أنا مثل النعامة
التاريخ: 
13/10/2024
المؤلف: 

Since the beginning of this genocide, my friends and I check on each other every couple of days. That doesn’t include days of ground assault on their blocks when I keep messaging them to ensure they’re safe. I insist on identifying their location, as the news has stopped mentioning names, or even the addresses of the places being bombed. 

Last time the Israeli forces initiated a sudden ground assault on my friend's big neighborhood, I immediately called her. She responded with a shivering voice as she was gasping: “Deema, we’re on the street. I’m only wearing my slippers. Even my hair isn’t properly covered.” She was crying and I started crying as well. 

What could I say? What could I do?

I wanted to go to her and bring her to my home. My home is not far from the targeted blocks. I wanted to give her whatever she needed to calm down. But I cannot give what I lack. I wanted to say that everything was going to be alright… but I couldn’t lie. 

I told her: “I’ll pray for your safety. Just run away from that place and I’ll call you again once you get to a better area.” This was one of my moments of utmost helplessness jammed in the pockets of war. Like an ostrich burying her head in the soil while hiding from hunters, I was digging my hole of memories that I have shared with my friend, using my bare hands to keep them safe. I had all the scary thoughts of losing her, followed by all the guilty feelings of being a selfish girl. 

My hole kept broadening. The claws of farewell were tugging me down after attacking my faith. I went to the roof and saw all the people evacuating. My eyes were focused on their tired shoulders, weighed down by mountains of sadness and frustration. Then, I prayed. I prayed for it to be the last time we lived through this catastrophe. For it to be the last time we leave our homes terrified with no clear direction to go after. The last time we feel unable to control a single factor in our life. 

I prayed for the world to treat us as human beings, rather than pathetic puppets made to capture the attention of an audience that empathizes with us, but won't reach out to rescue us.

July, 2024

مهرجان العودة السينمائي الدولي، مدينة  خان يونس، آب/ أغسطس 2024، صفحة مهرجان العودة الدولي السينمائي على منصة فيسبوك
فاطمة الزهراء سحويل
(نازحون من جباليا شمال غزة، يسيرون عبر طريق صلاح الدين الرئيسي باتجاه مدينة غزة في 23 تشرين الأول/أكتوبر 2024) (تصوير AFP، عبر Getty Images)
يسري الغول
Wild flowers of Palestine. Poison hemlock (Conium maculatum L). 1900 (Photo by: Sepia Times/Universal Images Group via Getty Images). Image altered.
لورا البسط