CZM Book Club: Two Stories from Gaza Writes Back, edited by Refaat Alareer

Margaret reads you two stories and a poem from an anthology of young, Palestinian authors

See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
Cool Zone Media.

Speaker 2 (00:06):
Book Club book Club, book Club book Club. Hello and
welcome to the Cool Zone Media book Club, the only
book club where you, the listener thinks, how long will
Margaret keep that bid up about the chanting?

Speaker 1 (00:21):
Now that there's usually not guests, I am your host,
Margaret Kiljoy. The Cool Zone Media book Club is the
only book club where you don't have to do the reading,
because I do it for you. And today we have
two stories and a poem for you from the collection
Gaza Writes Back short stories from young writers in Gaza, Palestine,

(00:42):
and this anthology was edited by Rafat Alarier for its
first release from Just World Books in twenty fourteen, but
Rafat was martyred by the Israeli military in December of
twenty twenty three, and a new memorial edition is currently
available from PM Press. Hazel, who helps with the show,
says that they found this book last year and immediately

(01:05):
knew they wanted to do some stories from it and
were so happy to be able to present works from
it today with the cooperation of the authors, with PM
Press who put out that new edition, and the family
of Rafad E Larreer. This collection is full of short
stories written by young people, most women who came of
age during Operation Caste Led. This was, in Rafat's words

(01:28):
from the original introduction the quote full scale military offensive
that Israel launched on Gaza between December twenty seventh, two
thousand and eight and January eighteenth, two thousand and nine.
Most of the stories in Gaza Writes Back were originally
written for Rafat's fiction and creative writing classes at the
Islamic University in Gaza. Many of the authors were new

(01:51):
to writing fiction and or writing at all, though some
were experienced bloggers documenting their experience of life under occupation.
Almost all of the stories were composed originally in English,
and again in Rafot's words quote, the stories included here
present in English a much needed Palestinian youth narrative without

(02:13):
the mediation or influences of translation or of non Palestinian voices.
Gaza Writes Back provides conclusive evidence that telling stories is
an act of life, that telling stories is resistance, and
that telling stories shapes our memories. So to get us started,

(02:35):
our first story is called the Story of the Land
by Sarah Ali. To Dad, I looked at his teary
eyes and beholding something akin to happiness. I smiled. The
man I have always known to be my father was back.
He did not look like that unfamiliar man whom I

(02:55):
could not fully recognize during the last three years. He
was no longer that abt minded, silent figure, gazing at
walls all the time and uninterestingly nodding whenever addressed by
anyone at home. He was there, He was present, He
was actually listening. As I went on bragging about a
high grade of mine. A phone call and a piece

(03:18):
of paper signed by some Turkish sponsored institution brought back
my father. I looked at his eyes again, this time
more carefully, for fear that my first glance was false.
As I saw that absolute happiness in my father's eyes,
a big smile made it to my face again. As

(03:39):
we now commemorate the Land Day, we honour the people
who stood up for their land in nineteen seventy six,
when Israel announced thousands of Palestinian dunams would be confiscated.
During marches held to protest that declaration, six people were killed.
The thirtieth of March brings back a memory of our land,

(04:00):
my father's land. A couple weeks ago, we got a
phone call informing us that my father's name had been
selected for a reconstruction program funded by Turkey. The program
aims at helping gosen farmers whose lands were damaged during
the Israeli offensive in two thousand and eight replant their trees.
It provides farmers with all types of facilitating materials, such

(04:24):
as fences, tree cuttings, seedlings, seeds, and irrigation systems. My
father declined to apply for those organizations that gave financial
compensations to farmers. How can he take money in return
for land. Unlike any other aid program, this program gives
no money to farmers. It instead helps them stand on

(04:48):
their own. Though my father was born to a family
of farmers, he did not follow that path. He studied
economics and political science in Egypt and spent most of
his youth working as a journalist, mainly a columnist, writing
about economic and political issues in newspapers in Kuwait. When

(05:08):
he was back in Gaza, though he had to take
care of the peace of land my grandfather left for
him years before, it was not difficult for him. Gradually,
the land became more of a passion than a profession.
It was one of the few things he cared about
the daily thing that kept him busy. It was heaven
on earth. During those twenty three days of the Israeli

(05:33):
attack on Gaza, we were constantly receiving news of land
being run over by Israeli bulldozers. We were told thousands
of trees were gone. We were told my uncle's trees
were gone. We were told our trees were gone. We
were told Sharga, the whole district of eastern farmland was gone.

(05:54):
But these were rumors, or so my father wanted to believe.
We all had hope that our land was still intact,
totally untouched. We were clinging to the assumption that only
other people's trees could get uprooted. But certainly not our beautiful,
unmatched olives. Certainly not the trees that were, to my
father the only thing he boasted of to prove he

(06:18):
was no less of a gozen than those who repeatedly
reproached him, for, as they put it, recklessly leaving the
land of black Gold, where they assumed he swam in
Kuwaiti oil pools every day, and for coming to live
here with a small H. My father looked at it
quite differently, For here with a capital H, he always

(06:42):
believed is the land of al Zeate al mukatas the
holy oil. Gaza's sky was blue again. Things were over.
The news said things were over. My father went there.
He went to check up on the land with a
capital H. He put his faith in his olives being
an exception, and he went there. He put his faith

(07:05):
in that little white spot in the heart of the
bulldozer's operator, who my father supposed could not have resisted
the beauty of our land, and who listened to his
inn it good being that told him not to run
over this land. He had faith in the goodness of man,
and he went there. He put his faith in God,
and he went there. My brother, who accompanied him, told

(07:28):
us later that all they saw as they walked was
ruined lands filled with bulldozed dead trees, which seemed to
suffice for their family's need of firewood for years to come.
My brother said, Dad started crying as he saw people crying.
They went on. They saw more toppled trees, feeble and defeated.

(07:51):
They went on. There was the heaven. The scene of
our land was not shocking. Simply put, our trees were
no exception. Our trees were gone. A miscellany of affliction
and denial took over the place. My father's faith, I
could tell, was smashed into little pieces. The world seemed

(08:12):
like an ugly place. One of our trees, which later
became the subject matter the whole neighborhood spoke of, was
still standing there. Just one week before the attacks. My
father told my brother how slanted this tree was and
how quickly they needed to get rid of it. They
were planning to cut it, and yet ironically it was

(08:34):
the only tree the Israeli army left out of boredom
or mercy, I cannot tell, but it was still there Later,
whenever my cousins wanted to make Dad feel less terrible
about it, they made fun of the whole thing. How
the hell did the soldiers know you were planning to
cut it anyway, and so decided not to cut it themselves,

(08:55):
my cousins would remark. Everyone would start laughing, but Ad
did not. His land and olive groves were not laughing
matters to him. When my father and brother were home
that day, my brother started telling us about what he saw.
He told us that the trees were uprooted al Shajar Tchejarref.

(09:17):
He kept repeating. My father was in his room crying.
During the weeks that followed my father's visit to the land,
he had a daily schedule. In the morning, he prayed
and read Koran. At night he cried. Speaking about the land,
the houses, and generally the financial losses during or right
after the Israeli offensive would have sounded very selfish and

(09:40):
indifferent to others. When people are dying, you do not
speak of your beautiful house that was leveled to the ground.
When people are losing their legs and arms, leaving them
disabled for the rest of their lives. You do not
speak of your fancy car that once looked like a
vase adorning the streets of your modest neighborhood, and that
is now a gray wreck. When a mother is burying

(10:02):
her child before she could say goodbye, you do not
speak of your land and your trees that were mercilessly uprooted.
Those people speak, they cry, they mourn. You listen, and
for the memory of your insignificant little misery, you grieve
in silence. And that seemed to have amassed more agony
over Dad's pain. Recently, I went to father to get

(10:26):
accurate information about the trees that were uprooted their numbers
and their age. Why are you asking? Are you applying
for one of those charity institutions that offer some money
in a bag of flower instead of helping people plant
the trees? Again? Are you we do not need those?
The guy I met from the reconstruction program called last
week and they already sent laborers and farmers to start

(10:49):
their job. Do you still want to apply for charity? No, baba,
I am just writing something for my blog blog, okay,
whatever that is? So? How many trees were uprooted? One
hundred eighty olive trees, I guess, and one hundred eighty
nine olive trees, one hundred sixty lemon trees, fourteen guava trees?

(11:12):
He bellowed, angry that I missed the exact number. Embarrassed,
I lowered my head and wondered why I.

Speaker 3 (11:18):
Was doing this to myself.

Speaker 1 (11:20):
My thoughts were interrupted when he went on, next time
you decide to do whatever it is you want to do,
right now, get your numbers straight. I made no reply.
You hear me, there were one hundred eighty nine olive trees,
not one hundred eighty, not one hundred eighty one, not
even one hundred eighty eight one hundred eighty nine olive trees.

(11:43):
He left the room for a few minutes afterwards, Guilt
was all I could feel. That an Israeli soldier could
buldoze one hundred eighty nine olive trees on the land
he claims as part of the God given land is
something I will never comprehend. Did he not the possibility
that God might get angry? Did he not realize that

(12:04):
it was a tree he was running over? If a
Palestinian bulldozer wherever invented ha Ha, I know, and I
were given the chance to be in an orchard in Haifa,
for instance, I would never uproot a tree, and ISRAELI planted.
No Palestinian would to Palestinians that the tree is sacred
and so is the land bearing it. And as I

(12:26):
talk about Gaza, I remember that Gaza is but a
little part of Palestine. I remember that Palestine is bigger
than Gaza. Palestine is the West Bank. Palestine is Romallah,
Palestine is Nobleus Palestine, as Jenin Palestine is tolk Arm.
Palestine is Bethlehem. Palestine most importantly is Yafa and Haffa

(12:49):
and Akka and all those cities that Israel wants us
to forget about today. I came to realize that it
was not the phone call that brought my father back,
or was it the paper signed by the AID Institution.
It was the memory of the land being revived that
brought him back. It was the memory of olive trees,

(13:09):
giving that sense of security each time he sat under them,
enjoying their shade and dodging the burning rays of the sun.
It was the memory of the golden oil, the best
and purest oil, being poured into jerry cans and handed
to family and friends as precious gifts. It was the
memory of long years of cherishing the land, years of

(13:32):
giving and belonging. Between my father and his land is
an unbreakable bond. Between Palestinians and their land is an
unbreakable bond. By uprooting plants and cutting trees continually, Israel
tries to break that bond and impose its own rules
of despair on Palestinians. By replanting their trees over and

(13:54):
over again. Palestinians are rejecting Israel's rules.

Speaker 3 (14:00):
My land, my.

Speaker 1 (14:01):
Rules, says Dad. Yep, that's the story. Sarah, who wrote
this story, says this about it. I originally wrote this
story when I was a teenager and later revisited and
rewrote it for Gaza writes back, looking back, I can
see that it is quite raw, slash immature, and reflects

(14:23):
the inexperience of a young writer. At times. It even
feels a little corny to me.

Speaker 3 (14:28):
Now.

Speaker 1 (14:29):
Nevertheless, it remains very special to me because it is
rooted in a real experience connected to my father's land,
which was repeatedly destroyed by Israeli occupation. Forces that personal
history is at the heart of the story and continues
to give it a meaning to me. And h who
what do I have to say about this story? I mean,

(14:51):
I think the story speaks for itself in so many ways.
And I think that this is the power of story
and memoirs to take something that is a news article,
even to a you know, well meaning free Palestine, anti
Zionist person in the West. You read about like trees destroyed,
even numbers of trees destroyed, which is so important in

(15:12):
this story, and it's not quite this is what happened
to my father when one hundred and eighty nine olive
trees were destroyed on his land.

Speaker 4 (15:20):
You know.

Speaker 1 (15:22):
And the other thing that sticks to me. Okay, there's
this drive to go on sometimes through Appalachia and there's
this big billboard and it's the middle of a forest,
you know. The highway's cutting through the forest and the
billboard there's a bunch of trees that were cut down
on a hill to make a room for this billboard,
and it says there is evidence for God. And all

(15:42):
I can think is like, yeah, and you cut it
down to put up that billboard, you know, because the
holiness and the divinity of land itself is so self evident.
I like the way that this story carries that Ideatually.
I do snarky ad transitions and I don't know, I

(16:02):
don't feel like it. Here's ads.

Speaker 3 (16:05):
They allow us to have this show, I guess.

Speaker 1 (16:19):
And we're back. So Rafata Larier, who's the editor of
that book that we're going to, continued to talk about
quotes Sama ol One in his introduction to the book, quote,
there was too much pain in those twenty three days,
and some of us who wrote about cast led did
so to heal some of the pain caused by the

(16:41):
horrendous memories. And no matter how beautiful, the spirit of
resistance that overwhelmed us this beauty should never override the
ugliness of pure injustice. Our second story is called l
for Life by Hanan Habashi. How are you, Baba? It's

(17:02):
been ages since I last sat and talked to you.
I nearly forgot about my promise to write to you
whenever happiness sneaks into my little heart. I'm afraid a
letter filled with happiness risks never being written. So let
me write to you without conditions. Don't deprive me of
the sense of satisfaction I used to get when addressing you.

(17:23):
Today marks eleven years since the day you were gone.
But only now am I starting to realize how dearly
I miss you, how your loss is too awful. A beast,
a conquer you know you are sorely needed. My only
solace is that I know you feel my thoughts. Life
has become more painfully complex than getting a good grade

(17:43):
in history or going out with Aunti Karama's family. Life
is never that simple. What to tell you, Gaza is
frustrating these days, well, these years. It's a good exercise
and patience. At least this summer is the worst of
all summers that passed without you breathing some good air

(18:04):
has become a luxury we cannot always afford. When nothingness
takes over, which happens quite too often. I sit in
my room, which is fully exposed to the sun, gazing
at the tiny mark of the gunshop and the ugly
crack it left there. Yes, that very same crack on
the wall caused by his rifle, such an eyesore. Other

(18:26):
times I would gaze at it, trying to recall how
that soldier might look like. That huge creature grabbed you
out of my bed and didn't give you a chance
to finish my bedtime story. I cannot remember anything but
his dusty black boots and the frightening rifle. So many
times I tried to imagine how he would look like,
and always ended up believing he is no more than

(18:48):
a faceless monster. Maybe I have gone too far, thinking
of him, of his life, of his family, of his
wife whom he loves, of his smart kid who can
get a good grade, and mad of him laughing and
crying Baba. What would make this kind of human rejoice
over the fact that I am living the agony of

(19:08):
being fatherless with an uncompleted story. It is when darkness
prevails that I sit by the window to look past
all those electricity free houses. Smell the sweet scent of
a calm, gossen night, feel the fresh air going straight
to my heart. And think of you, of me, of Palestine,
of the crack of the blank wall, of you, of Mama,

(19:32):
of you, of my history, class, of you, of God,
of Palestine, of our incomplete story. I enjoy bringing to
my mind your tender voice narrating the story of Fair.
I still remember how I cheerfully beamed when you told
me that Fair and I are so much alike, that
he has my wild eyes and I his sheepish smile.

(19:54):
I have not yet known who he is or where
in life he stands, but I believe I had always
trusted your heroes. I can never forget how your dazzling
eyes had brightened when you recalled him planting some olive
seedlings in the back yard of the orphanage. God blessed
the smile on your face. God bless the seeds under
the ground. I can never forget how you looked me

(20:16):
in the eyes and said, he is a boy who
lost his whole family to death, but never lost faith
in life. I want you to be as strong, Baba.
Do you remember when I asked you if he was
strong enough to wrestle in israeligh soldier. You grinned, you
always did, but you didn't answer me. You wanted me

(20:38):
to figure things out on my own. You told me
he was only twelve years old when one of the
orphanage girls AML started trembling, hallucinating and sweating. But nobody
there had the guts to break the military curfew to
die there. However, did go out to bring a doctor
for am All, And then and then Helen earth, Baba,

(21:01):
and then you are no more. I don't remember when
exactly I started to care about completing their's story. But
whenever I ventured to think of giving it a proper ending,
I would get tired and the weight in my head
would grow heavier. I could not do it on my own.
I thought I had to think twice, once for me

(21:22):
and once for you. I have tried my best, Baba,
doing so is not easy. Nonetheless, of all the people
around me, you know best that it takes two to
complete a story. It always does. I hated the fact
that I might have been driven by curiosity in the
sheer love of endings. The air is another you in

(21:43):
my life, just like your photo that stands above the
repugnant crack and your cafea whose rich black was worn
out to a glorious gray. They are all living parts
of you. I had to believe that it is the
fear of losing yet more of my father that pushed
me there. I thought once I thought of your soulmate, Mamma.

(22:05):
I thought you must have talked to her about Fyeir.
I imagined you both had spent nights admiring his eyes
and smile. For I can clearly remember when you got together,
which was some kind of a luxury for Mamma. Talks
between you did not end. I sometimes travel to specific memories.
I hear the timber of your voice and the echo

(22:26):
of Mamma's laughter, laughter which died long ago. But don't
you worry. Mamma never fails to smile. I know I
shouldn't bother you, Baba, but you've got to know that
every passing day Mamma's getting frailer. I always wonder what
does she know which I don't, which makes her go
on in a life of bitter loneliness. She must know

(22:49):
much right, thinking that she knew Theyeir, I once plainly
asked her what happened to thee In the end, she
washed the last dish, turned the tap off, and started
at the sink. For some time, I felt like she
was about to give me the healing answer, but she
at once retracted. Who's there, she asked, narrowing her eyes. Feir,

(23:15):
I answered then, seeing uneasiness drawn on her face, I repeated, Faeire,
my father's fair. In every move she made, in every
word she didn't say, I could see the glint of
a story in the distance. She used her silence to
shield the chaos I spotted in her eyes. Mamma Fire,

(23:35):
the strong kid who planted olive trees at the orphanage.
I went on, trying to get her to talk strong. Huh,
doesn't matter how strong you are pretend to be. Life
is going to get to you sometimes. And that doesn't
make you weak, sweetheart, it makes you human. I know, Baba,

(23:56):
you don't know this new woman. I don't either. I
like to call it wisdom. Mam has become cynical, unfortunately,
but she gained a lot of wisdom. Nonetheless, believing that
her answer had nothing to do with your fair, I
asked her again if she knew what happened to him,
and whether he got back to the orphanage or not

(24:17):
he got back home. Indeed, we all will, she whispered
under her breath. I spent that night thinking of Fayer's home,
of the distant life in Mamma's eyes. I kept wondering
what's more torturous, the awful buzz of the drone outside
or the sounds of some tough questions inside. I guess
I eventually slept with no answer, thanking the drone for

(24:38):
not giving my inner uproar any chance to abate. Here's
where I have to do an ad break and again
just not feeling the well. Imagine your own snarky ad break.

(25:01):
Enter back. Two weeks ago, Grandfather went out with Abu
Farras a neighbor to get the UNRWA food coupons. He
left home sane and returned crazy. That's simple, Abu Faras says.
Grandpa waited three solid hours under the burning sun in

(25:24):
the long queue. When he was finally about to get
the coupon, he asked the man there, what are you
offering me? His answer was simple food? And when exactly
am I going to get my jaffa with this coupon?
Grandpa cried out. You can imagine what kind of hullabaloo
took place. But everything calmed down when Abu Faras forced

(25:45):
him back home. I don't like to think much of
the incident. I know that ever since you've been gone,
his life is entirely devoted to the grief over a
lemon tree and a dear son. Now he is no
longer the man I would talk to for hours. It
doesn't believe any more, doesn't believe in me, he says.
People fight and die to regain our Palestine, but those

(26:08):
freedom fighters don't come back, nor does Palestine. He swears.
You are now in Japho, sitting by a lemon tree,
enjoying the sun disappearing into the blue of our marvelous sea.
Grandfather says you would never come back, for who on
earth would leave the paradise of Japho. I am day
after day, falling in love with the years that dwell

(26:31):
in his wrinkled face, and the memories of old days
which are the beats of his weak heart. You have
to expect that. I ask Grandfather about the air. He
immediately replied fay Air refused to share a breath with
this dirty world. He chose to grow up somewhere else.
Don't give me that ridiculous face. Yes, dead people do

(26:52):
grow up, but don't you ever believe that they grow older?
This answer was even more confusing than Mamma's. I don't
believe you. Thierre could never have considered death as an option.
And what about a man? Was he selfish enough to
leave her to die? I cried, who is a male?
Grandpa asked, with no sense of concern. For some reason,

(27:14):
I felt relieved. I smiled and answered, my grown up friend,
you should meet her some time. I told him I
intended to visit Aunty Carama the next day and asked
if he would like to come. He said he could
no longer tolerate children and full houses. I couldn't care less.
I kissed his forehead. It smelled like the fragrance of

(27:36):
lemon blossoms. I felt like he had planted a lemon
orchard in his cavernous wrinkles. Baba, how could he dare
say Thyer was dead? He himself couldn't believe it. I
celebrated every new moment added to Fayre's life. I had
to be thankful for my faith, for you have to
make that leap of faith. If you ever want to heal,

(27:57):
years may be the length of one's life, the faith
is undoubtedly the width. The next day, I woke up
really early. I, for my very first time, watched the
sunrise with a dimmed light around me. The world looked
just like how I felt. And that was when I
looked deep, deep down and started to break apart, not

(28:20):
because I wanted to, but because I couldn't stop. I
started to wonder if the things I am living for
are worth dying for. I started to think of everything
I had in life. Although I have lots of things,
they never seem to be necessary. Every time I think
I had it the way I really fancy, it twists
and turns and slips away. I didn't fuel your soul around.

(28:43):
Though I tried to dream you closer, it stayed away,
just like before I knew it was about Thayer. I
was afraid that I would fall asleep again, knowing that
he'll always be the story with no ending. I knew
that you were just a story away, a story away.
Because I could no longer wait to know what happened

(29:03):
to Thayer, I spared the sun two hours to take
its favorite place in that awe inspiring sky. The weather
had not yet decided its attitude. The cool air was deceiving.
So I put your glorious kafia around my neck and
I unwaveringly went out. I trusted life that day. Grandfather

(29:23):
might think that's naive, but you wouldn't. I believe life
is one of the few that is trustworthy. They say
to find something, anything, a great truth or a lost
pair of glasses, you must first believe there will be
some advantage in finding it. And what an advantage, baba.
When I finally reached Auntie Karama's house, I knocked on

(29:46):
the door impatiently. I waited more than ten minutes outside.
Nobody answered my continuous knocks. I was about to return
home when Aunty opened the door. She was asleep. How
could she sleep while I didn't know where Thayer's story ends.
She welcomed me inside and excused me to change her clothes.
Please don't, I hastily replied to her apology. She raised

(30:10):
her eyebrows, turned pale, and said, what's the matter with you?
Something must have happened to your grandfather, or what on
earth could bring you this early when you haven't visited
me in months? Oh God, what happened to him. I
had to calm her down and drive away her worries.
It's their who brought me this early, I said, yes, Baba,

(30:31):
I asked Auntie Karama. I had to, for I knew
she was your closest friend ever since you were a
little kid who couldn't spell Palestine. She always prides herself
on the fact that she taught you to spell it
just right. You had always believed in its bigness. P
for passion, A for aspiration, L for life, E for existence,

(30:54):
S for sanity, T for trust, I for you, N
for nation, E for exultation, and then you wrote it
just right. You wrote it everywhere you could, on walls,
on tables, You carved the stunning letters into trees and
ended up with them engraved in your heart. What about Thyer,

(31:15):
She bluntly answered my direct question. Hope found its way
back to my heart to congratulate me on the fact
that Aunty did know Fayre. I mean, what happened to
him in the end? Did he manage to get his
way back to the orphanage? Did a mall survive? I asked,
but she chose not to give an answer. Truth be told,
I was disappointed. I felt you didn't trust my heart,

(31:37):
you didn't want me to get any closer to your story.
She returned dressed in black and said, get up, we
are going somewhere special. With my teary eyes, I gazed
at her and said, where on this part of the
planet is there somewhere special. She got angry at my
answer and said, I am not worthy of knowing thyer
in the first place. If I didn't believe in this

(31:58):
part of the planet, have to know that. I felt ashamed.
We eventually left. She took me to places I have
never been to. The narrow, dark roads of the camp
captivated my heart. I felt that bitter sweet sensation. I
felt you were there. I was sure you were there.
On our way to the special place, Aunty Karama didn't

(32:20):
stop talking about every single family in the camp. Stories
of deep agony were our companions. I asked her how
she could know all these stories. She said that our
nakba is no secret. I admired her more than ever.
In my eyes, she had been no more than a
dull history teacher. It was the first time I knew

(32:40):
that she refused to get promoted to be more than
a third grade teacher. She believed in children. She said,
she couldn't leave the hope that resides in their pure
little hearts. Here we are, she said, I was totally surprised.
Was it even a place? I went in speechless. Auntie
Karama seemed to enjoy the remnants of a burned house.

(33:03):
A scent coming out of the earth enveloped me. I
couldn't wave it away. Auntie's smiling silence started to press
heavier on my heart. I lost sense of the place.
I'm nowhere, I'm everywhere, I'm here. Auntie's fruity voice finally
came to life such that you wouldn't believe it had
ever been silent. Goodness. Can you feel it? Your father

(33:26):
spent his entire youth teaching the kids here to spell Palestine,
P for passion, A for aspiration, L for life, E
for existence, S for sanity, T for trust, I for you,
N for nation, E for exultation. I, for a few seconds,

(33:47):
was afraid that she too had gone crazy. Which kids, Auntie,
your special place is no more than a wasteland, I spoke. Finally,
she swallowed what seemed to be a great deal of anger.
She went back to the ruins. She smiled, she laughed,
she cried. She went on sighing. Now, what does your
place have to do with Thayer and Amal? I interrupted

(34:09):
her ongoing sighs. You know what, Mariam, you blew it. However,
I've always believed life is about second chances. You hardly
ever deserve them, but at some point we all need them,
she tenderly replied to my rudeness. She went on, asking me,
if you prayed for courage, does God give you courage

(34:30):
or the chance to be courageous? If you prayed for truth,
does God give you his truth in your hand or
the chance to open your eyes? Life takes work, I believe,
I briefly answered. Then open your eyes, sweetheart, look past
the burned house. You'll find the answer by yourself. I
believe in you, I believe in whomever your father told

(34:52):
the story of Feyer, she said, smiling at my teary eyes.
I couldn't see anything, Babab. Nothing caught my bleeding heart.
I felt ashamed. I felt you deserved a better successor.
I lowered my head to the ground. I smiled, I laughed,
I cried. I kept on sighing at the sight of
the olive tree, standing alive at the very edge of

(35:13):
the burned house of the Orphanage, Thayer's seeds grew up.
Nothing else was left, but the tree was enough for me, Ramal,
for their and for you, my dearest Baba. It is
when darkness prevails that I sit by the window to
look past all those electricity free houses, smell the sweet

(35:35):
scent of a calm, gosen night, feel the fresh air
going straight to my heart, and I think of you,
of me, of Palestine, of the Orphanage, of the olive tree,
of you, of a mall, of Mama, of you, of
my history, class of Aunti Karama, of you, of God,
of Palestine, of Thier's story. That's the end of that story.

(36:00):
Ah Lord, What do I have to say about this story?
I almost feel selfish in the way that the story
connects with me. But my Irish grandmother went by, Baba,
and I don't know why. So immediately when I start
this story, I think about my grandmother who always talked
to the dead. She lost her son like when he

(36:22):
was you know, a young man, and she never you know,
really recovered from it, and she would walk around and
she would talk to him, and it kind of I
don't know whether that was cultural or religious for her
or not, but it kind of rubbed off on the
family to just talk to the dead. So this story

(36:44):
of talking to Baba hit me real hard, and I
don't know. I also while reading it, I feel really
grateful for the job I have. I know this sounds weird.
I feel really grateful that I got to read these
stories to you. It feels like the payoff of doing
this show is this particular episode and this way of

(37:08):
understanding that people are people all over the world, and
that when we reduce things to news stories, we lose
the actual stories. And it's through story and poetry that
we really understand who each other are and that we're

(37:31):
able to connect with each other. And I think that
we have any hope of accomplishing anything. And I really
appreciate this story's willingness to be we'raw and honest about
being like, I'm not a worthy successor, right, but no
one is, and we're all just people. And I really
like how well this story carries that, and it doesn't

(37:55):
put us down, doesn't put people down to say we're
just people. You know, the thought is not a perfect
character in this book or whatever, right, neither is the protagonist,
and yet you know here they are doing a thing
and they're not put down in any way, and if anything,
they're elevated by that. Yeah, and Hazel, who I owe

(38:18):
so much to for helping put all of this together,
Hazel says quote. This story and Sarah's both split my
heart open. At every turn away toward hardness and apathy.
Hannan invites readers to turn towards the rending to feel
her deep grief, but also her profound connection to place,
to history, to legacy, to life itself. It makes me

(38:41):
feel raw, so mortal, but so alive. It's been a
few days since I read these again while writing the script,
and what they say about how inviting in the grief
invites the joy and attention is so true, and it's
a wonder to keep learning this. I've been just so
heavy with grief for Gaza and Palestine, but at the
same time, I'm never more enraptured by the sunset on

(39:02):
my drive home, so full of gratitude for the lingering
strawberry taste of a sour candy, so attuned to my
rootedness to the city I call home. Palestine really is
the heart of it all. And to close out this
particular episode, I have one poem for you today, and
it's by the anthology's editor, doctor Rafada Larier. Originally from Gaza,

(39:25):
Rafot completed his graduate studies in the UK and earned
a PhD in English and Malaysia. Afterward, he went back
home to Gaza. Determined to serve his community. He took
a position as a professor of English literature at the
Islamic University of Gaza, where he had completed his bachelor's degree,
where he taught for sixteen years. He frequently said that

(39:46):
one of his main goals of teaching was to highlight
the parallel experiences of Palestinians and Jews through literature, and
this is hard to read. Rafot co founded the organization
We Are Not Numbers, which paired up established writers with
emerging authors in Gaza, quote, promoting the power of storytelling

(40:08):
as a means of Palestinian resistance against the Israeli occupation.
According to Wikipedia, Rafat also volunteered at the Gaza Zoo,
which he continued during the war. Ali Abanima remembers Rafot
as quote teaching us that stories are what binds us
together and keep our hope alive. Rafat was killed by

(40:29):
an Israeli missile strike on December sixth, twenty twenty three,
alongside his brother Sellah and Salah's son Mohammed, his sister Asma,
and her three children, Allah, Yahiah, and Mohammad, while they
were all taking shelter in Osma's apartment. He was forty
four years old. In a statement, the Euro Mediterranean Human

(40:51):
Rights Monitor stated that because of the highly surgical nature
of the strike, it is likely that Rafat and his
family were quote deliberately targeted. Over thirty members of Verrafats
and his wife's Nusaba's family have been murdered by the
Israeli military, including his daughter Shima, who was murdered with
her infant child, who would have been Raffat's first grandchild.

(41:16):
From the Anthologies twenty twenty four forward by Ali Abinama,
Rafat's killing was part of Israel's systematic and targeted extermination
of Gaza's leading intellectuals, academics, and scientists, a hallmark of genocide.
By late twenty twenty four, Israel had murdered at least

(41:37):
ninety four university professors, along with hundreds of teachers and
thousands of students, it had destroyed every university in Gaza
and damaged to destroyed hundreds of schools, and then from
Wikipedia because this editor's phrasing is too good to adapt.
In his last interview before being killed, with the sound

(41:57):
of Israeli bombs exploding in the background, ALiR said that
Gasens felt helpless and that while he had no weapons,
he would defend himself if the Israeli army were to
come to his house using his expoe marker. In twenty eleven,
Rafot published the poem if I Must Die electronically and

(42:17):
had since been read widely and translated into over two
hundred languages. Ahmed Nahad, a close friend and colleague overrfought,
remembered If I Must Die was actually written for his
daughter Shimam. She's the one that was told to tell
his story, to sell his things and to not lose hope.
Ahmed said, And so here's this poem, if I Must Die,

(42:41):
by Arafat a laryer. If I must die, you must
live to tell my story, to sell my things, to
buy a piece of cloth and some strings make it
white with a long tail, so that a child somewhere
in Gaza, while looking heaven in the eye, awaiting his
dad who left to the blaze and bid no one farewell,

(43:03):
not even to his flesh, not even to himself. Seize
the kite, my kite you made flying up above, and
thanks for a moment. An angel is there bringing back love.
If I must die, let it bring hope, Let it
be a tale. And the bios of our authors today.

(43:24):
Sarah Ali I'm a Palestinian teacher and a writer from Gaza.
I studied English literature at the Islamic University of Gaza
and have recently finished a pH d in English at
the University of Cambridge. I blog mostly in Arabic from
time to time at s A R A H M
A l I dot WordPress dot com. Since the start

(43:48):
of the genocide, Samir Foundation has been doing great work
in Gaza. People can donate at Samir Foundation dot org.
S A M. R Foundation dot org. And Hanan Habashi.
I'm Hanan an educator with a background and applied linguistics
in literature. Much of what I do, whether in teaching, storytelling,

(44:12):
or community projects, has been shaped by questions of language, memory,
and the ordinary human story. People can keep up with
me through my Instagram account at Hanan writes, that's h
A n A r I G h T S. I
use it to share writing reflections and projects close to

(44:32):
my heart and the anthology that these stories come from.
Kasa writes. Back is available online from PM Press or
in person from a radical bookstore near you. And I'm
Margaret Kiljoy and until next time, the fuck ice free Palestine,
take care of each other or all we've got or

(44:54):
all we need. What Could Happen Here is a production
or cool Zone Media.

Speaker 4 (45:02):
For more podcasts from cool Zone Media, visit our website
Coolzonmedia dot com, or check us out on the iHeartRadio app,
Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts, you can
now find sources for It could Happen Here listed directly
in episode descriptions. Thanks for listening.