The days have folded into nights and I have lost count. The past 21 days have been a blur.
I do not live in Gaza, or anywhere in Palestine, and I am not Palestinian. But my heart, nevertheless, aches uncontrollably. I am bound by a responsibility as a human, as a Muslim, as an Arab to feel for my brothers and sisters. This means that I am obligated to know their history, their stories, their suffering and that I too feel their pain.
In today’s understanding of the self and community, this might be a foreign concept. It may even be considered self-harm to some, but as a Muslim we are taught that we as a people are like one body, and so if one part of the body aches the whole body feels the pain. It is the sign that we are alive and connected as a people.
I remember my earliest memories of knowing of the occupation of Palestine and the abhorrent violence of the occupation. It was in 2000, when 12-year-old Muhammad al-Durrah was killed in the Gaza Strip by Isr*eli forces. I remember my father following the news on his computer at home and him not allowing me to see the scenes of violence. But I wanted to see, I wanted to know – at age 7 something within me knew this was not ok. I remember my father going to take part in protests for Palestine, I was not allowed to go – at that age he tried to shelter me from the violence and heart shattering news. I still knew, I still found ways to figure out what was going on. I would constantly ask and try to find ways to understand how such a grave injustice be committed?
The truth of the matter is although I knew then that something was wrong, I did not yet understand the history behind the violence. With time, and as I got older, I began to understand more and more the history and what was going on. In more recent years, thanks to the boldness of activists and the eloquence of Palestinians in sharing the story of their resistance, we have found better ways to speak about the plight and struggles of the Palestinians.
There are two life experiences that have completely changed the way I view and feel towards the occupation of Palestine:
Motherhood: In every child, I see my own. It shatters me beyond comprehension. Every girl – the dress, the flowers embroidered on the clothes, the hair clips – all the details stab me in my heart. The boys – the car toys they play with, the football they kick around – every detail makes me want to weep. And even more so is what I hear these children saying, “rescue team, we love you, we love you so much” and I hear it echo in my head in my own kids voices. It tortures me – but I want to know, I want to see, I do not want to avoid or ignore the suffering.
War: In the 2006 war on Gaza I remember my mom telling my aunt, “the Palestinians are being shelled and yet they always look decently put together, they manage to retain their dignity even in war”. That comment stuck with me and I found it astounding for a person to be shelled and yet be composed. After living through war, I realized that when you hear the sound of warcraft or shelling you get dressed, you expect death. One of my friends who lived in a heavily shelled area in Libya told me they would avoid showering and would wear their hijabs and sit, so that if the worst were to happen they would be “mastooreen” – meaning covered. War does something to you, it makes you feel like your mind is swollen. And everytime you have to go into fight-or-flight mode you start to feel that swelling again. We get through war not because we are strong, we get through it through the grace of God. One of the most apocalyptical things you hear in war is that, as people wait to hear if their loved ones are dead or live and the dread and fear around that – what’s more scary is finding your loved one injured because with that will come excruciating pain of finding them treatment and the heavy responsibility of caring for them in a war zone. Worse yet, is trying to find loved one gone missing, not knowing comes with its own indescribable grief.
War does nasty things to humanity, it makes us think in ways that make absolutely no sense in times of peace.
And so I watch the war rage on the Palestinian people as if I am trapped in a glass cage. I am frustrated, sad, angry and mad.
I feel helpless – but there is one thing that gets me through everyday and that’s knowing duaa (supplication) is the best I can do, and yet somehow we have been led to believe it’s the least one can do when in fact it’s the greatest thing we can do. With duaa, we then compliment action, knowing fully well it’s duaa that we are really counting on.
And with God are all our affairs.
Khadija Ali ••• خديجة علي 