When talking with a colleague recently, I confided that I am not afraid or concerned for my safety here in Gaza. This is neither bravery or recklessness on my part, but more of a calculated risk. As part of the international community I live in one of the safest buildings in one of the safest areas in Gaza City. Undoubtedly the Israelis, one of the largest military powers in the world, have the coordinates of the international's buildings, helping them to avoid bombing us during their regular airstrikes on Gaza and therefore avoiding international incidents. I would have to be very unlucky to come to some harm here, and as it is possible to be unlucky anywhere, I am not afraid for my safety. At least, that is how I look at it.
What I am afraid of, what bothers me most is that I will be of no use here, unable to change anything, unable to help or make even the smallest difference. Worse, that I will become overwhelmed by the scale of the devastation inflicted, will crumple in the face of the harrowing stories and images that abound and become a blubbering wreck. Or that the rage that I feel occasionally at what I see and hear will grow, and turn into hatred or cynicism. The story of Gaza is not my story, the suffering is not my suffering, the pain is not my pain, I'm a visitor who can leave whenever I choose. As such I know that I have no right to indulge in emotions that do not belong to me or to my experience. Since coming here, my mantra has been simply to be the best I can be, do the best job I can do, to play the part that I can play - that is all and that is good enough.
So far I have been fortunate, I am working in an organisation that does incredible work for the people of Gaza, working tirelessly for the rule of law, democracy and human rights. My assignment fits my organisational development skills well, enabling me to contribute to the overall work, giving me a sense of purpose.
However, there are times when I am unable to maintain this perspective.
The first week I was here I met a farmer and his family whose land in Beit Lahiya flanks the buffer zone. They had a tank permanently overlooking their house for a number of years, there to protect the Israeli settlers, now gone, who had usurped the land next door. The farmer recounted how his beautiful house had been demolished at one stage and after rebuilding it, he was warned to leave by the Israeli Occupying Forces. He stayed, toughed it out, enduring all manner of assaults, until eventually he and his family were forced out by the ground offensive of Cast Lead- their lives in very real danger.
Sitting outside on a beautiful day, surrounded by his children and grandchildren, his wife picked up the story and told us how they fled under attack, meeting neighbours on the road- all trying to get to Gaza City and to relative safety. A local woman they knew had her three children with her- two of them were killed as they tried to make their way through the night, our hosts witnessed all this. The woman had to be torn away- to leave her children's bodies behind so that she could save herself and her remaining child. When she came back several days later, after the shelling had stopped, she found the remains of her children- recognisable only by the scraps of clothing they had worn- they had been eaten by wild dogs. As I listened to this account, I could not help but cry.
A couple of weeks ago I wrote of the airstrikes on Gaza that were happening at the time- that the world was largely unaware of or indifferent to -and I mentioned the children killed. Last week my colleague went and met the parents of 13 year old Mamoun Aldam, one of those killed in these attacks while picnicking with his family and playing football. His mother Amna recounted the following to my colleague.....
"We were not armed. We are civilians. The trees in the farm were recently planted, so they are still small. Anyone could see from above that we were just civilians so we did not expect to be attacked."
Mamoun made his parents some coffee and then started playing with his football:
"He was playing about 20 meters from where we were resting and I asked him to come back. Suddenly I heard an explosion. I saw dust, smoke and fire where Mamoun had been standing. I heard him scream once and then he went quiet. I kept calling out for him, but he did not answer back."
Amna was desperately calling for her son as she rushed to where he had been playing: " There was dust everywhere and I could not see anything. When I finally saw Mamoun, he was lying on the ground and there was a lot of blood around him. His legs had been torn off. There was shrapnel all over his body. His clothes were burned and he was almost naked. He was dead."
Amna clearly recalls hearing other women screaming from neighbouring farms as she picked up her son's body: "I held him and took him to his father so he could touch his face and say goodbye. I found my husband bleeding heavily from his head. His left hand and right leg were also bleeding. He was touching his forehead and asking me if it was sweat. He is a diabetic and has high blood pressure, so I thought he was going to die from all the bleeding. I was screaming for people to come and help us."
Two ambulances arrived on the farm shortly afterwards and rushed Mohamed, who is blind, to hospital. They also took what was left of Mamoun's body. Amna stayed behind:
"There were pieces of my child's body everywhere. I stayed there and started collecting the pieces and putting them in a bag. Other women came to help me."
What mother can contemplate her children being killed and their bodies eaten by dogs? What mother can contemplate gathering the pieces of her child's body and putting them in a bag? These Palestinian mothers are not lesser beings, they love and cherish their children as much as any other mother. Any thought or suggestion otherwise is racism of the most despicable kind.
These are two of the horror stories that abound here in Gaza. They are not stories of the past but of the present day. This is ongoing. I have more stories, of a child who survived despite the top of her head being burned off with white phosphorous, of a tiny body torn asunder with flechettes. Israel has an evil arsenal and gets to use it with impunity.
As I write this I am crying- not because I am overwhelmed, but because I am human, and a mother.
Tomorrow when I go to work, I will simply try to be the best I can be, do the best job I can do, play the part that I can play, hoping that it is good enough- it is all I can do.
What I am afraid of, what bothers me most is that I will be of no use here, unable to change anything, unable to help or make even the smallest difference. Worse, that I will become overwhelmed by the scale of the devastation inflicted, will crumple in the face of the harrowing stories and images that abound and become a blubbering wreck. Or that the rage that I feel occasionally at what I see and hear will grow, and turn into hatred or cynicism. The story of Gaza is not my story, the suffering is not my suffering, the pain is not my pain, I'm a visitor who can leave whenever I choose. As such I know that I have no right to indulge in emotions that do not belong to me or to my experience. Since coming here, my mantra has been simply to be the best I can be, do the best job I can do, to play the part that I can play - that is all and that is good enough.
So far I have been fortunate, I am working in an organisation that does incredible work for the people of Gaza, working tirelessly for the rule of law, democracy and human rights. My assignment fits my organisational development skills well, enabling me to contribute to the overall work, giving me a sense of purpose.
However, there are times when I am unable to maintain this perspective.
The first week I was here I met a farmer and his family whose land in Beit Lahiya flanks the buffer zone. They had a tank permanently overlooking their house for a number of years, there to protect the Israeli settlers, now gone, who had usurped the land next door. The farmer recounted how his beautiful house had been demolished at one stage and after rebuilding it, he was warned to leave by the Israeli Occupying Forces. He stayed, toughed it out, enduring all manner of assaults, until eventually he and his family were forced out by the ground offensive of Cast Lead- their lives in very real danger.
 |
| In Beit Lahiya |
Sitting outside on a beautiful day, surrounded by his children and grandchildren, his wife picked up the story and told us how they fled under attack, meeting neighbours on the road- all trying to get to Gaza City and to relative safety. A local woman they knew had her three children with her- two of them were killed as they tried to make their way through the night, our hosts witnessed all this. The woman had to be torn away- to leave her children's bodies behind so that she could save herself and her remaining child. When she came back several days later, after the shelling had stopped, she found the remains of her children- recognisable only by the scraps of clothing they had worn- they had been eaten by wild dogs. As I listened to this account, I could not help but cry.
A couple of weeks ago I wrote of the airstrikes on Gaza that were happening at the time- that the world was largely unaware of or indifferent to -and I mentioned the children killed. Last week my colleague went and met the parents of 13 year old Mamoun Aldam, one of those killed in these attacks while picnicking with his family and playing football. His mother Amna recounted the following to my colleague.....
"We were not armed. We are civilians. The trees in the farm were recently planted, so they are still small. Anyone could see from above that we were just civilians so we did not expect to be attacked."
Mamoun made his parents some coffee and then started playing with his football:
"He was playing about 20 meters from where we were resting and I asked him to come back. Suddenly I heard an explosion. I saw dust, smoke and fire where Mamoun had been standing. I heard him scream once and then he went quiet. I kept calling out for him, but he did not answer back."
Amna was desperately calling for her son as she rushed to where he had been playing: " There was dust everywhere and I could not see anything. When I finally saw Mamoun, he was lying on the ground and there was a lot of blood around him. His legs had been torn off. There was shrapnel all over his body. His clothes were burned and he was almost naked. He was dead."
Amna clearly recalls hearing other women screaming from neighbouring farms as she picked up her son's body: "I held him and took him to his father so he could touch his face and say goodbye. I found my husband bleeding heavily from his head. His left hand and right leg were also bleeding. He was touching his forehead and asking me if it was sweat. He is a diabetic and has high blood pressure, so I thought he was going to die from all the bleeding. I was screaming for people to come and help us."
Two ambulances arrived on the farm shortly afterwards and rushed Mohamed, who is blind, to hospital. They also took what was left of Mamoun's body. Amna stayed behind:
"There were pieces of my child's body everywhere. I stayed there and started collecting the pieces and putting them in a bag. Other women came to help me."
 |
| Mamoun Aldam |
What mother can contemplate her children being killed and their bodies eaten by dogs? What mother can contemplate gathering the pieces of her child's body and putting them in a bag? These Palestinian mothers are not lesser beings, they love and cherish their children as much as any other mother. Any thought or suggestion otherwise is racism of the most despicable kind.
These are two of the horror stories that abound here in Gaza. They are not stories of the past but of the present day. This is ongoing. I have more stories, of a child who survived despite the top of her head being burned off with white phosphorous, of a tiny body torn asunder with flechettes. Israel has an evil arsenal and gets to use it with impunity.
As I write this I am crying- not because I am overwhelmed, but because I am human, and a mother.
Tomorrow when I go to work, I will simply try to be the best I can be, do the best job I can do, play the part that I can play, hoping that it is good enough- it is all I can do.
Hello Elaine
ReplyDeleteThank you for bearing witness and sending these human experiences out to those who cannot know from what we see in 'the news'. This is an invaluable contribution in itself.
Keep writing, I know you will, and thank you for being there.
Doreen