Stories
buried under the rubble
by
Mo’men
Eid
Gaza
October 2014
(adapted
by Marjorie)
I am a son of Palestine weeping with pain and sadness. I am here standing in the ruins of my house.
Demolished not with consent or prior agreement but from orders from my
neighbour determined to launch his force on me. Why am I the target of such
destruction? I stand bewildered looking out to all around me. My eyes turn between the remains of the mosque,
a place that was my safe retreat with God; a place where I felt peace. My eyes pan further to the olive trees in the
landscape that is no more recognisable.
The impact of missiles changing scenes of beauty and familiarity into
scenes of what would have been unimaginable devastation, now a new
reality.
Images keep firing in my mind like fireworks, flashing
bringing with them the instant memory of a few moments ago; of exploding walls
and windows that have now blurred my home map.
A neighbourhood no longer as I knew it, full of laughter and children
playing. I think of the women shopping and the elderly chatting. Now it is full of screams, of crying and
lamenting the loss of loved ones, clambering over rubble to find a sign of
life. Broken bodies scattered unrecognisable but for a shoe or a piece of
clothing that may lead to the pain of a lost child or sister or mother.
"I am the son of Gaza..! I am the son with pride
in my land! I am the son of glory and of this land, no matter how you ravage it
and take it by force…!”
Where is the resistance? Where is steadfast hold on
what is ours? Where is the martyr? I
need them to set me free from all this abuse and intimidation, all the death,
the blood and destruction ....My history books tell of tribal blood that has
been shed, of generations that have carried glory and pride, paid the price and
still pay tirelessly to hold on to our homeland.
Are we to continuously pay the price with our
blood? The resistance in martyr after
martyr sacrificing life in stories of gruesome death. To resist leads to death of a martyr and to
not resist leads to the death of our land.
The story started the last month mapped out the worst stories, the story
of the people and houses, Mosques and even trees and stones started telling
tales. The carcass of a tree burned and destroyed by the attack tells a story
of this hatred to our people and the wanton need to take what is ours. We sit pouring out our shock and our pain
telling our tales of what happened. The horror of someone’s mother killed with
child still in her belly. A mother’s life lost and her future and her unborn
child a life lost without birth into a future. Tear stained dusty faces, some
too shocked to talk. Silenced by overloaded eyes of witnessed horror of life
blown apart. An eerie silence as those that can speak struggle to find the
words to describe what they have seen, smelt, tasted and experienced. Charred bodies laid no longer recognisable as
the neighbour they once laughed with, shared a moment of joy with … now gone to
be seen and heard no more.
Children ran to schools for safety once running in a
taste of life and play. Now a target for their killing, the annihilation of
their generation. The future gone to the
wind….
I find a place to rest, go to a home of some family that
still stands and we find that a television works with what power still
exists. We see what we have just
experience over and over in news after news. See the news that narrates the
story, the remains of the children slaughtered and tears in our eyes until the
news of another woman and another mother killed. Then the four boys that
innocently played on the beach the world saw.
Their joy chasing ball to running for their life and then no life… gone
to the wind
More lives lost with their stories under the rubble of
their home. A home with memories rich of times of joy now wrecked and lost.
Past, present and future buried under the destructive forces and orders. All the
dropped missiles filled with hatred for women and children of our land. Their
blood spilled over the land that was and is theirs.
What you see brings you down to fall to your knees, as
it tears at your heart, tears at your soul, then there is almost a moment of
calm as you transcend into numbness. The pain goes for a moment into blankness
as if it all was unreal. Then everywhere
you see the news story telling of our pain and our tears and our grief. Scrolled stories from all the URL links googled
under the search of Gaza conflict. All
show those that were killed, all that were found under the ruins of the houses.
Stories lost under rubble, of lives of hopes and of laughter and of joy and of
fear in the last moment of their life on Earth. Blasted into another promised
land of paradise - where there is no more pain. Under rubble tales begin to
sing in my heart of the families of Gaza stories. I shout out at the one that had fashioned and
created this oppression. I am sad and cry as I see the collective blood of my
brothers and sisters of my tribe shed everywhere, in every corner of this land.
And where are my Arab brothers, my Muslim family to
help me? Am I to stand alone in this rubble and cry for help and no one answer
me? Can my voice really not be heard? Are their ears covered to our cries? Their
eyes closed to what is happening and the pain we are bearing. Do they shut
their hearts and not feel our pain? We is our Muslim brotherhood if one hurts
do we not all hurt? I feel lost in a
wilderness deserted with no means to grasp for help.
We need help to stop this ever deepening nightmare, while
debates over this pain go on and calls to the peace table made. Our lives
continue to be shattered, broken into pieces. The wheels of politics and their attempted
resolution turn over and over. But our lives, our tribe, our being continues to
be trampled on, made to feel there is no place on Earth for us. Yet this is our homeland… it is the place
where I was born, my parents born and my grandparents born.
The pain and the chaos may be intense to burn at our
eyes and our minds, but our hearts and souls and our pride in our land will not
be broken. We stand tall in the rubble…!
