My week!
1- Cyber attacks and hackings into internet servers in Gaza caused random cyber blackouts. I received 6 messages so far from the internet company apologizing for the disconnection.
2- My laptop screen stops working because of the weak and unstable electricity generated by our retarded power generator.
3- Fuel is not allowed to get into Gaza, causing an electricity crisis. (considering the 8-hour schedule we had since the siege was imposed on Gaza wasn’t a real crisis -_-”)
4- Valentine’s: The power plant shuts down and the 6 hours per day electricity  schedule starts. Our power generator stops working. I can’t use my laptop even if it was fully charged (battery lasts for 3 hours) because the screen doesn’t work and I need to connect it to a pc monitor temporarily, which requires electricity.
5- Internet crisis continues, so even during the six hours, internet keeps going on and off.
6- No internet in most internet Cafe’s
7- If I want to go to a restaurant to make use of their electricity and do some work I can’t because the laptop screen doesn’t work and I can’t just take a PC monitor with me!
7- We get a new power generator, but the fuel problem is continuing and I don’t know when we’re going to run out and become unable to turn it on.
8- Water bumps occasionally stop because of the electricity crisis.
9- It’s so fucking hard to take a God damn shower!! It is cold and we need to turn on the water heater for at least 30 minutes before any shower, and because it’s a heavy load on the power generator we can’t turn it on unless there is electricity! Now imagine, 6 hours per day that sometimes come when we’re asleep or when we’re out should be made use of for showers not just for me but also the rest of the family!
10- I had to miss #LoveUnderApartheid! but am happy it was trending worldwide on twitter!! Listen to Lina’s story , to Tayseer and Lana’s, and to Laila’s..
11- INTERNET IS STILL EFFING ME UP, I’ve been trying to upload this damn video I made quickly as soon as we got electricity back on the 14th for 3 days now! But YouTube uploads aren’t resumable..
12- Am forced to delays tons of crap

Palestine has been going through a rough Time… Khader Adnan entered his 62^nd day of hunger strike, and the world isn’t even blinking!! Had he been as Israeli soldier, I am willing to bet the world would have imposed a siege on the rest of Palestine.
A bus full of Palestinian children going on a trip ran into a truck yesterday.. Look at the reaction of Israeli’s on facebook…

I have a feeling that once fuel is back into the strip and we’re back to the 8-hour schedule, they will be like ‘Problem Solved’!!! NO IT FUCKING ISN’T! Or WOULDN’T be even!
But you know what? All of this distress made me reflect on something I was told by an Iraqi friend of mine once.. Iraqi’s get 3-4 hour of electricity per day. I thought I knew what they were going through because of our electricity problem. But those few days have been NOTHING like what we had.. It’s unbelievably stressful, time wasting, and infuriating! I pray for them..

Anyway…

This is the video I finally managed to get uploaded, and it just summarizes my day on the 14^th and sneak into the power generator routine in Gaza..

In the meantime, check out the info about Gaza’s first Talent Show which I’ve been working on relentlessly. We are forced to delay it until March, but I will write and update asap.
Now lemme hurry and take a shower before electricity is out, and then I’ll get back to write about the zillion things I need to write about; hopefully without the noise of a power generator..

• Irish and Canadian boats in international waters on their way to challenge illegal siege policy
• Palestinian activists call for end to international complicity in Israel’s crimes
• Support actions taking place throughout the West Bank and inside Israel

The recently announced prisoner exchange between Hamas and Israel, and the hunger strike of Gazans acting in solidarity with striking Palestinian political prisoners in Israeli jails, have elicited overlapping and at times contradictory emotions from Gaza’s residents.

Upon hearing the news of the Egyptian and German-brokered swap, Gaza celebrated with chants of joy in rallies throughout the Strip. Afnan, a girl of twenty and a daughter to Palestinian political prisoner Jalal Saqr, received the news with great disbelief. The tears rolled down her face uncontrollably as she spoke about the anticipation of hugging her father for the first time. “I was a baby when they detained my father. I am married and pregnant now and I still haven’t seen him! I cannot wait to hold him!” she added as her eyes doubled up with tears of joy. The news was not any less overwhelming to Fatima, the wife of political prisoner Salama Mesleh, than it was to Afnan. “I dream day and night of having a child. My husband and I lived together for no more than a year before he was taken. The Israeli soldiers broke into our house, searched it and turned it upside down and then took him. He entered his 19th year in prison last week, but I have always known my patience would pay off.”

To many Gazans, however, hope is the first stop on the road to disappointment, and those tears of joy can easily turn into dismay. Tayseer Shubair is a former political prisoner and one of the dozens of Gazans currently on hunger strike in solidarity with Palestinians in Israeli custody. As we sat together in the hunger strike tent, he described to me his family’s happiness when they were told that his brother Hazem, who has been in Israeli prisons for 19 years now, will be released soon as part of the deal. Yet Tayseer’s face did not seem cheerful. I couldn’t but wonder if it was exhaustion resulting from almost two weeks of an empty stomach, but the reason for his despondency became clear when he told me that he could not find Hazem’s name on any list. “Everybody came to visit and congratulate my family for my brother’s release! What if he doesn’t get out? It will be a disaster.”

Another former political prisoner and solidarity hunger striker, Ibrahim Abu Arabiya, told me that every released prisoner is an achievement. His voice seemed to get sharper as he continued, “I congratulate the families of the said-to-be-released prisoners, but I stress the situation of the rest of Palestinian political prisoners in Israeli dungeons.” Abu Arabiya, like most Palestinians, is keenly aware of the deep reach of the Israeli prison experience in Palestinian society. According to the Gaza-based Palestinian Center for Human Rights, there are upwards of 6,000 Palestinians currently in Israeli prisons. A recent study found that since the start of Israel’s occupation of the West Bank and Gaza Strip in 1967, over 700,000 Palestinians had been imprisoned by Israel. “It is getting worse and more dangerous every day,” Abu Arabiya added, “and I appeal to UN secretary general Ban Ki Moon, to the European Union, and to Arab League Secretary General Nabil Al Arabi to pay attention to their conditions. I also want to send a message to the Israeli public that they are responsible for this with their silence.”

Mohammed Hellis, a taxi driver, criticized the timing of the deal saying it was “well-played” by Israel. “They want to strengthen their ties with the new Egyptian leadership as well as with Hamas,” he murmured with a rusty voice. “They benefit from keeping Hamas in power and raising its popularity in Gaza, because then not only do they punish Abbas for going to the UN, but they also have an appealing reason to keep us imprisoned here in Gaza and to keep interfering with our lives.”

Amidst the joy and preparations to receive loved ones who have been gone for years, Gazans still seem quite uneasy. Some of the political prisoners will be expelled from the West Bank, and some will be deported to Gaza. As Sama, a student at the Islamic University of Gaza, put it, “they will be taken from one prison and sent to another.” Though on the whole, a sense of happiness and much-needed hope seems to overflow in Gaza and in the eyes of those in Gaza who are forgoing food in solidarity with their still-incarcerated loved ones and countrymen deprived of even the limited freedoms of life under occupation and siege.

Posted at the IMEU’s website: http://imeu.net/news/article0021616.shtml

I miss the day when my little Barbie toy and my fluffy and soft teddy bear were all that mattered. They were the things I clung to the most and the things I held on to too tightly when I layed down in my tiny little bed, with its white-painted wooden bars around, to sleep. I would squeeze the fuzzy ball between my tiny fingers and close my eyes, without having to worry about a Palestine and a world of prejudice and misplaced integrity.

Though I am no child no more. My voice matters, and whether I liked writing or not is irrelevant. Writing is a duty first and foremost, and a way to let off some steam second. I have been brought up to two doctors, thus my life have been more privileged than ordinary residents of the Gaza Strip, my father originally Gazan, and my mother a refugee.  I have been raised on the stories of the Nakba (Palestinian Catastrophe/formation of Israel), and how my mother’s family were thrown out of their houses in 1948 for an Israeli family to live there instead. My mother’s grandpa was shot by the Israeli Hagana gangs, and my grandpa was a kid back then. He is still alive and dreams of going back to their small house and their farm.

My parents got married inside our house, there had been an Israeli curfew and no one was allowed out during those days. I remember, as a child, the invasions of Israeli soldiers. Cracking down on houses, searching some and demolishing others. I remember the piercing sounds of bullets, and how my knees would fail me every time I heard one. I remember the first time for me to see a tank, I was in primary school, but I am not exactly sure what grade I was in. As I was leaving school and waiting for a car to pass by, a tank came out of the blue and was hardly 6 meters away. As soon as I saw that monster, my knees brought me down to the ground in a split second and a loud explosion caused my eyes to shut too tight that it hurt. I never knew why at the beginning, but then as I grew up, I became more aware. I read about Zionism, about the holocaust, and about the state of Israel. I never understood what our fault as Palestinians was. I never understood the relevance between what Hitler did and what my people had to pay. I never understood how a people don’t matter for the sake of other people to exist. Palestinians, for over six decades now have been struggling for freedom, but the only thing I heard when I went to the US for an exchange year is how Israel deserves that land and how we are violent towards them. Does the world (the west more specifically) really thinks Arabs, Palestinians, or Muslims in general are violent by nature? Do they think that not recognizing Israel’s right to exist is racism and anti-Semitism? They clearly do. What I will never tire out from saying, though, is that not recognizing Israel’s right to exist does not mean not recognizing the Jews’ right to exist. Jews lived with us Muslim and Christian Palestinians in Palestine peacefully prior to the formation of the state of Israel, but it is the racist basis on which Israel was built that we oppose. Placing those born to a Jewish mother on top of everyone else, killing us in the thousands and humiliating us at every possible opportunity, denying us our right to our own homes in what is now Israel, and never even recognizing a Palestinian people and their right to exist is what leads to such hatred, anger, and dissatisfaction. You will never hear a Zionist talking about a one democratic state solution for all faiths, but when we do, we are accused of ‘wanting to eradicate the state of Israel and Jews’.

Anyhow, this has not been the exact reason why I am writing this. Today, as known, marks the PA’s Palestinian Statehood bid at the UN asking for the recognition of a Palestinian state on 22% of historic Palestine. I will let you watch the video I am embedding of a video myself and a few of my friends recorded the other day addressing this matter and our thoughts regarding it. It is still uploading… I tried to upload it yesterday  but an electricity cut by Israel yesterday stopped the uploading and it failed. I have been trying to upload it all day and it has been over 7 hours. I hope this ‘state’ will give us a better internet connection at least. I will write more about the pros on cons of this bid later tonight.

Imagine a tumor, a big lump of frustration muddled up with helplessness settling inside your heart and getting pumped through your veins and the entirety of your body, and it has no cure. You only wish you can reach down, thrust your hand into your heart and squash that toxic chunk of aggravation between your wobbly fingers. Eradicating it, though, is a treatment you are denied; the only eradication that you can have is the Israeli termination of your life, and along with it the termination of your despair. You may only resort to immunotherapy, which very much depends on your creativity in enhancing your immune system and endurance levels. It would be safe to say that every Palestinian is, one way or another, inflicted with this malignant cell. Where I live in Palestinian Gaza, people are inflicted with this helplessness and hopelessness , but to make matters worse, there is also a time bomb planted inside of their chests as well, ticking away and ready to detonate any passing moment. Life is a mere existence rather than real living. At times, escapism and absolute indifference are your only means of relative happiness.

In Gaza, men have ‘learnt at a very young age what it was to be angry- angry and helpless’. They are encompassed by a cloud of vulnerability and are impelled  to watch their integrity being ripped out at every uncertainty and inability to do and be, but as Gaza men are transported with rage, the defiance and struggle against the nasty tumor knows no break. It is a full time job.

In Gaza, even the most moderate and serene women are intensely preoccupied with a paradoxical desire and passion for ranting, cursing, and at times, simply crying. Watching their lives, and if married the lives of their children and their husbands preordained and constrained by what Israel, coordinating with Egypt, permits.

At times even the Israeli withdrawal from Gaza contributes to this blazing fury. The disengagement and isolation from even your occupier contributes to this agonizing helplessness, where the simplest forms of Palestinian resistance and expression of dissatisfaction with Israel’s ruthlessness and severe injustice is denied- that of hurling stones at the reason behind your misery and destitution.

In Gaza, the level of deprivation is bottomless. Being careful not to compare it, as many so ignorantly and idiotically do, with Somalia or the like famine-hit areas. No, Gaza is a different story. It is a beautiful place where large fragments of contradictions, and a struggle to be, blend to create a chained splendor, a troubling aesthetic. Gaza is not a poor place, it is a made-poor and isolated-from-the-world place. In one area you will find Gazan refugee camps’ alleys flooded with stories of horror and torment, and in another, you will find an extravagant villa and a blooming luxurious hotel where tunnel-smuggled-goods nosh its restaurants. It is an economy kept by Israel at the brink of collapse. It is a place of so much competence and potential, subjugated and suppressed by Israel on a daily basis, and thus crushing every ambition, every dream, and every attempt at blossoming. Water theft, trade constraints, electricity control, and movement restrictions are all but few practices by Israel aiming at turning the life of every Gazan into what a friend would put it- a coping mechanism.

To me, and to many Gazan Palestinians I know, my coping mechanism resides in my virtual world. Ranting and venting can indeed be therapeutic, and dwelling in the twitter world of mine could suffice to chase away the angry being lurking in my heart. This anger has been enhanced with so much fear and uncertainty, not only from Israel’s hidden plans for us, particularly after the recent blackout, but also from our obtuse leadership who might be blowing our decades-long struggle and butchering every dream of return in a dull-witted and selling-out move.

For my own emotional safety, I will be saving up for a punch bag- a pink one too. Something I can confide in and unleash my wrath at every unfairness, especially when I am denied even twitter by Israel. This is what Gazans really do need. For those who are thinking of forming a new convoy to Gaza, I once suggested a convoy of books, but now I say a convoy of punch bags. A more dignified stance of solidarity, and a true remedial aid.

The characters: Myself, my mind, and Israeli drones.
The mood: Concern and agitation
The props: A mattress, a fluffy pillow, my blue bear, a laptop, a cell phone, a chocolate bar, and a bottle of water.

As I, trying to put my mind to sleep, contemplate the troubling beauty of the lights of not just the stars but also the Israeli warplanes in my sky, it hit me like a ton of bricks. Cast Lead II?
It has been pretty quiet on the whole since this blackout started. I often fear quiet under such circumstances, but the company of my family and the TV screen that I cursed just the other day kept my mind off of things.
It really did not seem to be a big deal at the beginning when I tried to come back on twitter and the connection failed after I had finished my iftar. It happens more often than not due to the random power cuts that causes disruption and messes up the settings of my router. I picked up my phone to text someone only to find that there was no cell phone signal, either! My mom’s phone happened to be on the table in front of me, so I attempted to use hers, though there was no signal whatsoever on that one, too. A couple of hours passed with my mind itching until we all felt that something was not right. We contacted our relatives using the landline, and it turned out the whole strip was experiencing the same thing.
Oblivious to the fact that Israeli bulldozers have destroyed telecommunication fiber cables, I decided to wait until the telecommunication problem was solved and the internet was back. It is 3:00 am now, and the fear has gotten the better of me. I am typing this in order to busy my mind  as I am finding the whole situation quite aberrant. The Israeli drones are buzzing in my head and forcing me to ponder. Perhaps I should crack the window above my head open, a Gazan ritual when anticipating Israeli warplane attacks, in case they decided to strike.  Or perhaps I should go inside and sleep in my bedroom and endure the heat inside for the night, until I know what is happening. Why are they doing this? Wjy now? Is it because the PA is going ahead with the UN recognition bid? After all Israel did threaten to take unilateral steps of their own! Is it a test for future plans? A plan of sufficient isolation of Gaza from the world during some sort of a new Israeli ‘operation’? Is it because of us, bloggers and tweeters? Is Israel afraid? Do we pose that much of a threat to Israel’s security? Am I supposed to be afraid? They can bombard and bring my whole neighbourhood down to the ground and we will not even be able to report what is happening to the ones left  with some passion and brains in this world. Am I under Israeli eyes, along with my tweeps and blogger friends? Are they tracking our IP addresses? We are no politicians, but I do know for a fact that our voices pose a threat to Israel’s propaganda and continuous lies. Am I a terrorist in Israel’s eyes? I have never seen a grad rocket let alone fired one, but I guess my tweets and blog posts are all that it takes for Israel to deem me one. Heck, not even that. I am Palestinian and Arab, that is all it really takes. I use Palinoia as my nickname, inspired from the word paranoia; ironically enough, I feel quiet paranoid myself at the moment.
I will eat this chocolate bar, that way if something happens, at least I’d die a happy girl with a sweet something in my tummy. I will turn off the laptop and crawl under the blanket, and I hope I wake up to something serene.
Good night, far far away world.

……………………………………………………..
I just read this written by a dear tweep (Vicky) when we all disappeared all of a sudden. It makes me smile. Thank you, habibti you are one of those left with some passion and conciseness in this world.

A quick note to those who still claim that Gaza isn’t occupied by ‘Israel’ (considering the withdrawal of 2005), you can add this black out to my previous responses to that.

“I do not know whether I should blame Israel or myself for not printing out the papers, or perhaps even blame my uncle for forgetting to bring us some fuel for the generator this time. How naïve of me to trust the electricity schedule! How naïve of me to not see it coming! I should have gathered that electricity for two days in a row, which I had a party about, were not some apt mistake on their part! I should have gathered that they would get me back! And here I am, stuck in front of the laptop screen and I can do nothing about it. I cannot believe I have actually waited till the midterm night to print out my work and did not consider that the electricity might go out – even though it was supposed to be back at 3 pm today!”

She was sat there in the dark, with her little sister, Salma, lying on the mattress next to her, and she, hardly able to hear herself think with the aggravating, irksome noise of the neighbouring generators she had grown accustomed to, supposedly reading, was actually predominantly just watching the low battery indicator on the laptop almost hit zero. And… there it goes… The flashes of the red X on the indicator laid down the law. She must wait for four more hours for the electricity to come back.

She crosses over to the window of the  bedroom. She leans over it, and placing her forearms on top of each other, she gazes out to the horizon. She watches how strangely and beautifully the sky has merged with the ground. One black surface patterned with an array of white dots, posing much like polka dots that she loves so much. It always amazes her to see how those buildings on the other side of the border line in the distance, with their never-out lighted-windows, shaped much of an extension of the starry sky.

A sigh departs her lips as she turns around and crosses over to the drawer of her dresser where she keeps the candles, and placing a candle on her dresser, she draws the lighter from her pocket. It never grows old how beautiful she finds it when the softly born flame springs up passing from the lighter to the candle thread. She mysteriously finds comfort and contentment in the burning beauty of this candle. She can sit there for hours just watching the flame blaze on and burn out, occasionally playing with the wax with the tips of her fingers.

She could see a reflection in the mirror behind the candle. She could see a scarred forehead, two cavernous hazel eyes, a nose, and slightly parted lips. She smiles and her eyes twinkle, and she watches how the mirror reflection smiles exactly the same. She utters, pointing at it with her finger with some frenzied laugh, “You will suck at your exam tomorrow, Laila”, though the reflection does not reply. The smile soon dims out, another sigh makes its way out of her dry lips to be wetted with an intense tear trickling down her face. Her hand moves up swiftly to wipe it out, as though it were a sin for her to cry. She must not cry. She hates it. But how could she not? Two years have passed now since he had died. And she… well, she has been strong all along.

It replays and replays on an unremitting wheel in her head, making her wonder if she should drop her medical degree altogether. The mere thought that she might have to do what those doctors were forced to do with her father haunts her. “I will be cursed, blamed, and helpless. I will be responsible for people’s lives! I will never forget. How can I?” she thought, rubbing both eyes with her cold fingers, “maybe I should forget about medicine. Will I be strong enough for it?”

It was an oddly quiet night that night, when she slept at last with the break of dawn, crammed with her two sisters on the floor of their dim living room, wrapped up in a couple of sheets, with only the sound of silence filling the space, desperately trying to pass the time they had lost track of, trying to escape the uncertainty of reality, and the hideousness of their days, which has been nothing but a series of very much appalling and altogether horrendous nights; fifteen nights of immense horror and fear that one of those loaded Apache’s flying over their house non-stop, or one of those blood-thirsty monster-like Merkava tanks outside might be bombarding their house instead of their neighbours’ for a change. Fifteen nights of barely any electricity, any phone-line network, or any food. Her father, being indifferent to the intimidation of bullets that had caused more than a few holes in all areas of their house, seized in his inability to ensure the safety of his beloved wife and children, was leaning against the wall, with his hands in his pockets, and his grey eyes watching them breathe slowly as they sleep, momentarily looking at his wife, who was fearfully reclining next to them and desperately trying to comfort her little one with a bedtime story, not being able, just like him, to do anything to stop those cold-hearted zionists from harassing them every time they felt like it. It was then when four israeli soldiers broke into their house, kicking the door down with their filthy boots, one of them munching on some chocolate bar he held in his left hand, and holding an M16 rifle in his right.

Her mother jumped in shock, one hand pressing tightly around her three-year-old Salma who went on crying, and the other covering her mouth so as not to utter a sound. Her heart skipped a beat, and the fear locked up any utterance in her throat and any tears in her eyes. Laila’s father did not know if it was wise for him to approach his young ones and beloved wife. It must be risky with such unpredictable creatures in their house, he thought. To stay still might be safer. All he could do was stand there and pray that they would leave them alone. Laila knew it would be an inconceivable folly to look them in the eye, though the rage in her heart could not take it. She stared and stared at that one soldier, till he fixed his two repulsive eyes on her, pointing his gun towards her, and she, without even a blink, did not turn her eyes. He, then, shifted his gun towards her father, with a smirk like that of a senseless crocodile. He held it there for a few seconds that were the longest and most torturous in the family’s entire history. He did not fire at him. Not yet. He, rather, approached him until he was only 20 cm away. He grabbed Abu Laila’s hair from the back, sinking his untrimmed nails in his scalp, and forced him  on his knees. All the while, the rest of the soldiers were roaming about the room, chatting in Hebrew, and laughing. One of them holding the pictures on the walls, picking them up, spitting at them, and breaking them on the ground, and another fiddling with the school books and notes of the little ones, ripping them and grinding them under the heels of his zionist boots. The father could not raise his eyes, not fearing for himself as much as fearing for his family. The soldier started speaking to him, in Hebrew. The father understood some Hebrew but could not speak it. He did not respond. The soldier started kicking him on his bent knees, on his stomach, and got too excited that he started using the edge of his gun to hit the unfortunate Palestinian. The pain was immense, though the man had to take it in soundlessly, for his family. One last strike to his chest was so devastating that Abu-Laila fell down instantly squirming in pain. The echoes of the soldiers’ laughs filled the disgruntled air of the living room. The soldiers walked over towards the door, but before they left, the soldier wanted to finalize his job. He shouted “Mekhabel Arab” [Hebrew for Arab terrorist], spat on the floor of the living room, aimed his gun at the beleaguered father, and… bang! A shot fired.

The soldier was not trying to be funny before he shot, nor was he even just enacting the role of a zionist, israeli soldier. The soldier really believed what he was saying. He believed that this farmer, who had worked tooth and nail throughout his life to provide for his wife and daughters the most basic way of living, was a terrorist. He is Palestinian, an Arab, and that says it all for the zionists.

The mother let out her long-suppressed scream. She, with Laila and little Sarah, crawled over to Abu Laila, who had already passed out. Amidst the cries and the excruciating event, the mother forgot 3-year-old Salma where they were lying down, and it was in a split second that they heard a ravaging explosion which shook them inside out. The quiet night had obviously faded away to introduce one night to never be forgotten. The room was covered in black patches of smoke fused with the wind that blew in from the broken windows, and 3-year-old Salma was hit.

Laila, Um Laila, and little Sarah found themselves forced to be paramedics, a real life or death test. Laila leapt over to pick up injured Salma in her hands, and place her in her mother’s lap. Salma’s leg was hanging, half disconnected from the rest of her body. Blood all over. The mother did not know whether to hold Salma, or her husband. The sounds of ambulances could soon be heard in the distance, and without any thinking, Laila ran towards the door. Her mom, shouting at her, cried even louder, unable to hold her breath or conceal her pain “STAY HERE!!!!!!! Lailaaa… Laila… Habibti, don’t do this to me. This is more than enough… Come back.. I beg you…” Um Laila cried and cried, and 10-year old Sarah was left with no other choice but to join her weeping mother.

Laila, determined to get help, stood at what was left from the door, one hand wiping her tears and the other pressing against her heart, not allowing her knees to let her down. She tried to sneak a quick look at what was going on outside. It was cold, dark, and rainy. She could spot three tanks standing in the distance, like ghosts of the most horrifying variety. Not the ghosts of horror movies, or bedtime stories, but ghosts of a day-to-day life they had been constantly subject to just for being born Palestinians. She could hear an ambulance, though there was no sight of any in front of her. An Apache flew over the house, forcing Laila down on her knees. Soon, the drones came to accompany them, promising some action and swearing that the silent night will not be as still and creepy as it was minutes ago. Laila had to pick herself up. What else could she do! She had to save her father and sister. Or so she used to believe. But, three more rockets hit the area, one falling in their small piece of land they lived off in front of their house, shaking the ground, and throwing Laila so ferociously back into the house where she fell down motionless, with blood seeping down her face, mingling with her tears. A numbness overcame her small body. She felt nothing, and heard nothing.

She opened her blurred-up eyes to find herself in a jam-packed room of five beds, where other little ones were lying, surrounded by their families and a few doctors rushing here and there. She looked around her for someone to recognize, and noticed her sister Sarah, holding her little ripped up teddy bear, and sleeping at the end of the bed where she was lying. Laila could feel something on her face, a bandage. She tried to remember what had happened. She murmured, forcing the words out ‘Baba… Salma…’ Sarah woke up, held Laila’s hand, and said ‘mama is with them, don’t worry. They are alright.’ And Laila fell back asleep.

Sarah let go of her hand, held on tight to her teddy bear, and walked out of the room. The corridor was full to capacity with people lying here and there, her little feet could hardly find a place to move. Some were lying on the floor sleeping, some were crying, some were laughing; it was all too much for her to see. She found a little corner next to a door and curled up there pulling her legs towards her, and placing her forehead on her knees. She had already cried enough that no more tears were left to be shed. She could not bear staying with her family members. It was too much for her small heart, a heart small in size but big enough to endure such horrors. Sarah did not know why it was all happening. Sarah was not fully aware just yet what israel meant. All she knew is that it meant Apaches, F16s, tanks, bullets, wicked soldiers, and blood.

Abu Laila and Salma survived. Salma was too young to realize she will probably never walk again as one of her legs was completely blown off, and the other damaged pretty severely. Abu Laila, on the other hand, had a ripped up kidney resulting from the bullet, which pierced right through, and a slightly broken chest bone resulting from the beats of the edge of the rifle. Fatty droplets–tiny particles of fat from the area of the bone fracture–got into his bloodstream and passed through the heart to his lungs. The droplets triggered immune mechanisms in the lungs, filling the lungs with fluid and blocking the ability to take in oxygen, and resulted in lung hemorrhage.

The family stayed in the hospital for three days, the father on a ventilator until the doctors had finally managed to stabilize his condition. The family could not stay at the hospital any longer. The offensive was still in full swing, and the hospital was receiving more and more bodies of dead and injured, and there was a severe lack of space. A lot of them had to leave and make space for others.

The radio was the only means for them to know what was going on up north in Beit Hanoun where the family lived, and apparently, the invasion of their area was still well underway, and so it was not safe for them to go back to their house that was shelled enough already. Not that the hospital which got its own share of bombardment was safe either! However, it was relatively safer than other areas in the locked-down strip. The mother had to call her sister who lived in the middle of Gaza City to see if they could stay with them.

‘Salamu Alaikom, Mona’ said the mother in a low, trembling voice, fighting back her tears. ‘ Wa Alaikom Alsalam, Mariam habibti. How are you and your family?’ replied her sister.

‘We are at the hospital right now’

‘THE HOSPITAL!’ interrupted Mona in angst. ‘Habibti, what happened? Did anyone get hurt? Are the girls alright!?’

As the tears started building up in her eyes, Um Laila responded, ‘I just want to know if we can stay at your house for the time being. We cannot go back to Beit Hanoun’

‘Of course, Mariam! Do not be silly! It isn’t much safer here but we are waiting for you! Are you not going to tell me what is going on, though? You’ve really worried me now, Mariam! Talk!’

‘Expect us anytime now, dear. I hope you are all safe.’

‘But, Mariam…!’

‘I have to go now, but will call you back before we depart. I love you, sister.’

‘I love you too, habibti. We are waiting. May Allah be with you.’

‘Wa ni`ma billah. Salamu Alaikom.’

Um Laila hung up the phone, with her heart squeezing her. She went up to the doctor, with little Sarah holding on her hand tightly, and told him they had found a place to stay. He gave her a few glucose drips and instructed her and Laila on how to use them. He had also warned her of some life-threatening complications and said that the father needed to be taken back to the hospital once the situation had settled down – nobody knew when that would be.

Amidst the bombing and intimidation of the israeli jets, the family managed to reach Mona’s home. Five days had passed, in fear and grief. In pain and torment. But then, the next morning came, and it was too quiet. Something the Palestinians find dreadful, for it usually means the worst is yet to come, the silence before the storm. However, this time it was the end of the slaughter which felt everlasting to the whole population of the strip. Now the apparent situation is that the suffering has stopped. No more bombing or collective killing. People had endured enough, and now they can go back to their daily lives. For Laila’s family though, the real suffering had all just started.

As they headed back to their home, they found that their piece of land had become nothing more than a bunch of ashes mixed with the sand. The entire harvest of the year is gone with the wind. Palestinians never seem to get tired of starting over. This time, though, Abu Laila cannot start over. Abu Laila’s health is severely damaged. He had to have a kidney operation in Cairo that was put on hold since Rafah terminal was closed. Only some patients, some foreign passport holders, and some of those who had special coordination with Egyptian Intelligence could get through. His kidney operation could not be conducted in Gaza, nor could the lung hemorrhage be treated efficiently without the necessary equipment that Gaza hospitals lack. Abu Laila’s case was critical. Nonetheless, his case was rated to be not as critical as other cases, and consequently he was not allowed to leave to Cairo.

His pain was not physical. He did not give a damn if it hurt or not. Abu Laila’s pain was in the pain of his family. It was in the thought of him being a burden rather than a breadwinner at a time they needed him the most. Laila was torn between running from this hospital to that hospital working on her father’s papers, and studying for her Tawjihi exams to nail that scholarship she had always been dreaming of. Um Laila was torn between taking care of her injured husband and daughter, and running their farm.  And little Sarah, who was once a cheeky little girl, became trapped in the images of death and destruction, and the feelings of fear, pain, rage, and hatred. Sarah will never get therapy. She will, however, continue to look after little Salma and play with her, and will continue to sleep next her father whose tears became his nightly ritual.

Abu Laila’s condition was deteriorating day in day out. Four months of utter pain had passed when one day, Laila picked up the phone to the voice of the doctor telling her that by the end of the week, they will have sent Abu Laila’s file and that he might have a chance of traveling for that operation. It was the first good news in way too long! Laila could not believe her ears, nor could her mother believe her! ‘Are you sure he said this? Laila, are you 100% positive?? When would they send it? When would we get the reply??’ asked Um Laila with the tears of joy rushing down her face uncontrollably.

They could not wait until the end of the week. Those five days were longer than any five days ever that their hearts were racing non-stop, and their minds knowing no sleep being unable to wait! Finally, he will be going out for treatment. Finally, he will be able to go back to work. He will be able to eat properly, to take them out, to laugh from the very depth of his heart, and he will not have to worry that he might be dying any passing moment. Finally, Laila will be able to study without worrying constantly, and Sarah will not have to see her father cry quietly. Sarah will not have to hear her parents talk about death and future possibilities anymore. And little Salma will be having all the attention and care of both parents and the entire family now.

Thursday had come. At last. The clock struck 6 am, and Laila and her mother were already up. They had made breakfast for the family and got dressed and headed to the hospital right away. They could not wait for the phone call. They wanted to go and see for themselves.

They arrived at the reception and asked to see Dr. Mahmoud. He wasn’t there just yet. Two hours of waiting seemed, to Laila and her mother, longer than the five days, though they were worth it. The minute he walked in, Um Laila jumped from her seat, and called in anticipation, ‘Dr. Mahmoud!’ Fixing his glasses and swallowing his words, he replied, ‘Oh. Um Laila…’

His facial expressions and his words were not very heartening. The sight of him with that face on made Laila and her mother shudder. It gave them a pinch in the heart. Should they go on and ask him about the papers? Or do they not want to hear something which might upset them? Something that might crush the beautiful fantasies of the past five days. Something that might absolutely destroy any last bit of hope they had. No. Every bit of his face was saying, ‘Don’t ask about the papers. Don’t ask about the file. Don’t ask about the God damn treatment!’. They did not ask. Neither Laila nor her mother could utter a single word. Dr. Mahmoud cut to the chase and said, ‘Um Laila, look… Your husband is quite old, and lived his life to the fullest. If you were in my position, would you send his file or the file of a dying baby??’
Squeezed up hearts, bitten lips, and wide open eyes with a few tears struggling to roll down was their response.
Dr. Mahmoud went on, ‘We had a baby come in this week who has some serious blood condition, and if he does not travel for treatment as soon as possible, the little one might pass away before he even learns how to walk!’
Um Laila gasped in shock as to what this might entail, as Laila shouted intensely ‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE LIVED HIS LIFE TO THE FULLEST! WHO ARE YOU TO CHOOSE WHO LIVES OR DIES!’ Their panicking expressions and Laila’s eruption made it somewhat difficult for Dr. Mahmoud to keep the same level of his tone, but he continued steadily ‘Look, I am terribly sorry. There is nothing we can do about this. We only do what we can. If anything comes up, I will make sure to call you! I have to go now, I have a patient waiting. Take care of yourself Um Laila, of your daughters, and of your husband.’

Everything just stopped. The clocks are to tick no more, and the world is to go on no more. Everything seemed too insignificant for a moment. Time is insignificant, pain is insignificant, hope is insignificant, fear is insignificant, and the lives of people are definitely the most insignificant.

Laila wanted to shout, to cry, to scream her heart out! Laila couldn’t. Her mother is having it bad enough. Laila must be strong for her now! One crying and howling in the middle of the reception room is more than enough! The word ‘tyrannous’ echoed in the room, as the mother had a nervous breakdown. What are they going to tell Abu Laila, now? What are they going to tell the man who’s just been setting plans for what he will do for his family once his health is restored??
Nothing. Simply nothing.

Abu Laila left this malicious world three weeks later, leaving behind a family wishing he had died the minute he was shot. A family wishing that he, and they, did not have to go through the agony of inhospitable hospitals, and through the pain of misplaced hope. What Laila and her family would not comprehend, though, is that they were still what can perhaps be called ‘lucky’. Gaza sure is a strange concept. It is, in fact, the very embodiment of enstrangement. It really plays on your definition of lucky, if there ever was one.  The family was lucky that the walls of their house were still standing, and they did not have to live in a tent and endure the brutality of winter. Salma, whose nappy apparently poses a threat to israel’s security, is also lucky that her brain is still in its place, that she was able to get treatment inside Gaza, and that the roof of the house did not fall on her tiny body forcing the family to dig up the pieces of her flesh from underneath. Um Laila is damn lucky her physical health is great, and that she is able to fend for her family and provide for them. Little Sarah is lucky she was not also physically damaged, adding to her psychological disturbance. And Laila was also lucky to pass out and not witness more of what can only be called hell on earth, before they were taken to the hospital. Laila is lucky that she was not yet engaged, and that her fiancé was not to be killed making her a widow at a very young age. She is also lucky she had the ability to still concentrate enough to ace her exams and win the scholarship she had always dreamt of. The family’s calamity was not that much of a calamity when placing it on the scale of severity of Gaza’s tragedies. Myriad untold stories are to be buried under the rubbles of Gaza’s desolation, but it’s the Palestinians’ instinct for survival that pushes them to always look onwards. To go back to their destroyed home, pick up the broom, and start clearing out the ruins to start over. It is this instinct for survival and the belief in the justice of their cause that pushes them to grow stronger and more determined. It fuels their struggle for freedom. It is a perplexing way of transforming all this suffering into an inspiration to continue. Gazans have proven time and again they were pretty much like a nail. The more you hit it, the stronger it holds.

Nails sometimes simply bend, however. Laila will not hate the little baby whose file was sent instead of her father’s. She will only hate israel for making it so that the doctor had to choose. She will only wish this baby will survive, will grow up, and will be a freedom fighter. Laila is only human. A strong human, yes, but she is still sat there in her bedroom, with the candle burning out, and as she hears the sound of an Israeli Apache ripping through the sky, she looks over, and in that weak moment and in the memory of all the suffering following her father’s injury, Laila mutters “Next time, finish your job. When you bomb, bomb to end. And when you shoot, please shoot to kill.”

1. In your opinion, is Gaza “occupied” by Israel?
2. What do you want Americans to know about the situation in Palestine?
3. What do you want Americans to know about the Arab or Muslim world?
4. Any additional comments

1)     One must understand the definition of the word ‘occupation’ and then compare it with the facts on the ground in order to judge whether Gaza is indeed occupied by Israel or not. According to my dictionary, occupation means ‘Invasion, conquest, and control of a nation or territory by foreign armed forces’. Another definition is ‘The military government exercising control over an occupied nation or territory.’ Now let us act blind and try to find out whether this is the case in Gaza or not.
As a Palestinian living in Gaza, I am subject to random Israeli air strikes every now and then. Case in point would be the day previous to yesterday where the Israeli jets pounded my area with their missiles, using apaches, F16s, and helicopters. In the past couple of days, around 7 people were reported injured, two of whom are children. That is for armed forces. Then we move to our basic human right of movement. As a Palestinian from Gaza, I am destined to strive for at the very least three or four months to plan on leaving the strip for whatever purpose; be it educational, medical, vocational, or even for a holiday. I am destined to work 40 times harder to get the needed documents months in advance, and even then, the likely possibility is for me to be rejected and not allowed to leave the strip. Hundreds of people are rejected everyday at the Rafah crossing, due to the Israeli siege. It is noteworthy that also an engineer in Gaza is assigned the Gaza International Airport project, but Israel would not allow us to rebuild it. Other than movement would be trade. It is incredibly dangerous for any trader to engage in trade, noting that trade in Gaza means only imports as we are not allowed to export. What is allowed to pass through Israel is peanuts compared to the needs of 1.5 million locked up in this 360km2 of land. If it weren’t for the tunnel industry, as dangerous as it is, Gaza would be starving by now. Add to this the regular power cuts we face every single day. Every 8 hours, the power goes out and our only resort would be power generators. This is resulting from not allowing enough fuel to get into Gaza, of course by Israel. Not to mention also the restraints on sent and received mail; never mind the fact that it takes months to reach its destination, whether coming in or going out, but what you are allowed to ship is what matters (only papers and documents are allowed to be shipped in or out, nothing else). These are but few examples of the ‘control of a nation or territory by foreign armed forces’ mentioned in the definition of occupation, and the list goes on for whoever is living in Gaza or interested to know the facts. In the end, what does blockade and siege fall under if it weren’t ‘occupation’?

2)     I want Americans to know that their tax dollars are contributing to one of the biggest injustices of modern history, resulting in a massive disproportionate use of power against a civilian population. I want Americans to try to understand what it is like to be under occupation, and to try to feel the anger jammed up inside every Palestinian for seeing their family suffer endlessly  when there is very little that they can do about it. I also want Americans to know that violence is never an inherent part of the culture, and if it were them facing 63 years of pain, agony, oppression, displacement, humiliation, and massacres, they would do far more than homemade rockets. While Israel is supplied with the most destructive weapons of all time, on a constant basis, we are being locked up and forced to live a miserable life under a tight, inhumane blockade. We are dying in the hundreds, but the world is not paying attention. I want them to see the injustice in how a Palestinian life is nothing compared to a scratch an Israeli person might get. I want them also to notice the countless non-violent resistance approaches by the Palestinian people from years and years ago and continuing until this day, yet the response is always violence, murder, and oppression from the Israeli internationally-back armed forces; case in point would be the continuous Nabi Saleh peaceful protests that are always dispersed violently by the Israeli army.  I want Americans to know that the Palestinians are paying for what Hitler did, and that we were never part of any victimization of the Jewish people. They came to this land, massacred my people and displaced them to settle there and build their country. I want them to know that my mother is a refugee and her family was thrown out of their home during the Nakba of 1948 (formation of Israel) to have an Israeli family live there instead. I also want Americans to know that Jews and Arabs in Palestine used to coexist peacefully, and it wasn’t until the Jewish immigrants (later called “Israelis”) who were supported by the British started to displace Palestinians from their livelihoods on farms owned by absentee landlords and then the creation of the state of Israel which puts the Jewish people (that are born to a Jewish mother) first, and any other citizen would be a second-class citizen with less rights, that the conflict started. I want them to open their eyes to apartheid in this part of the world, and if not act against it and against the discrimination and injustice it entails, then at least not to contribute to it.

3)     I  want Americans to think outside the box and open their eyes to the protests that are taking place across the Arab world in order to see that we all love democracy, love freedom, and love justice (contrary to what the media usually portrays). I want them to think of how such dictators as Mubarak, for instance, were supported by the American government for years, which shows the complicity of that government that advocates ‘democracy’. And I also ask them to not be too stupid to accuse Muslims in general of being terrorists, because terrorism knows no religion. This can be seen in the latest bombings in Norway that left over 90 innocent people killed, and how it was instantly claimed to be Islamic terrorists until the truth came out. Open your minds and hearts, stop contributing to the injustice and violence against innocent Arabs and Muslims and creating more enemies while you are at it, merely for domination and imperialistic purposes. Muslims respect and love all religions, and perhaps the most important verse in the Quran would be “There shall be no compulsion in [acceptance of] the religion” (2:256). My friends who were killed during Israel’s assault were named Musa (Moses) and Eesa (Jesus). In fact, we learn about Moses and Jesus in school as our prophets too, and we respect them that we name some of our children after them. Let us see each other as equal human beings and respect each other, and there shall be peace.

4)     I want to shed light on Israel’s reaction to the PA appeal of UN recognition of a Palestinian state. Although this ‘state’ would mean giving up almost 80% of the land, Israel is rejecting it and is threatening us not to go on with it. I do not support this UN recognition anyway, but it just goes to show that no matter what we do, Israel will find a way to say no, and then they say it is us who do not want peace. We, as Palestinians, have tried everything in our pockets. What else are we supposed to do? What does Israel suggest?
I also blame the decent Jews for not rising up against Zionists, just as they blamed the decent Germans for not rising up against the Nazis. On the other hand, my love & respect goes to the decent and brave Jews who are opposing the crimes of Israel, most recent of those is Lucas, the American Jew who spoke about Palestine inside Israel and got beaten and arrested for it. And also the Jewish activists who come to Palestine, including Gaza, to show their solidarity. Our problem is not with Jews as many seem to believe, it is with the apartheid regime that puts people born to a Jewish mother as the standard, and everybody else is second-class. It is with those who claim that the Palestinian people never existed and those who see us as ‘cockroaches’ and not worthy of living. I don’t see them attacking Peter Griffin, from Family Guy, for saying Jew is the only religion with the word ‘ew’ in it! I mean I never heard a Palestinian say it, as funny as it is! Finally, I love Chuck Norris and I think if he were here, he would stand with the Palestinians in their struggle for justice, peace, and freedom! (jk about Chuck Norris part, but love Chuck Norris jokes!)

Palestine, Israel, and politics are constantly in the back of my head. If I were not Palestinian, perhaps most of this would not have been the case. I have been feeling too old and too cheerless for some time now, something I am known to be the exact opposite of. And often I  wonder if even having my blog and writing about my experiences and Palestine is a gain or an attainment, seeing that I by and large think of it as just another a loss on the list. This has never been something I wanted to do. I never thought I would write anything, I despised writing. But I guess this is my pre-determined life as a Palestinian who wants to do something and change whatever it is that can be changed with so little a power. But at least I do like video-taping and editing.

Now, I just want to be selfish and there is nothing wrong with that. I want one thing for myself. The most trivial things seem precious to me at this point and I keep thinking at things I wish I am doing, but still… I don’t want to think of my long-time-ago paintings and my art, that is fine. I don’t want to think of my dream of becoming an interior designer, not only because I don’t have the chance of studying or doing that, but also because it is not something that would contribute to justice in this world. I also don’t want to think about playing the piano or working on becoming better. I don’t want to think about swimming. I don’t want to think about my lost dignity at airports for having a Palestinian ID. I don’t want to think about having spoiled little children whose lives are much more fun and war-free. I am willing to sacrifice anything I love and want to have, and will continue to do anything noble that would contribute to justice and support it as much as I can with the same spirit I had. But, there is only one thing I don’t want to lose or give up on. There is only one thing I want to be selfish about, and I hope everybody would pray for me. Please, pray that I won’t lose it, and lose my mind, my life, my happiness, and my faith along the way. When life gives me lemon, I do make lemonade. But if it gives me gall, then what do I do?

Ps. As for the title, I lost my dear iPod (my best acquaintance) last night which I’ve used to video tape for the blog and other things, and which cost $300 and was NOT from Gaza. I still cannot believe I lost, where am I supposed to get a new one? How? I was so attached to it L it was always in my pocket wherever I went. Too trivial compared to the losses of a Palestinian, I know, but it is one of the trivial things I value so much, and I just lost it at the very wrong time.

This is the last thing I taped with it- Gaza Port: