Speaker 1: Cool Zone Media.
Speaker 2: Book Club book Club, book Club book Club. Hello and
Speaker 2: welcome to the Cool Zone Media book Club, the only
Speaker 2: book club where you, the listener thinks, how long will
Speaker 2: Margaret keep that bid up about the chanting?
Speaker 1: Now that there's usually not guests, I am your host,
Speaker 1: Margaret Kiljoy. The Cool Zone Media book Club is the
Speaker 1: only book club where you don't have to do the reading,
Speaker 1: because I do it for you. And today we have
Speaker 1: two stories and a poem for you from the collection
Speaker 1: Gaza Writes Back short stories from young writers in Gaza, Palestine,
Speaker 1: and this anthology was edited by Rafat Alarier for its
Speaker 1: first release from Just World Books in twenty fourteen, but
Speaker 1: Rafat was martyred by the Israeli military in December of
Speaker 1: twenty twenty three, and a new memorial edition is currently
Speaker 1: available from PM Press. Hazel, who helps with the show,
Speaker 1: says that they found this book last year and immediately
Speaker 1: knew they wanted to do some stories from it and
Speaker 1: were so happy to be able to present works from
Speaker 1: it today with the cooperation of the authors, with PM
Speaker 1: Press who put out that new edition, and the family
Speaker 1: of Rafad E Larreer. This collection is full of short
Speaker 1: stories written by young people, most women who came of
Speaker 1: age during Operation Caste Led. This was, in Rafat's words
Speaker 1: from the original introduction the quote full scale military offensive
Speaker 1: that Israel launched on Gaza between December twenty seventh, two
Speaker 1: thousand and eight and January eighteenth, two thousand and nine.
Speaker 1: Most of the stories in Gaza Writes Back were originally
Speaker 1: written for Rafat's fiction and creative writing classes at the
Speaker 1: Islamic University in Gaza. Many of the authors were new
Speaker 1: to writing fiction and or writing at all, though some
Speaker 1: were experienced bloggers documenting their experience of life under occupation.
Speaker 1: Almost all of the stories were composed originally in English,
Speaker 1: and again in Rafot's words quote, the stories included here
Speaker 1: present in English a much needed Palestinian youth narrative without
Speaker 1: the mediation or influences of translation or of non Palestinian voices.
Speaker 1: Gaza Writes Back provides conclusive evidence that telling stories is
Speaker 1: an act of life, that telling stories is resistance, and
Speaker 1: that telling stories shapes our memories. So to get us started,
Speaker 1: our first story is called the Story of the Land
Speaker 1: by Sarah Ali. To Dad, I looked at his teary
Speaker 1: eyes and beholding something akin to happiness. I smiled. The
Speaker 1: man I have always known to be my father was back.
Speaker 1: He did not look like that unfamiliar man whom I
Speaker 1: could not fully recognize during the last three years. He
Speaker 1: was no longer that abt minded, silent figure, gazing at
Speaker 1: walls all the time and uninterestingly nodding whenever addressed by
Speaker 1: anyone at home. He was there, He was present, He
Speaker 1: was actually listening. As I went on bragging about a
Speaker 1: high grade of mine. A phone call and a piece
Speaker 1: of paper signed by some Turkish sponsored institution brought back
Speaker 1: my father. I looked at his eyes again, this time
Speaker 1: more carefully, for fear that my first glance was false.
Speaker 1: As I saw that absolute happiness in my father's eyes,
Speaker 1: a big smile made it to my face again. As
Speaker 1: we now commemorate the Land Day, we honour the people
Speaker 1: who stood up for their land in nineteen seventy six,
Speaker 1: when Israel announced thousands of Palestinian dunams would be confiscated.
Speaker 1: During marches held to protest that declaration, six people were killed.
Speaker 1: The thirtieth of March brings back a memory of our land,
Speaker 1: my father's land. A couple weeks ago, we got a
Speaker 1: phone call informing us that my father's name had been
Speaker 1: selected for a reconstruction program funded by Turkey. The program
Speaker 1: aims at helping gosen farmers whose lands were damaged during
Speaker 1: the Israeli offensive in two thousand and eight replant their trees.
Speaker 1: It provides farmers with all types of facilitating materials, such
Speaker 1: as fences, tree cuttings, seedlings, seeds, and irrigation systems. My
Speaker 1: father declined to apply for those organizations that gave financial
Speaker 1: compensations to farmers. How can he take money in return
Speaker 1: for land. Unlike any other aid program, this program gives
Speaker 1: no money to farmers. It instead helps them stand on
Speaker 1: their own. Though my father was born to a family
Speaker 1: of farmers, he did not follow that path. He studied
Speaker 1: economics and political science in Egypt and spent most of
Speaker 1: his youth working as a journalist, mainly a columnist, writing
Speaker 1: about economic and political issues in newspapers in Kuwait. When
Speaker 1: he was back in Gaza, though he had to take
Speaker 1: care of the peace of land my grandfather left for
Speaker 1: him years before, it was not difficult for him. Gradually,
Speaker 1: the land became more of a passion than a profession.
Speaker 1: It was one of the few things he cared about
Speaker 1: the daily thing that kept him busy. It was heaven
Speaker 1: on earth. During those twenty three days of the Israeli
Speaker 1: attack on Gaza, we were constantly receiving news of land
Speaker 1: being run over by Israeli bulldozers. We were told thousands
Speaker 1: of trees were gone. We were told my uncle's trees
Speaker 1: were gone. We were told our trees were gone. We
Speaker 1: were told Sharga, the whole district of eastern farmland was gone.
Speaker 1: But these were rumors, or so my father wanted to believe.
Speaker 1: We all had hope that our land was still intact,
Speaker 1: totally untouched. We were clinging to the assumption that only
Speaker 1: other people's trees could get uprooted. But certainly not our beautiful,
Speaker 1: unmatched olives. Certainly not the trees that were, to my
Speaker 1: father the only thing he boasted of to prove he
Speaker 1: was no less of a gozen than those who repeatedly
Speaker 1: reproached him, for, as they put it, recklessly leaving the
Speaker 1: land of black Gold, where they assumed he swam in
Speaker 1: Kuwaiti oil pools every day, and for coming to live
Speaker 1: here with a small H. My father looked at it
Speaker 1: quite differently, For here with a capital H, he always
Speaker 1: believed is the land of al Zeate al mukatas the
Speaker 1: holy oil. Gaza's sky was blue again. Things were over.
Speaker 1: The news said things were over. My father went there.
Speaker 1: He went to check up on the land with a
Speaker 1: capital H. He put his faith in his olives being
Speaker 1: an exception, and he went there. He put his faith
Speaker 1: in that little white spot in the heart of the
Speaker 1: bulldozer's operator, who my father supposed could not have resisted
Speaker 1: the beauty of our land, and who listened to his
Speaker 1: inn it good being that told him not to run
Speaker 1: over this land. He had faith in the goodness of man,
Speaker 1: and he went there. He put his faith in God,
Speaker 1: and he went there. My brother, who accompanied him, told
Speaker 1: us later that all they saw as they walked was
Speaker 1: ruined lands filled with bulldozed dead trees, which seemed to
Speaker 1: suffice for their family's need of firewood for years to come.
Speaker 1: My brother said, Dad started crying as he saw people crying.
Speaker 1: They went on. They saw more toppled trees, feeble and defeated.
Speaker 1: They went on. There was the heaven. The scene of
Speaker 1: our land was not shocking. Simply put, our trees were
Speaker 1: no exception. Our trees were gone. A miscellany of affliction
Speaker 1: and denial took over the place. My father's faith, I
Speaker 1: could tell, was smashed into little pieces. The world seemed
Speaker 1: like an ugly place. One of our trees, which later
Speaker 1: became the subject matter the whole neighborhood spoke of, was
Speaker 1: still standing there. Just one week before the attacks. My
Speaker 1: father told my brother how slanted this tree was and
Speaker 1: how quickly they needed to get rid of it. They
Speaker 1: were planning to cut it, and yet ironically it was
Speaker 1: the only tree the Israeli army left out of boredom
Speaker 1: or mercy, I cannot tell, but it was still there Later,
Speaker 1: whenever my cousins wanted to make Dad feel less terrible
Speaker 1: about it, they made fun of the whole thing. How
Speaker 1: the hell did the soldiers know you were planning to
Speaker 1: cut it anyway, and so decided not to cut it themselves,
Speaker 1: my cousins would remark. Everyone would start laughing, but Ad
Speaker 1: did not. His land and olive groves were not laughing
Speaker 1: matters to him. When my father and brother were home
Speaker 1: that day, my brother started telling us about what he saw.
Speaker 1: He told us that the trees were uprooted al Shajar Tchejarref.
Speaker 1: He kept repeating. My father was in his room crying.
Speaker 1: During the weeks that followed my father's visit to the land,
Speaker 1: he had a daily schedule. In the morning, he prayed
Speaker 1: and read Koran. At night he cried. Speaking about the land,
Speaker 1: the houses, and generally the financial losses during or right
Speaker 1: after the Israeli offensive would have sounded very selfish and
Speaker 1: indifferent to others. When people are dying, you do not
Speaker 1: speak of your beautiful house that was leveled to the ground.
Speaker 1: When people are losing their legs and arms, leaving them
Speaker 1: disabled for the rest of their lives. You do not
Speaker 1: speak of your fancy car that once looked like a
Speaker 1: vase adorning the streets of your modest neighborhood, and that
Speaker 1: is now a gray wreck. When a mother is burying
Speaker 1: her child before she could say goodbye, you do not
Speaker 1: speak of your land and your trees that were mercilessly uprooted.
Speaker 1: Those people speak, they cry, they mourn. You listen, and
Speaker 1: for the memory of your insignificant little misery, you grieve
Speaker 1: in silence. And that seemed to have amassed more agony
Speaker 1: over Dad's pain. Recently, I went to father to get
Speaker 1: accurate information about the trees that were uprooted their numbers
Speaker 1: and their age. Why are you asking? Are you applying
Speaker 1: for one of those charity institutions that offer some money
Speaker 1: in a bag of flower instead of helping people plant
Speaker 1: the trees? Again? Are you we do not need those?
Speaker 1: The guy I met from the reconstruction program called last
Speaker 1: week and they already sent laborers and farmers to start
Speaker 1: their job. Do you still want to apply for charity? No, baba,
Speaker 1: I am just writing something for my blog blog, okay,
Speaker 1: whatever that is? So? How many trees were uprooted? One
Speaker 1: hundred eighty olive trees, I guess, and one hundred eighty
Speaker 1: nine olive trees, one hundred sixty lemon trees, fourteen guava trees?
Speaker 1: He bellowed, angry that I missed the exact number. Embarrassed,
Speaker 1: I lowered my head and wondered why I.
Speaker 3: Was doing this to myself.
Speaker 1: My thoughts were interrupted when he went on, next time
Speaker 1: you decide to do whatever it is you want to do,
Speaker 1: right now, get your numbers straight. I made no reply.
Speaker 1: You hear me, there were one hundred eighty nine olive trees,
Speaker 1: not one hundred eighty, not one hundred eighty one, not
Speaker 1: even one hundred eighty eight one hundred eighty nine olive trees.
Speaker 1: He left the room for a few minutes afterwards, Guilt
Speaker 1: was all I could feel. That an Israeli soldier could
Speaker 1: buldoze one hundred eighty nine olive trees on the land
Speaker 1: he claims as part of the God given land is
Speaker 1: something I will never comprehend. Did he not the possibility
Speaker 1: that God might get angry? Did he not realize that
Speaker 1: it was a tree he was running over? If a
Speaker 1: Palestinian bulldozer wherever invented ha Ha, I know, and I
Speaker 1: were given the chance to be in an orchard in Haifa,
Speaker 1: for instance, I would never uproot a tree, and ISRAELI planted.
Speaker 1: No Palestinian would to Palestinians that the tree is sacred
Speaker 1: and so is the land bearing it. And as I
Speaker 1: talk about Gaza, I remember that Gaza is but a
Speaker 1: little part of Palestine. I remember that Palestine is bigger
Speaker 1: than Gaza. Palestine is the West Bank. Palestine is Romallah,
Speaker 1: Palestine is Nobleus Palestine, as Jenin Palestine is tolk Arm.
Speaker 1: Palestine is Bethlehem. Palestine most importantly is Yafa and Haffa
Speaker 1: and Akka and all those cities that Israel wants us
Speaker 1: to forget about today. I came to realize that it
Speaker 1: was not the phone call that brought my father back,
Speaker 1: or was it the paper signed by the AID Institution.
Speaker 1: It was the memory of the land being revived that
Speaker 1: brought him back. It was the memory of olive trees,
Speaker 1: giving that sense of security each time he sat under them,
Speaker 1: enjoying their shade and dodging the burning rays of the sun.
Speaker 1: It was the memory of the golden oil, the best
Speaker 1: and purest oil, being poured into jerry cans and handed
Speaker 1: to family and friends as precious gifts. It was the
Speaker 1: memory of long years of cherishing the land, years of
Speaker 1: giving and belonging. Between my father and his land is
Speaker 1: an unbreakable bond. Between Palestinians and their land is an
Speaker 1: unbreakable bond. By uprooting plants and cutting trees continually, Israel
Speaker 1: tries to break that bond and impose its own rules
Speaker 1: of despair on Palestinians. By replanting their trees over and
Speaker 1: over again. Palestinians are rejecting Israel's rules.
Speaker 3: My land, my.
Speaker 1: Rules, says Dad. Yep, that's the story. Sarah, who wrote
Speaker 1: this story, says this about it. I originally wrote this
Speaker 1: story when I was a teenager and later revisited and
Speaker 1: rewrote it for Gaza writes back, looking back, I can
Speaker 1: see that it is quite raw, slash immature, and reflects
Speaker 1: the inexperience of a young writer. At times. It even
Speaker 1: feels a little corny to me.
Speaker 3: Now.
Speaker 1: Nevertheless, it remains very special to me because it is
Speaker 1: rooted in a real experience connected to my father's land,
Speaker 1: which was repeatedly destroyed by Israeli occupation. Forces that personal
Speaker 1: history is at the heart of the story and continues
Speaker 1: to give it a meaning to me. And h who
Speaker 1: what do I have to say about this story? I mean,
Speaker 1: I think the story speaks for itself in so many ways.
Speaker 1: And I think that this is the power of story
Speaker 1: and memoirs to take something that is a news article,
Speaker 1: even to a you know, well meaning free Palestine, anti
Speaker 1: Zionist person in the West. You read about like trees destroyed,
Speaker 1: even numbers of trees destroyed, which is so important in
Speaker 1: this story, and it's not quite this is what happened
Speaker 1: to my father when one hundred and eighty nine olive
Speaker 1: trees were destroyed on his land.
Speaker 4: You know.
Speaker 1: And the other thing that sticks to me. Okay, there's
Speaker 1: this drive to go on sometimes through Appalachia and there's
Speaker 1: this big billboard and it's the middle of a forest,
Speaker 1: you know. The highway's cutting through the forest and the
Speaker 1: billboard there's a bunch of trees that were cut down
Speaker 1: on a hill to make a room for this billboard,
Speaker 1: and it says there is evidence for God. And all
Speaker 1: I can think is like, yeah, and you cut it
Speaker 1: down to put up that billboard, you know, because the
Speaker 1: holiness and the divinity of land itself is so self evident.
Speaker 1: I like the way that this story carries that Ideatually.
Speaker 1: I do snarky ad transitions and I don't know, I
Speaker 1: don't feel like it. Here's ads.
Speaker 3: They allow us to have this show, I guess.
Speaker 1: And we're back. So Rafata Larier, who's the editor of
Speaker 1: that book that we're going to, continued to talk about
Speaker 1: quotes Sama ol One in his introduction to the book, quote,
Speaker 1: there was too much pain in those twenty three days,
Speaker 1: and some of us who wrote about cast led did
Speaker 1: so to heal some of the pain caused by the
Speaker 1: horrendous memories. And no matter how beautiful, the spirit of
Speaker 1: resistance that overwhelmed us this beauty should never override the
Speaker 1: ugliness of pure injustice. Our second story is called l
Speaker 1: for Life by Hanan Habashi. How are you, Baba? It's
Speaker 1: been ages since I last sat and talked to you.
Speaker 1: I nearly forgot about my promise to write to you
Speaker 1: whenever happiness sneaks into my little heart. I'm afraid a
Speaker 1: letter filled with happiness risks never being written. So let
Speaker 1: me write to you without conditions. Don't deprive me of
Speaker 1: the sense of satisfaction I used to get when addressing you.
Speaker 1: Today marks eleven years since the day you were gone.
Speaker 1: But only now am I starting to realize how dearly
Speaker 1: I miss you, how your loss is too awful. A beast,
Speaker 1: a conquer you know you are sorely needed. My only
Speaker 1: solace is that I know you feel my thoughts. Life
Speaker 1: has become more painfully complex than getting a good grade
Speaker 1: in history or going out with Aunti Karama's family. Life
Speaker 1: is never that simple. What to tell you, Gaza is
Speaker 1: frustrating these days, well, these years. It's a good exercise
Speaker 1: and patience. At least this summer is the worst of
Speaker 1: all summers that passed without you breathing some good air
Speaker 1: has become a luxury we cannot always afford. When nothingness
Speaker 1: takes over, which happens quite too often. I sit in
Speaker 1: my room, which is fully exposed to the sun, gazing
Speaker 1: at the tiny mark of the gunshop and the ugly
Speaker 1: crack it left there. Yes, that very same crack on
Speaker 1: the wall caused by his rifle, such an eyesore. Other
Speaker 1: times I would gaze at it, trying to recall how
Speaker 1: that soldier might look like. That huge creature grabbed you
Speaker 1: out of my bed and didn't give you a chance
Speaker 1: to finish my bedtime story. I cannot remember anything but
Speaker 1: his dusty black boots and the frightening rifle. So many
Speaker 1: times I tried to imagine how he would look like,
Speaker 1: and always ended up believing he is no more than
Speaker 1: a faceless monster. Maybe I have gone too far, thinking
Speaker 1: of him, of his life, of his family, of his
Speaker 1: wife whom he loves, of his smart kid who can
Speaker 1: get a good grade, and mad of him laughing and
Speaker 1: crying Baba. What would make this kind of human rejoice
Speaker 1: over the fact that I am living the agony of
Speaker 1: being fatherless with an uncompleted story. It is when darkness
Speaker 1: prevails that I sit by the window to look past
Speaker 1: all those electricity free houses. Smell the sweet scent of
Speaker 1: a calm, gossen night, feel the fresh air going straight
Speaker 1: to my heart. And think of you, of me, of Palestine,
Speaker 1: of the crack of the blank wall, of you, of Mama,
Speaker 1: of you, of my history, class, of you, of God,
Speaker 1: of Palestine, of our incomplete story. I enjoy bringing to
Speaker 1: my mind your tender voice narrating the story of Fair.
Speaker 1: I still remember how I cheerfully beamed when you told
Speaker 1: me that Fair and I are so much alike, that
Speaker 1: he has my wild eyes and I his sheepish smile.
Speaker 1: I have not yet known who he is or where
Speaker 1: in life he stands, but I believe I had always
Speaker 1: trusted your heroes. I can never forget how your dazzling
Speaker 1: eyes had brightened when you recalled him planting some olive
Speaker 1: seedlings in the back yard of the orphanage. God blessed
Speaker 1: the smile on your face. God bless the seeds under
Speaker 1: the ground. I can never forget how you looked me
Speaker 1: in the eyes and said, he is a boy who
Speaker 1: lost his whole family to death, but never lost faith
Speaker 1: in life. I want you to be as strong, Baba.
Speaker 1: Do you remember when I asked you if he was
Speaker 1: strong enough to wrestle in israeligh soldier. You grinned, you
Speaker 1: always did, but you didn't answer me. You wanted me
Speaker 1: to figure things out on my own. You told me
Speaker 1: he was only twelve years old when one of the
Speaker 1: orphanage girls AML started trembling, hallucinating and sweating. But nobody
Speaker 1: there had the guts to break the military curfew to
Speaker 1: die there. However, did go out to bring a doctor
Speaker 1: for am All, And then and then Helen earth, Baba,
Speaker 1: and then you are no more. I don't remember when
Speaker 1: exactly I started to care about completing their's story. But
Speaker 1: whenever I ventured to think of giving it a proper ending,
Speaker 1: I would get tired and the weight in my head
Speaker 1: would grow heavier. I could not do it on my own.
Speaker 1: I thought I had to think twice, once for me
Speaker 1: and once for you. I have tried my best, Baba,
Speaker 1: doing so is not easy. Nonetheless, of all the people
Speaker 1: around me, you know best that it takes two to
Speaker 1: complete a story. It always does. I hated the fact
Speaker 1: that I might have been driven by curiosity in the
Speaker 1: sheer love of endings. The air is another you in
Speaker 1: my life, just like your photo that stands above the
Speaker 1: repugnant crack and your cafea whose rich black was worn
Speaker 1: out to a glorious gray. They are all living parts
Speaker 1: of you. I had to believe that it is the
Speaker 1: fear of losing yet more of my father that pushed
Speaker 1: me there. I thought once I thought of your soulmate, Mamma.
Speaker 1: I thought you must have talked to her about Fyeir.
Speaker 1: I imagined you both had spent nights admiring his eyes
Speaker 1: and smile. For I can clearly remember when you got together,
Speaker 1: which was some kind of a luxury for Mamma. Talks
Speaker 1: between you did not end. I sometimes travel to specific memories.
Speaker 1: I hear the timber of your voice and the echo
Speaker 1: of Mamma's laughter, laughter which died long ago. But don't
Speaker 1: you worry. Mamma never fails to smile. I know I
Speaker 1: shouldn't bother you, Baba, but you've got to know that
Speaker 1: every passing day Mamma's getting frailer. I always wonder what
Speaker 1: does she know which I don't, which makes her go
Speaker 1: on in a life of bitter loneliness. She must know
Speaker 1: much right, thinking that she knew Theyeir, I once plainly
Speaker 1: asked her what happened to thee In the end, she
Speaker 1: washed the last dish, turned the tap off, and started
Speaker 1: at the sink. For some time, I felt like she
Speaker 1: was about to give me the healing answer, but she
Speaker 1: at once retracted. Who's there, she asked, narrowing her eyes. Feir,
Speaker 1: I answered then, seeing uneasiness drawn on her face, I repeated, Faeire,
Speaker 1: my father's fair. In every move she made, in every
Speaker 1: word she didn't say, I could see the glint of
Speaker 1: a story in the distance. She used her silence to
Speaker 1: shield the chaos I spotted in her eyes. Mamma Fire,
Speaker 1: the strong kid who planted olive trees at the orphanage.
Speaker 1: I went on, trying to get her to talk strong. Huh,
Speaker 1: doesn't matter how strong you are pretend to be. Life
Speaker 1: is going to get to you sometimes. And that doesn't
Speaker 1: make you weak, sweetheart, it makes you human. I know, Baba,
Speaker 1: you don't know this new woman. I don't either. I
Speaker 1: like to call it wisdom. Mam has become cynical, unfortunately,
Speaker 1: but she gained a lot of wisdom. Nonetheless, believing that
Speaker 1: her answer had nothing to do with your fair, I
Speaker 1: asked her again if she knew what happened to him,
Speaker 1: and whether he got back to the orphanage or not
Speaker 1: he got back home. Indeed, we all will, she whispered
Speaker 1: under her breath. I spent that night thinking of Fayer's home,
Speaker 1: of the distant life in Mamma's eyes. I kept wondering
Speaker 1: what's more torturous, the awful buzz of the drone outside
Speaker 1: or the sounds of some tough questions inside. I guess
Speaker 1: I eventually slept with no answer, thanking the drone for
Speaker 1: not giving my inner uproar any chance to abate. Here's
Speaker 1: where I have to do an ad break and again
Speaker 1: just not feeling the well. Imagine your own snarky ad break.
Speaker 1: Enter back. Two weeks ago, Grandfather went out with Abu
Speaker 1: Farras a neighbor to get the UNRWA food coupons. He
Speaker 1: left home sane and returned crazy. That's simple, Abu Faras says.
Speaker 1: Grandpa waited three solid hours under the burning sun in
Speaker 1: the long queue. When he was finally about to get
Speaker 1: the coupon, he asked the man there, what are you
Speaker 1: offering me? His answer was simple food? And when exactly
Speaker 1: am I going to get my jaffa with this coupon?
Speaker 1: Grandpa cried out. You can imagine what kind of hullabaloo
Speaker 1: took place. But everything calmed down when Abu Faras forced
Speaker 1: him back home. I don't like to think much of
Speaker 1: the incident. I know that ever since you've been gone,
Speaker 1: his life is entirely devoted to the grief over a
Speaker 1: lemon tree and a dear son. Now he is no
Speaker 1: longer the man I would talk to for hours. It
Speaker 1: doesn't believe any more, doesn't believe in me, he says.
Speaker 1: People fight and die to regain our Palestine, but those
Speaker 1: freedom fighters don't come back, nor does Palestine. He swears.
Speaker 1: You are now in Japho, sitting by a lemon tree,
Speaker 1: enjoying the sun disappearing into the blue of our marvelous sea.
Speaker 1: Grandfather says you would never come back, for who on
Speaker 1: earth would leave the paradise of Japho. I am day
Speaker 1: after day, falling in love with the years that dwell
Speaker 1: in his wrinkled face, and the memories of old days
Speaker 1: which are the beats of his weak heart. You have
Speaker 1: to expect that. I ask Grandfather about the air. He
Speaker 1: immediately replied fay Air refused to share a breath with
Speaker 1: this dirty world. He chose to grow up somewhere else.
Speaker 1: Don't give me that ridiculous face. Yes, dead people do
Speaker 1: grow up, but don't you ever believe that they grow older?
Speaker 1: This answer was even more confusing than Mamma's. I don't
Speaker 1: believe you. Thierre could never have considered death as an option.
Speaker 1: And what about a man? Was he selfish enough to
Speaker 1: leave her to die? I cried, who is a male?
Speaker 1: Grandpa asked, with no sense of concern. For some reason,
Speaker 1: I felt relieved. I smiled and answered, my grown up friend,
Speaker 1: you should meet her some time. I told him I
Speaker 1: intended to visit Aunty Carama the next day and asked
Speaker 1: if he would like to come. He said he could
Speaker 1: no longer tolerate children and full houses. I couldn't care less.
Speaker 1: I kissed his forehead. It smelled like the fragrance of
Speaker 1: lemon blossoms. I felt like he had planted a lemon
Speaker 1: orchard in his cavernous wrinkles. Baba, how could he dare
Speaker 1: say Thyer was dead? He himself couldn't believe it. I
Speaker 1: celebrated every new moment added to Fayre's life. I had
Speaker 1: to be thankful for my faith, for you have to
Speaker 1: make that leap of faith. If you ever want to heal,
Speaker 1: years may be the length of one's life, the faith
Speaker 1: is undoubtedly the width. The next day, I woke up
Speaker 1: really early. I, for my very first time, watched the
Speaker 1: sunrise with a dimmed light around me. The world looked
Speaker 1: just like how I felt. And that was when I
Speaker 1: looked deep, deep down and started to break apart, not
Speaker 1: because I wanted to, but because I couldn't stop. I
Speaker 1: started to wonder if the things I am living for
Speaker 1: are worth dying for. I started to think of everything
Speaker 1: I had in life. Although I have lots of things,
Speaker 1: they never seem to be necessary. Every time I think
Speaker 1: I had it the way I really fancy, it twists
Speaker 1: and turns and slips away. I didn't fuel your soul around.
Speaker 1: Though I tried to dream you closer, it stayed away,
Speaker 1: just like before I knew it was about Thayer. I
Speaker 1: was afraid that I would fall asleep again, knowing that
Speaker 1: he'll always be the story with no ending. I knew
Speaker 1: that you were just a story away, a story away.
Speaker 1: Because I could no longer wait to know what happened
Speaker 1: to Thayer, I spared the sun two hours to take
Speaker 1: its favorite place in that awe inspiring sky. The weather
Speaker 1: had not yet decided its attitude. The cool air was deceiving.
Speaker 1: So I put your glorious kafia around my neck and
Speaker 1: I unwaveringly went out. I trusted life that day. Grandfather
Speaker 1: might think that's naive, but you wouldn't. I believe life
Speaker 1: is one of the few that is trustworthy. They say
Speaker 1: to find something, anything, a great truth or a lost
Speaker 1: pair of glasses, you must first believe there will be
Speaker 1: some advantage in finding it. And what an advantage, baba.
Speaker 1: When I finally reached Auntie Karama's house, I knocked on
Speaker 1: the door impatiently. I waited more than ten minutes outside.
Speaker 1: Nobody answered my continuous knocks. I was about to return
Speaker 1: home when Aunty opened the door. She was asleep. How
Speaker 1: could she sleep while I didn't know where Thayer's story ends.
Speaker 1: She welcomed me inside and excused me to change her clothes.
Speaker 1: Please don't, I hastily replied to her apology. She raised
Speaker 1: her eyebrows, turned pale, and said, what's the matter with you?
Speaker 1: Something must have happened to your grandfather, or what on
Speaker 1: earth could bring you this early when you haven't visited
Speaker 1: me in months? Oh God, what happened to him. I
Speaker 1: had to calm her down and drive away her worries.
Speaker 1: It's their who brought me this early, I said, yes, Baba,
Speaker 1: I asked Auntie Karama. I had to, for I knew
Speaker 1: she was your closest friend ever since you were a
Speaker 1: little kid who couldn't spell Palestine. She always prides herself
Speaker 1: on the fact that she taught you to spell it
Speaker 1: just right. You had always believed in its bigness. P
Speaker 1: for passion, A for aspiration, L for life, E for existence,
Speaker 1: S for sanity, T for trust, I for you, N
Speaker 1: for nation, E for exultation, and then you wrote it
Speaker 1: just right. You wrote it everywhere you could, on walls,
Speaker 1: on tables, You carved the stunning letters into trees and
Speaker 1: ended up with them engraved in your heart. What about Thyer,
Speaker 1: She bluntly answered my direct question. Hope found its way
Speaker 1: back to my heart to congratulate me on the fact
Speaker 1: that Aunty did know Fayre. I mean, what happened to
Speaker 1: him in the end? Did he manage to get his
Speaker 1: way back to the orphanage? Did a mall survive? I asked,
Speaker 1: but she chose not to give an answer. Truth be told,
Speaker 1: I was disappointed. I felt you didn't trust my heart,
Speaker 1: you didn't want me to get any closer to your story.
Speaker 1: She returned dressed in black and said, get up, we
Speaker 1: are going somewhere special. With my teary eyes, I gazed
Speaker 1: at her and said, where on this part of the
Speaker 1: planet is there somewhere special. She got angry at my
Speaker 1: answer and said, I am not worthy of knowing thyer
Speaker 1: in the first place. If I didn't believe in this
Speaker 1: part of the planet, have to know that. I felt ashamed.
Speaker 1: We eventually left. She took me to places I have
Speaker 1: never been to. The narrow, dark roads of the camp
Speaker 1: captivated my heart. I felt that bitter sweet sensation. I
Speaker 1: felt you were there. I was sure you were there.
Speaker 1: On our way to the special place, Aunty Karama didn't
Speaker 1: stop talking about every single family in the camp. Stories
Speaker 1: of deep agony were our companions. I asked her how
Speaker 1: she could know all these stories. She said that our
Speaker 1: nakba is no secret. I admired her more than ever.
Speaker 1: In my eyes, she had been no more than a
Speaker 1: dull history teacher. It was the first time I knew
Speaker 1: that she refused to get promoted to be more than
Speaker 1: a third grade teacher. She believed in children. She said,
Speaker 1: she couldn't leave the hope that resides in their pure
Speaker 1: little hearts. Here we are, she said, I was totally surprised.
Speaker 1: Was it even a place? I went in speechless. Auntie
Speaker 1: Karama seemed to enjoy the remnants of a burned house.
Speaker 1: A scent coming out of the earth enveloped me. I
Speaker 1: couldn't wave it away. Auntie's smiling silence started to press
Speaker 1: heavier on my heart. I lost sense of the place.
Speaker 1: I'm nowhere, I'm everywhere, I'm here. Auntie's fruity voice finally
Speaker 1: came to life such that you wouldn't believe it had
Speaker 1: ever been silent. Goodness. Can you feel it? Your father
Speaker 1: spent his entire youth teaching the kids here to spell Palestine,
Speaker 1: P for passion, A for aspiration, L for life, E
Speaker 1: for existence, S for sanity, T for trust, I for you,
Speaker 1: N for nation, E for exultation. I, for a few seconds,
Speaker 1: was afraid that she too had gone crazy. Which kids, Auntie,
Speaker 1: your special place is no more than a wasteland, I spoke. Finally,
Speaker 1: she swallowed what seemed to be a great deal of anger.
Speaker 1: She went back to the ruins. She smiled, she laughed,
Speaker 1: she cried. She went on sighing. Now, what does your
Speaker 1: place have to do with Thayer and Amal? I interrupted
Speaker 1: her ongoing sighs. You know what, Mariam, you blew it. However,
Speaker 1: I've always believed life is about second chances. You hardly
Speaker 1: ever deserve them, but at some point we all need them,
Speaker 1: she tenderly replied to my rudeness. She went on, asking me,
Speaker 1: if you prayed for courage, does God give you courage
Speaker 1: or the chance to be courageous? If you prayed for truth,
Speaker 1: does God give you his truth in your hand or
Speaker 1: the chance to open your eyes? Life takes work, I believe,
Speaker 1: I briefly answered. Then open your eyes, sweetheart, look past
Speaker 1: the burned house. You'll find the answer by yourself. I
Speaker 1: believe in you, I believe in whomever your father told
Speaker 1: the story of Feyer, she said, smiling at my teary eyes.
Speaker 1: I couldn't see anything, Babab. Nothing caught my bleeding heart.
Speaker 1: I felt ashamed. I felt you deserved a better successor.
Speaker 1: I lowered my head to the ground. I smiled, I laughed,
Speaker 1: I cried. I kept on sighing at the sight of
Speaker 1: the olive tree, standing alive at the very edge of
Speaker 1: the burned house of the Orphanage, Thayer's seeds grew up.
Speaker 1: Nothing else was left, but the tree was enough for me, Ramal,
Speaker 1: for their and for you, my dearest Baba. It is
Speaker 1: when darkness prevails that I sit by the window to
Speaker 1: look past all those electricity free houses, smell the sweet
Speaker 1: scent of a calm, gosen night, feel the fresh air
Speaker 1: going straight to my heart, and I think of you,
Speaker 1: of me, of Palestine, of the Orphanage, of the olive tree,
Speaker 1: of you, of a mall, of Mama, of you, of
Speaker 1: my history, class of Aunti Karama, of you, of God,
Speaker 1: of Palestine, of Thier's story. That's the end of that story.
Speaker 1: Ah Lord, What do I have to say about this story?
Speaker 1: I almost feel selfish in the way that the story
Speaker 1: connects with me. But my Irish grandmother went by, Baba,
Speaker 1: and I don't know why. So immediately when I start
Speaker 1: this story, I think about my grandmother who always talked
Speaker 1: to the dead. She lost her son like when he
Speaker 1: was you know, a young man, and she never you know,
Speaker 1: really recovered from it, and she would walk around and
Speaker 1: she would talk to him, and it kind of I
Speaker 1: don't know whether that was cultural or religious for her
Speaker 1: or not, but it kind of rubbed off on the
Speaker 1: family to just talk to the dead. So this story
Speaker 1: of talking to Baba hit me real hard, and I
Speaker 1: don't know. I also while reading it, I feel really
Speaker 1: grateful for the job I have. I know this sounds weird.
Speaker 1: I feel really grateful that I got to read these
Speaker 1: stories to you. It feels like the payoff of doing
Speaker 1: this show is this particular episode and this way of
Speaker 1: understanding that people are people all over the world, and
Speaker 1: that when we reduce things to news stories, we lose
Speaker 1: the actual stories. And it's through story and poetry that
Speaker 1: we really understand who each other are and that we're
Speaker 1: able to connect with each other. And I think that
Speaker 1: we have any hope of accomplishing anything. And I really
Speaker 1: appreciate this story's willingness to be we'raw and honest about
Speaker 1: being like, I'm not a worthy successor, right, but no
Speaker 1: one is, and we're all just people. And I really
Speaker 1: like how well this story carries that, and it doesn't
Speaker 1: put us down, doesn't put people down to say we're
Speaker 1: just people. You know, the thought is not a perfect
Speaker 1: character in this book or whatever, right, neither is the protagonist,
Speaker 1: and yet you know here they are doing a thing
Speaker 1: and they're not put down in any way, and if anything,
Speaker 1: they're elevated by that. Yeah, and Hazel, who I owe
Speaker 1: so much to for helping put all of this together,
Speaker 1: Hazel says quote. This story and Sarah's both split my
Speaker 1: heart open. At every turn away toward hardness and apathy.
Speaker 1: Hannan invites readers to turn towards the rending to feel
Speaker 1: her deep grief, but also her profound connection to place,
Speaker 1: to history, to legacy, to life itself. It makes me
Speaker 1: feel raw, so mortal, but so alive. It's been a
Speaker 1: few days since I read these again while writing the script,
Speaker 1: and what they say about how inviting in the grief
Speaker 1: invites the joy and attention is so true, and it's
Speaker 1: a wonder to keep learning this. I've been just so
Speaker 1: heavy with grief for Gaza and Palestine, but at the
Speaker 1: same time, I'm never more enraptured by the sunset on
Speaker 1: my drive home, so full of gratitude for the lingering
Speaker 1: strawberry taste of a sour candy, so attuned to my
Speaker 1: rootedness to the city I call home. Palestine really is
Speaker 1: the heart of it all. And to close out this
Speaker 1: particular episode, I have one poem for you today, and
Speaker 1: it's by the anthology's editor, doctor Rafada Larier. Originally from Gaza,
Speaker 1: Rafot completed his graduate studies in the UK and earned
Speaker 1: a PhD in English and Malaysia. Afterward, he went back
Speaker 1: home to Gaza. Determined to serve his community. He took
Speaker 1: a position as a professor of English literature at the
Speaker 1: Islamic University of Gaza, where he had completed his bachelor's degree,
Speaker 1: where he taught for sixteen years. He frequently said that
Speaker 1: one of his main goals of teaching was to highlight
Speaker 1: the parallel experiences of Palestinians and Jews through literature, and
Speaker 1: this is hard to read. Rafot co founded the organization
Speaker 1: We Are Not Numbers, which paired up established writers with
Speaker 1: emerging authors in Gaza, quote, promoting the power of storytelling
Speaker 1: as a means of Palestinian resistance against the Israeli occupation.
Speaker 1: According to Wikipedia, Rafat also volunteered at the Gaza Zoo,
Speaker 1: which he continued during the war. Ali Abanima remembers Rafot
Speaker 1: as quote teaching us that stories are what binds us
Speaker 1: together and keep our hope alive. Rafat was killed by
Speaker 1: an Israeli missile strike on December sixth, twenty twenty three,
Speaker 1: alongside his brother Sellah and Salah's son Mohammed, his sister Asma,
Speaker 1: and her three children, Allah, Yahiah, and Mohammad, while they
Speaker 1: were all taking shelter in Osma's apartment. He was forty
Speaker 1: four years old. In a statement, the Euro Mediterranean Human
Speaker 1: Rights Monitor stated that because of the highly surgical nature
Speaker 1: of the strike, it is likely that Rafat and his
Speaker 1: family were quote deliberately targeted. Over thirty members of Verrafats
Speaker 1: and his wife's Nusaba's family have been murdered by the
Speaker 1: Israeli military, including his daughter Shima, who was murdered with
Speaker 1: her infant child, who would have been Raffat's first grandchild.
Speaker 1: From the Anthologies twenty twenty four forward by Ali Abinama,
Speaker 1: Rafat's killing was part of Israel's systematic and targeted extermination
Speaker 1: of Gaza's leading intellectuals, academics, and scientists, a hallmark of genocide.
Speaker 1: By late twenty twenty four, Israel had murdered at least
Speaker 1: ninety four university professors, along with hundreds of teachers and
Speaker 1: thousands of students, it had destroyed every university in Gaza
Speaker 1: and damaged to destroyed hundreds of schools, and then from
Speaker 1: Wikipedia because this editor's phrasing is too good to adapt.
Speaker 1: In his last interview before being killed, with the sound
Speaker 1: of Israeli bombs exploding in the background, ALiR said that
Speaker 1: Gasens felt helpless and that while he had no weapons,
Speaker 1: he would defend himself if the Israeli army were to
Speaker 1: come to his house using his expoe marker. In twenty eleven,
Speaker 1: Rafot published the poem if I Must Die electronically and
Speaker 1: had since been read widely and translated into over two
Speaker 1: hundred languages. Ahmed Nahad, a close friend and colleague overrfought,
Speaker 1: remembered If I Must Die was actually written for his
Speaker 1: daughter Shimam. She's the one that was told to tell
Speaker 1: his story, to sell his things and to not lose hope.
Speaker 1: Ahmed said, And so here's this poem, if I Must Die,
Speaker 1: by Arafat a laryer. If I must die, you must
Speaker 1: live to tell my story, to sell my things, to
Speaker 1: buy a piece of cloth and some strings make it
Speaker 1: white with a long tail, so that a child somewhere
Speaker 1: in Gaza, while looking heaven in the eye, awaiting his
Speaker 1: dad who left to the blaze and bid no one farewell,
Speaker 1: not even to his flesh, not even to himself. Seize
Speaker 1: the kite, my kite you made flying up above, and
Speaker 1: thanks for a moment. An angel is there bringing back love.
Speaker 1: If I must die, let it bring hope, Let it
Speaker 1: be a tale. And the bios of our authors today.
Speaker 1: Sarah Ali I'm a Palestinian teacher and a writer from Gaza.
Speaker 1: I studied English literature at the Islamic University of Gaza
Speaker 1: and have recently finished a pH d in English at
Speaker 1: the University of Cambridge. I blog mostly in Arabic from
Speaker 1: time to time at s A R A H M
Speaker 1: A l I dot WordPress dot com. Since the start
Speaker 1: of the genocide, Samir Foundation has been doing great work
Speaker 1: in Gaza. People can donate at Samir Foundation dot org.
Speaker 1: S A M. R Foundation dot org. And Hanan Habashi.
Speaker 1: I'm Hanan an educator with a background and applied linguistics
Speaker 1: in literature. Much of what I do, whether in teaching, storytelling,
Speaker 1: or community projects, has been shaped by questions of language, memory,
Speaker 1: and the ordinary human story. People can keep up with
Speaker 1: me through my Instagram account at Hanan writes, that's h
Speaker 1: A n A r I G h T S. I
Speaker 1: use it to share writing reflections and projects close to
Speaker 1: my heart and the anthology that these stories come from.
Speaker 1: Kasa writes. Back is available online from PM Press or
Speaker 1: in person from a radical bookstore near you. And I'm
Speaker 1: Margaret Kiljoy and until next time, the fuck ice free Palestine,
Speaker 1: take care of each other or all we've got or
Speaker 1: all we need. What Could Happen Here is a production
Speaker 1: or cool Zone Media.
Speaker 4: For more podcasts from cool Zone Media, visit our website
Speaker 4: Coolzonmedia dot com, or check us out on the iHeartRadio app,
Speaker 4: Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts, you can
Speaker 4: now find sources for It could Happen Here listed directly
Speaker 4: in episode descriptions. Thanks for listening.