Counting Down a Genocide
Date: 
August 12 2024
Author: 

In the past, people used sand glasses to measure time. If you break the glass, you lose your time. For that reason, noble people bought the toughest glassy globes, placed them on safe shelves, and employed dozens of guardians to keep them intact and glowing. Farmers like my grandfather used the harvesting calendar to name the seasons passing through. It was not accurate but it did help them grow lots of trees. “Civilized people,” with their blue eyes and blond hair, use school and work agendas and planners to outline the next chapter in their lives. Predicting their future positions is as easy as gifting a rocket to children for Eid. The gift giver could be too generous; sending real functioning rockets and not just silly plastic toys, because who enjoys playing with toys anymore? 

As for me, I have failed to use any of these methods to measure my time. I tried at first. I had my wooden clock, which hung on my wall for years. But it died out of the blue. It was a relief not to hear its ticking anymore after the continuous torture it caused me as the fastest watch to ever exist. Running late to my friends, eating while studying, and waking up by dawn were all the doing of my ungenerous clock. 

Now, scheduling my time is a no-brainer! I no longer use alarms; instead, I start my morning with an abundance of smoke slinking through my window, declaring the beginning of a new promising day. My cousins too are greeted by the clouds of smoke that my father creates when lighting our fires. He is not a professional fire lighter; he does not use dry wood that would turn to flames quickly, rather he uses the wood of trees freshly murdered by airstrikes. My grandfather probably would not have approved of my father's fires and would have considered them a real shame to our family’s long legacy as farmers who have always relied on fire for their survival. They have used it to cook and protect themselves from stray animals and sustain a light for their nightly chatter underneath the olive trees. 

Doing chores usually follows, consuming almost three-quarters of my exhausted energy and leaving me with only a single quarter to endure the uninvited heat waves. By the time I do my chores and have the same lunch I have had more than thirty times in the past eight months, I realize that I have a reading urge to fulfill. I pick up a book or two and immerse myself in reading while squandering every chance of distractions with my calm and peaceful siblings who respect my quality time and encourage me to keep my spirits high. While they practice throwing a ball next to me without hitting me, I manage to read a few pages and then declare the end of my productive day. I go upstairs looking for some lonely moments with the sky. I bet it's more occupied these days than ever before, but I pretend that it is not. I set my gaze toward the sun and the clouds that surround it. Neither of us is as pure as they were before, fatal emissions have pervaded the air and I feel stained by fury and frustration. I stay there until the sun descends then I retreat to my shell. I did it again, survived another day unharmed, and with no accomplishment to celebrate except for going with the flow. And it is indeed a dilemma to go with the flow during a genocide when at any minute you could lose everything the way many have and continue to. I wish I could have one day off, I wish it was possible to have one day off from war. 

June 21, 2024, 11:50 pm

About The Author: 

Deema Dalloul is a 20-year-old writer from Gaza. She is a middle child and an avid reader trying to find her place in this world. She used to study business administration and work as a digital marketer, but not anymore. Currently, she's trying, again, to survive starvation and war being waged on Gaza.

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