As the thunder of the explosions and the movement of the tanks produce a heart-shaking vibration of terror, and as my eyes meet a brown vintage round clock hanging on the wall, my mind breaks into a memory. I remember my old house where I lived when I was very young and where I witnessed war on Gaza for the first time.
I lived in the Tel Al-Hawa area in a house that looked like a small villa divided into two floors. Outside the house there was a modest, small garden surrounded on all sides by rough, white, and old walls. We lived on the ground floor in a spacious apartment but, except for the hallway, it did not allow much sunlight in.
The hall was very long, and it divided into two separate smaller hallways, both of which were in the north side of the apartment. The middle of this area had a large space leading to a row of rooms. If we looked to the right, we would find the kitchen and a spare bathroom at the end of it, but I would not dare use that bathroom because on my way I might meet the monsters that I used to fear: two very large, longcase clocks standing tall next to each other.
I remember the dark brown color of these grandfather clocks and the way they were both standing, strongly insisting on scaring me or daring me to walk past them. They looked like the clocks that existed in ancient times. I was afraid just to see them and I used to have nightmares about them while sleeping. I thought those sounds marking the hours were responsible for the sounds of the explosions and rockets.
I remember when the war intensified at that time. I felt that the house was more crowded, with people running after each other in every direction even though we are just a four-member family. I was afraid of the intentions of those clocks. Every sound I heard, I turned to look directly at the clocks and — especially when light hit the glass face of the clocks — it was as if I was an actor in the worst part of a horror movie.
As soon as everything went calm — after these terrible hours passed and by luck we were unharmed — our mother took us to our bedrooms to sleep quietly. But then, before I closed my small, tired eyes, I suddenly heard and felt unstoppable vibrations as if a flood was on the way, and I heard gun shots that seemed closer than before.
My parents decided that we had to leave the house where I felt happy. Finally, we would be rid of the crimes of those two horrible clocks! I was so glad I would never see them again. I didn’t know that leaving a home was a reasonable action, until the house, including the two clocks, was completely destroyed by the occupation army.
When I grew up and became aware enough, I realized that those two clocks were only victims of that war. I felt sad that I had judged those two beautiful timekeepers, and whenever I watch a movie from the past when there is a scene of a clock, I am reminded of them.
Although I was often afraid of them, I also felt their beauty and how much of a magical touch they gave the house, like it was an old museum or a place that takes you to the past. Those two clocks were victims of a war that tarnished their image in front of me. It’s as if war, with its harsh touches and frightening bustle, deliberately distorted my memory. I feel fooled by my childhood, to hate something that was so beautiful because of the ugliness of the war.
Now, after witnessing four more wars after that one, I still remember the first time I felt scared. I know now I was sadly scared of something innocent. It’s heartbreaking that the war obligates me to miss the living and non-livings parts of my past. My unmanageable sadness of loss made me think back on objects that don’t hear, feel, talk, or walk, and now I feel guilty about judging these clocks, when the real criminal was the occupation.
Instead of getting used to the war, I only ignored and saved the sadness until it also occupied me. My belief about sad memories remains unshakable. Sad memories may stay sad forever, but what might change is the reason why you were sad about that memory in the first place. You may learn the truth even after years, and that will make you sadder.
Now I am watching time, judging time, and time also admonishes me as a mother with her pure-hearted child. My clocks didn’t survive, but I survived to live the hours, weeks, months, and years ever since.
Bombardments broke into my ears again while remembering this memory about those clocks that I had to apologize to!
It seems like somehow what I already know about the reality of this war is trying to bring back that fear to me again. But now, me and that small round clock that hangs on the wall are both not scared of each other. We both know who the monster is now.
