Monthly Archives: November 2012

Good Morning, Mum

original text is in Arabic, by : Mohammad al- Sheikh Yusuf

translated by: Yasmeen Faeq


Good Morning, Mum/ Good Morning, Mohammed. A massacre has just happened a little time ago two streets away from our house!
This is how I woke up yesterday; from the nightmares that have become habitual, to the brutal truth which we lie every time we say we used to. Stand abandoning sweet taste of sleep, repeat: “Death doesn’t hurt dead people; it does hurt live ones instead- M.D.”. Follow up on the news in a mad way. I always hated that bold red line of news. I always hated the fact that once you are dead, you won’t exceed a passing story on T.V news.
After being, in those old days, the First Hero of your parents who are watching you all day and night getting happy if his/her length increased one millimeter, and, in a moment, you become a mere name that doesn’t take more than a second from news listeners to know while you remain in your people’s minds and hearts who pin your photo on the wall, everyday imagine how your new face would look like if you were there, everyday imagine your haircut that suits you in this new age, and the color of your wedding suit would you choose, after years from now, if you remained live, only if you remained live no more!

– Good night, Mum/ A new massacre has happened. A lot of children has been killed; Azzam Family!
That was what I have said to my mother who pretends to be asleep waking up every hour checking the family heads to be all safe and sound except Mohammed who is still restless and troubled counting children in their way to heaven. I Stay up all night stunned and confused, change T.V channels, listen to radio, and follow up internet all at once. But a rocket in Zaytun region has fallen down. Who hears the region’s name imagines that it is full of green peace though it was a dark black night, or let it be a red, the color doesn’t matter, it doesn’t belong to peace; this is what matters. The rocket falls tenaciously and intentionally, its eyes stare, and EPOLDE. This is its only function. If it had a heart, it would instantly change its task or it would commit a suicide before it carries it out. Then, the radio’s sound gets louder, the reporter stands in front of the hospital, waits ambulances; his voice gets louder and louder: “Now injuries arrive. I’ll count them for you. It’s a child. No, they are two. All of them are children. Three, five, nine. No, they are fifteen children. Their number is increasing.” The reporter collapses, bursts into tears, and leaves me sclerotic as an idol in an abandoned temple, as a Church belt felt a headache, as a paraplegic on a railway, and as me now while trying to write about what I can not thinking how would it be if the scene was like this: the reporter is a teacher counting the happy children who just returned from a leisure trip while they are jumping and assuring each other that his/her “head” has been successfully passed under the teacher’s hand preparing themselves to return home to tell their mothers about the journey after eating what is left from their candy at the bus!
I keep awake; don’t want to die asleep, because I want to scream a little before death comes to us, because I think of making a try to repel the rocket by my shaky body. Perhaps I would add a few seconds of survival chance to Barhoom and Asoom, my little siblings. Yet, I collapse at noon after several days sitting at my place, don’t do anything except smoking and hearing the sounds of war and resurrection. Half an hour later, I wake up to the sound of funeral of “Al-Dalou Massacre”. Is the word “massacre” really enough for martyrs to trust that language didn’t rape their right of expression?
– Mohammed, get up, get up, a new massacre
– Include children, mother?
– Get up as it is a massacre, so it includes children!
The first image I see on TV, a picture of two twins, the broadcaster confirms that one died and the other is missing, and just minutes later, it takes only a few minutes, bringing the news that the family stepped up to the Lord almost together, father and mother and two children. I sit on the chair contracted and ball-shaped, I put my hands on my head, the phone rings, I get a good news, I laugh because the one brought it wants me to laugh, tell him I am happy, hang up, and look at my mother: How could we get happy now? While they really exist these who are screaming and crying? We forget the news or postpone its joy.
My family tells me that a house one street away from us got a threat, and the square was completely evacuated, look for “Barhoum”. He does not care about me, and turns his face, and then come to me within minutes and says: “originally I am not afraid. It’s normal. I don’t get afraid.” I did not understand why he said that, and why I did not justify to him that death is worse than waiting for it, then ask “Asom” to take him to the room to play, and the truth is that I did not want him to watch the children while they are out of their burial to the morgue.

I think of those who their houses are being bombed, those homes that hold a memory in every corner of them. What do you remember to take before exiting? What was left? Their clothes? Wristwatches? Personal photos and the large photo wall that speaks the family smile? Small clothes that the mother hided to always remind her sons and daughters that, one day, their size didn’t exceed her hand’s tip, and promise them to give them to her grandchildren – their children to wear them, and did they take the window where they drank tea hundreds of times? Did they take their memories with them? How could a memory be destroyed that easy? -Having built stone by stone!

Original text by Mohammad al- Sheikh Yusuf

النص الأصلي : • – صباح الخير يا أمي / صباح النور محمد، حدثت مجزرة قبل قليل؛ عائلة الدلو، خلف المنزل بشارعين !

هكذا استيقظتُ بالأمس، من كوابيسِ النومِ التي اعتدناها فصارت أليفة، إلى الحقيقةِ الشرسة التي نكذبُ كلما قُلنا أننا اعتدناها، أقفُ من نومي وأرددُ “الموت لا يوجع الموتى؛ بل يوجعُ الأحياء – م.د”، وأتابعُ الأخبار بشكلٍ جنوني، لطالما كرهتُ شريط الأخبار الأحمر، لطالما كرهتُ فكرة أنك حين تموتُ فإنكَ لن تتجاوز مجرد خبرٍ عابرٍ في نشرةِ الأخبار، بعد أن كنتَ سابقاً بطلَ أُمِكَ وأبيكَ الأول، الذي يشاهدانه ليل نهارٍ، ويفرحانِ كُلما ازداد طوله ميليمتراً واحداً، وفي ثانيةٍ واحدٍ، تصبحُ مجرد اسمٍ لا يأخذُ من وقتِ المشاهدين أكثر من ثانيةٍ لسماع اسمهِ، وتبقى عالقاً في ذهنِ أهلكَ، الذين يعلقون صورتكَ على ما تبقى من الحائطِ، ويتخيلون كل يومٍ شكلكَ الجديد لو كنت موجوداً، وتسريحة الشعرِ المناسبة لك في هذا العمر، ولون بدلة عُرسكِ التي كنت ستختارها بعد أعوامٍ، لو بقيت حياً، فقط لو بقيت حياً لا أكثر !

– تصبحين على خيرٍ يا أمي/ حدثت مجزرة جديدة، مات الكثير من الأطفال، عائلة عزام !
هكذا قلتُ لأمي التي تصحو كل ساعةٍ من تظاهرها بالنومِ، وتتفقدُ رؤوس العائلة، كلهم بخير، إلا محمد ما زال على قيدِ القلقِ والتوترِ، ويَعُدُ الأطفال وهم في طريقهم إلى السماء.
أجلسُ طوال الليلِ مشدوهاً، ومشدوداً، أقلبُ قنوات التلفاز، وأسمع الراديو، وأتابع الإنترنت في وقتٍ واحد، إلا أن سقط صاروخ في منطقةِ الزيتون، ومن يسمع اسم المنطقة يتخيلُ أنها تنعمُ بالسلامِ الأخضر، إلا أنها كانت ليلة سوداء، أو حمراء، لا يهم اللون المهم أنها لا تمد للسلامِ بصلة، يسقطُ الصاروخ بعنادٍ شديدٍ وقصدٍ، يحدقُ بعينهِ، وينفجر، هذه مهمته الوحيدة، لو كان له قلب لغير مهنته، أو انتحر قبل أن يفعلها، ثم يعلو صوت الراديو، المذيع يقفُ أمام المستشفى، ينتظرُ سيارات الإسعاف، يعلو صوته أكثر، ” الآن تصلُ الإصابات، سأعدها لكم، إنه طفل، لا طفلان، إنهم جميعاً أطفال، ثلاثة، خمسة، تسعة أطفال، لا لا إنهم خمسة عشر طفلاً، أنهم يتزايدون، ثم ينهارُ المراسل، وينفجرُ بالبكاءِ، ويتركني متصلباً مثل صنمٍ في معبدٍ مهجور، مثل جرس كنيسةٍ شعرُ بصداعٍ، مثل مشلولٍ على سكةِ حديد، ومشوشاً مثلي الآن وأنا أحاولُ الكتابة عن ما لا أستطيع، وأفكرُ كيف أن ذلك المشهد كان يمكن أن يكون مثلاً على هذه الشاكلة، المذيع هو أستاذ، ويعد الأطفال الفرحين بعودتهم من رحلةٍ ترفيهية، والأطفال يتقافزون ويؤكدون مرور رؤوسهم تحت يدِ الأستاذ، ويستعدون للعودةِ إلى المنزلِ كي يخبروا أمهاتهم عن الرحلة، بعد أن يأكلوا في الباص ما تبقى معهم من الحلوى !
أظلُ مستيقظاً لأنني لا أريدُ الموت نائماً، لأنني أرغبُ بالصراخِ قليلاً قبل أن يسقط علينا الموت، لأنني أفكرُ في محاولةِ صدِ الصاروخِ بجسدي الهش، ربما أضيفُ بضع ثوانٍ من فرصةِ النجاةِ لبرهوم وأسوم أخوتي الصغار، إلا أنني أنهارُ عند الظهيرة بعد عدة أيامٍ الجلوسِ في مكاني، لا أفعلُ شيئاً سوى التدخين، وسماع صوت الحربِ والقيامة، ثُم أصحو بعد نصف ساعةٍ على صوتِ تشيع جنازةِ مجزرة “عائلة الدلو”، هل حقاً كلمة مجزرة كافية ليثق الشهداء أن اللُغة لم تختزل حقهم في التعبير؟
– محمد قوم قوم، مجزرة جديدة، قوم قوم / فيها أطفال يا أمزي ؟ قوم بس قوم طالما مجزرة يبقى في أطفال !

أول صورة أشاهدها على التلفاز، صورة لطفلين توأم، يؤكد المذيع أن أحدهما استشهد والآخر مفقود، وبعد دقائق فقط، لا يحتاج الأمر إلا لعدة دقائق، ليصل الخبر أن الأسرة صعدت إلى ربها شبه مجتمعة، أب وأم وطفلين، أجلسُ على الكرسي مقرفصاً ومتكوراً أضعُ يداي على رأسي، يرن الهاتف، يصلني خبر سعيد، أضحك لأن من أوصله يحتاج مني أن أضحك، أخبره أنني سعيد، أغلق السماعة، وأنظر إلى أمي: كيف نفرح الآن ؟ فيما هناك من يلطمون ويصرخون ويبكون ؟ وننسى الخبر أو نؤجل الفرح فيه.
يخبرني أهلي أن بيتاً يبعد عنا شارع واحد وصله تهديد، ومربع البيت تم إخلاءه بشكل تام، أنظر إلى “برهوم” لا يكترث لي، ويدير وجهه، ثم يأتي إلي بعد دقائق ويقول: أصلاً مش خايف، عادي، ما بخاف أنا. لم أفهم لماذا قال ذلك، ولماذا لم أبرر له أن الموت أشد من انتظاره، بعدها أطلب من “أسوم” أن تأخذه إلى الغرفة ليلعبا، وفي الحقيقةِ هو أنني لم أكن أريد له أن يشاهد الأطفال وهم يخرجون من دفئهم إلى ثلاجة الموتى.
أفكرُ في الذين تقصف منازلهم، تلك المنازل التي تحملُ في كل زاويةٍ ذكرى، ما الذي تذكروا أخذه قبل الخروج منها؟ ما الذي تركوه؟ ملابسهم ؟ ساعات اليد؟ الصور الشخصية، وصورة الحائط الكبيرة التي تجمع ابتسامة العائلة ؟ الملابس الصغيرة التي خبأتها الأم لتذكر أبناءها دائماً بنهم كانوا في يومٍ من الأيام لا يتجاوزون كفةِ يدها، وتعدهم بأنها ستلبسها لأحفادها – أولادهم، وهل أخذوا النافذة التي شربوا فيها الشاي مئات المرات، هل أخذوا ذكرياتهم معهم ؟ كيف يمكن أن تهدم الذاكرة بتلك السهولة؟، بعد أن بُنيت حجراً حجراً !

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Posted by on November 20, 2012 in On the Margin, Scenes of my life


Universal Children’s Day

I have never payed attention to the date of such a day. I was always hearing about it through school daily program, and I was always forgetting about it by the second the program ends.

This year, Google drew my attention to it. I love Google styles. Once they change the style, I click on the new one tho know what anniversary it is.

Today, Google celebrates the Universal Children’s Day while children of Gaza are being massacred with every elapsing minute.

Google celebrates the Universal Children’s Day while children of Gaza are being trapped under debris of their houses which were damaged over their heads!

Google celebrates the Universal Children’s Day while children of Gaza are being slaughtered, burned, and targeted with huge rockets for playing!

I googled the word “Universal Children’s Day” and found this:

“On December 14, 1954, the UN General Assembly recommended that all countries should introduce an annual event from 1956 known as Universal Children’s Day to encourage fraternity and understanding between children all over the world and promoting the welfare of children.”

Just please, look at the welfare of Gazan children. 25 were massacred on the day of children only, while more than hundred were slaughtered during the last 7 days!

this is the welfare of Gazan children.

I just want to say to the whole world, STOP LYING !!


Innocent Israel, criminal children !

Innocent children are the most targeted category as this report published yesterday 18/11/2012 on the Ministry of Health’s website shows

PS: the final report of today can’t be published for the day hasn’t finished yet, and number of victims is still increasing second by second..

The daily report of the Israeli aggression against Gaza 14-18/11/2012 (No.7)

Sunday 18-11-2012.                                                                                        Time: 12:00

The result of the Israeli aggression against Gaza was 592 victims; among them 539 injuries and 53 martyrs.

The following tables show the distribution of the victims according to the following variables:

A-         The Martyrs Total No. ( 53)

1-    Classification according to gender







2-    Classification according to age:

Child (M+F)


Females (adults)




B-          The Wounded Total No. (539)

1-  Classification according to gender







2-  Classification according to categories



53 child are less than 5 years old



Including 33elderlies (M+F)





this is what so-called “Bank of targets” Netanyahu wants to achieve:

 Who is the terrorist?

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Posted by on November 19, 2012 in Being a Gazan


We teach life, sir.

We teach life, sir.
We Palestinians teach life after they have occupied the last sky.
We teach life after they have built their settlements and apartheid walls, after the last skies.
We teach life, sir.


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Posted by on November 15, 2012 in Being a Gazan


Back to Death!


I’m neither writing to argue who has started, nor do I writing to plead. I just want to speak about a place on earth where people experience death every moment while they are still alive,  and where people suddenly die with no throes.


It’s Gaza

The last few days, a mother delivered her baby boy (Matar) on the same day her son (Matar, 17 years) was killed. It’s Gaza where people never die, where life goes on despite of every tragedy the city goes through, and where everything seems to grant people more strength.


I’m pregnant,

And the strangest feeling I may feel at these moments is that the little embryo inside my womb moves strongly and quickly once a strong bombing shakes everything around.



The city is drowning in darkness, and the buzzing of the Zionist spy planes is getting louder and louder. My bed is shaking at the moment, and sounds of explosions are deafening.  I just cannot understand how my mother simply says, “go to bed”.


Nothing to lose!

I was reading Nothing to Lose but Your Life by Suad Amiry. I thought, it will be okay if I just lost my life. No Suad, I have many things to lose. I may lose the life of my husband, brother, father, mother, or sister. I may lose a part of my body. I may lose my eight-month embryo. I will be lucky if it is about losing my life only.



The home page suddenly turns into a news screen on which all of my friends write the same status update: Qasef!!!, Bombing.



Despite of this rain of fire, I want people to know 15th of November is Palestine’s independence day =D

Anyway, it’s a nice opportunity to live the lie of Yasser Arafat.

this is how Gaza looked today, and is still, however; in darkness now :


I don’t care

I don’t care about what anybody on earth thinks of Gazans. I don’t care if they called us terrorists. At this moment, I want resistance to go on stronger and stronger. I want resistance to force them stay in their shelters forever. I want them to know we never go to shelters, we never make shelters, even. Shelters are for cowards, and Israel knows, very well,  we are not!

Damn you Israel,

 Long live Gaza. Long live resistance.

Ruba Monzir