Isparta, Turkey: Monday evening, returning from a 12-hour trip, it feels as if both the bus and time are not moving. I realize that I should be thankful as long as my only issue is with time. But tonight the happiness in my eyes fades; my mood is so subdued that I have to keep my laptop open so I can write and throw the sorrow out of my heart.
I place my laptop onto the small fluffy pink pillow that was the last Gazan gift that I received, from my mother on her visit to Turkey last August. My face reflects the brightness of the laptop screen before me against the darkness of the bus, the calmness of my sleepy fellow travellers, and the jostling from the small bumps in the road. I am like Venus, the most luminous object in the dark sky.
The pupils of my eyes tremble as they float like dead fish on trapped tears. I imagine the sights and sounds of bombings that my family in Gaza have to deal with right now. My gaze moves to the window as I recall the Palestinian poet Rafeef Ziyadah description of the missiles Gaza has endured over the past 15 years: “the peanut butter sandwiches raining down on us from your F16’s master.” The fading sunset outside the bus is disturbing rather than beautiful, because it reminds me of the orange light preceding explosions like a volcano in the sky.
It is not hard for me to imagine such a scene; I lived it before. Let me say that “I took a bachelor’s degree in wars.” I completed a four-wars study! This is a joke Gazans use to make fun of their destiny.
Am I lucky to be here right now? I cannot find an answer.
I am crushed by a feeling of failure, because I am not powerful enough to carry Gazans’ voices, their cries for relief, to the world. They are living a nightmare in which they yell for help, but their shouts and calls are not heard; they fade away without answer. In fact, I have plenty of reasons to curse the occupation, but now they descend on the perpetrators with every missile they throw on the Gaza strip.
A message stops my stream of thoughts: ceasefire! Reports come in through my laptop from many sources. Some say the aggression is over, while others deny it and are sure the aggression is continuing. I feel myself trapped in a game of luck: I will either pick up the winning card or the card that kills my loved ones and, by extension, me. I am terrified of hearing more news.
I make a phone call to my family to get the correct version of events. They confirm it really is a ceasefire. But I do not feel that from my mother’s tone of voice when she says, “Yes, it is over.”
Mom explains that on May 8 my older sister and her three children were visiting her home and they had planned to stay for just one night. Forcing herself to continue talking, my mom tells me they were all happy, laughing and eating snacks with the kids, and then they went to bed at around 1:30 a.m. After the goodnight kisses, everyone went to sleep completely at peace. At 2 a.m. on May 9, “it was as if a meteor hit the earth.”
Warplanes threw missiles on the people. My whole family woke up to the horrible screams of the children. She tells me how the next days and nights passed. My sister and her three kids were trapped; they could not return home as they had planned. The whole family’s feelings were split: they cried while watching the terrible scenes on TV, yet they urged the kids to play and they pretended together to make joyful noise, in an attempt to distract the children’s attention away from what was going on.
Can you feel it with me? Can you imagine what has happened? What might happen?
I am relieved that my people of Gaza passed through this, but another question emerges: when they will be hit again?
Will Gazans relive this nightmare, yet again? Or will this ominous silence continue? Will Gazans’ voices disappear in the void when they call out to the world? How long will peace remain shattered?
