Without a title, I and my article are. I have been treated badly by life. My article has been treated badly by its very readers. Nothing makes sense, why should I. Period!
A new era, years ago, I used to feel what it means to have a big brother. Nowadays, I no longer feel it. My brother is dead. I don’t know how my youngest brothers perceive me. Senseless: Life goes on.
I am not who I am. Someone else lives inside me, permanently, forcibly. All I do is waiting. An internal voice is resonating: O, nature, why did you create me Gazan. I protest. No one cares. I waste time.
Electricity goes off 16 hours a day. Israel claimed the life of the main line supplying Gaza with electricity the moment it claimed the life of a police officer, who probably left his family behind and promised to return back. The next day, electricity got back temporarily, but he didn’t. We, Palestinians, are used to this very word: temporality. We left homeland behind to get back within weeks, but have not made it back home since then.
We are in a desperate need to a savoir. No, we are not. Physician heals thyself first! We have to bear the responsibility for being here, on our own land. Had we left it for them decades ago, they would have lived peacefully without having people reminding them of the fact that this piece of land belongs to another nation. The bride has got married.
Today, I am here. I know no place, but this. No love, but this. No flag, but this. No ID and tear, but ours. We are being sued for a crime that we have never committed. We heard about it in the news, just like others.
Do they live like us? Do they cry? Do they make love behind the walls just like us? Does 1+2 is taught to pupils to equal 3? Do they use Capital Letters? Do they have names? Do they complain? Or their life is just fine?
Wrapped in white shrouds, draped with Palestine’s flags, the dead were buried peacefully. A new day begins in Gaza.
I don’t want to end it this way. Boring.
This does not make sense. I’ll go to do something else rather than writing.