بخير, طمنونا عنكم

البحر من وراءنا لكننا نقاتل

عدوّنا أمامنا و ما زلنا نقاتل

لدينا ما يكفينا سلاح و طعام ، وعود بالسلام ، نشكر لكم دعمكم

نحن في غزة بخير, طمنونا عنكم

أرواحنا, جراحنا, بيوتنا, سماؤنا, وجوهنا, دماؤنا

عيوننا, أكفاننا

تحمينا من سلامكم, وعودكم, كلامكم

نحن في غزة بخير طمّنونا عنكم

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؟

(III) موسم الاجتياح, والكلاب

المنظر من بيتنا في مدينة غزة

المدينة تلتهب بموجة الحر هذا الاسبوع, ولكننا بالكاد لاحظنا وقلوبنا تحترق من أخبار بلادنا. 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. بينما نحن, 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, ولا يستطيعوا أن يتخيلوا حجم الألم والرهبة المتغلغل في أعماقنا. نقضي أيامنا بين جدران غرفنا في السكن, مدمنين على الأخبار ٢٤ ساعة كل يوم. مع كل تغريدة, مع كل "شير" لصورة على مواقع التواصل الاجتماعي, نذكّر ونكرّس في نفوسنا أسوأ شعور ممكن نختبره في ظل هذه الظروف: العجز. 

نحن غير قادرات على عمل أي شيء بينما أهالينا يتلقون الارهاب من كل الجهات دون أي رحمة. نحتقر أنفسنا. نخبئ انهيارنا العصبي-هذا سر ولكن نعم, تمر علينا ايام لا نقدر أن نتحرك خارج غرفنا, لا نستطيع الأكل ولا النوم, نمشي من السرير للباب للسرير مثل السجين المحموم, او الحيوان في القفص, ونبكي بحرارة ثم نعلن أننا صرفنا كل دموعنا وليس لدينا الطاقة, القدرة, المروّة لنبكي مرة أخرى. نهرب من مشاعرنا. نكذب على بعض. أصبحنا محترفين بالكذب.

-بموت اذا صار اشي لستي او لبنت اختي

-ماما اتصلت علي تسألني وين يروحوا بعد ما أجالهم امر لإخلاء عمارتهم..وين يروحوا؟!

-مبارح الشجاعية واليوم خزاعة وبكرة وين رح تكون المجزرة؟ بستنى إسم عائلتي يطلع على الأخبار..يا رب..يا رب!

يا رب. يا رب احميهم. يا رب, لو لا المقاومة كان فقدت أيماني. كان اعطيتك ظهري مثل حنظلة تماما وغرقت في محيط الصمت والبؤس والغضب والضياع والواقعية.

اتصلت بأهلي أخيرا.

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. شراشف النايلون اخذت مكان كل فتحة شباك . آثار الدمار كانت موجودة عندما زرتها بعد اسبوع من انتهاء العدوان في ٢٠١٢. 

(-اذا بدك تستخدمي الحمام حطي عصاية القشاطة على الباب عشان يتسكر حبيبتي)

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.

-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.

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 .

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؟

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!

طلبت من ندى تبعثلي صورة ستي. ردّت علي: ايوة! عشان تتهمني انه رح اعطي صورتها لليهود!

مررتْ التليفون لستي.

-مش قادر, مش قادر, والله مني قادر..بضلهم فوق روسنا
-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..
-فش منه..فش منه
-شو هو اللي فش منه؟
-المعبر مسكر..بضله مسكر
-لا ان شاء الله يفتح. تفو على مصر وعلى كل العرب, بس رح يفتح.

بكت. صرت ارمي كلام في الهواء, وجبرت حالي امسك دموعي.

-الله يطعميهم يوم من حياتنا..وينتقم منهم ويوخدهم. هالمرة رح تعدي ستو, والله رح تعدي ورح تكون اخر مرة

تبكي وتبكي. انتهى الحكي. عندما ودعتني, اشعرت بنوع من الحسمية. (مع السلامة يما..الله يرضى عليكِ يما..الله يحنن عليكِ..مع السلامة حبيبتي.)

ستدفعون ثمن كل دمعة نزلت من عيني ستي يا أولاد الكلب. ستدفعون بحياتكم.

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.

اعترفت لعمي الأقرب على قلبي عن المظاهرات في لندن.

- 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!

ضحك وقال: ومفكرة انه طالع بإيدينا نعمل اشي؟ بنضلنا محبوسين بالبيت نسمع ونصرخ وندعي.

-انتو عندكم المقاومة على الأقل

 -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 يقصفنا كمان مرة؟ الكل يترقب.

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.


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.

عن الإيمان

-لا تيأسي

-انا مش يأسانة

-لماذا ليس لصوت الشباب والصبايا من بلدك صدى ضد الاضطهاد؟

-هنالك قمع ودولة بوليسية واعتقالات سياسية وهيك

-اعتقالات سياسية؟ قصدك السلطة تعتقل معارضيها؟ لا! يا للعار!

-اه طبعا

الخلفية: حانة لطيفة قريبة من سكن الطلاب

الحدث: احتفال عيد ميلاد صديقة

الأشخاص: فلسطينية تعاني من رتابة صراع الهوية ,كوردي من كوردستان يجيد اللغة العربية الفصيحة, وأشخاص آخرون

المشروب: ginger beer و بيرة

المزاج: ما بين اللامبالاة والسخط

-بنظرك, هل تعتقدين أن الوضع سوف يتحسن؟

-انا طلعت من البلد

-ناوية ترجعي؟

-لأ
-لماذا؟
-اظن اذا سمعت اي حدا من هناك يحكيلي "مش باقي منك الا جلدة وعظم" ممكن افجّر حا-, قصدي, لأ, لا مش راجعة

-ولكن..الوضع السياسي بشكل عام..هل توجد ضغوطات من جهات معينة ضد السلطة؟

-لأ

-جد!

-اه. شوف يا زلمة, انا برضه بحب أسمع وأحكي عن أخبار لطيفة وراقية..توخدش عني فكرة غلط وتصورنيش بإنسانة محبطة مكتئبة ملتعن سماي وجاية ابعص, يعني أنكّد على انطباعات وارآء مناصري القضية الفلسطينية, مع انه ما بهمني رأيك كثير عشان لسه قبل شوي تعرفنا على بعض

-أبداً…أقولك, عندما زرت الضفة رأيت كيف كان رجال السلطة يعيشون في قصورهم ومبانيهم الفخمة.. ورأيت كيف كان الشعب يعاني ليبحث عن لقمة العيش. ليس عندي أي احترام للسلطة

-طيب على مهلك شوي, مش الكل بيشحد بالشارع. المسألة انه فش حياة تعيشها هناك خاصة -بين قوسين-لصبية متمردة

-هل يوجد حراك شبابي يطالب بإستقالة السلطة؟

-بكل جدية؟ لأ

أخذ رشفة من كأسه ثم ابتسم وقال: لا تيأسي..احنا مسلمين. عندما يأتي المهدي لا بد من الأوضاع أن تتحسن في فلسطين

-عفوا؟

-هكذا مكتوب في ديننا. الصراع على الأرض المقدسة سوف تستمر حتى مجيء المهدي

سكتت. فكرت اسأله اذا كان يعاني من نوع من انواع الانفصام ولكن دخلة الكعكة والعجقة التي دارت حولها صرف انتباهنا إلى صديقتنا المشتركة

بعد قطعتي الثالثة من الكعكة, تذمرت بصوت عالٍ:

-بالمقابل لازم نحط رجل على رجل ونستنى حضرته ليجي عندنا؟

فأجاب: نعم

-شو بتحكي! 

-هذا هو إيماني

-إيماني انه اظن بكفيك شرب اذا بدك تخوض محادثة جدية معي

-انا جدي!

-بتقدرش تتوقع من شعب محتل منتاك عرضه كلهم يآمنوا بإنه مصايبهم رح تنتهي لما المهدي يتشرف! وانه اصلا في مهدي! ومجبورين نوكل خرا بكل برود وفي شخص واحد رح يخلصنا من كل همومنا!

-طبعا لا..ولكن هذه هي النقطة المركزية

-شو هي؟

مرّت ومضة من البرق على وجهه وانشقت الغيوم لتكشف البدر ثم قال:

ان يكون عندك الشجاعة لتؤمن بشيء كبير وخفي

ثم خرج ليدخن

الخلفية: محادثة عن فتنة شعر الجسم عند المرأة تسيطر على حفلة لطيفة 

الشخصيات: الفتاة المستنيرة, الصديقة, وأشخاص آخرون

المشروب: ginger beer

المزاج: سريالية

-كيفك؟ عم تحكوا كثير انتِ وياه

-ولك لقى الحل للقضية!

-شو هي؟

-المهدي!

-طيب حبيبتي ديري بالك, لأنه بكره العرب

-لأ, بكره السلطة. بحب فلسطين...بتعرفي انه زار فلسطين؟

-اه بعرف..أجى مع شركته على إسرائيل

-بس المهدي..

ثم صفنّا ليوم الدين