Crashing Down.

Genocide genocide genocide genocide genocide genocide

I am uncertain how to start this sentence. I have re-written it 10 or so times, each unsatisfactory than the last. Many events have pass since I last wrote an update on Substack, and each time I have failed to articulate the horror that seems to become more normal with each passing day of this genocide.

I have failed to write on here when our dear poet and teacher, Refaat Alareer was murdered on December 6.

I failed to write a tribute honouring his life, writing, and his resistance. I miss how vulgar he was, how steadfast he was, and how smart he was. Even mentioning him in the past tense seems wrong and unnatural, yet here we are, using “was” instead of “is” because the murderers willed it to be so.

I then failed to write when Israel murdered my dear cousin in laws, Hasan (16), Mohammed (15), Hala (13) and Ansaam (25) along with Ansaam’s three daughters, Malak (4), Mira (1) and Tala (5 months). I failed to write about how Ansaam texted me two nights before her murder when Israel bombed the Maghazi refugee camp killing over 100 people, “I do not know how we survived the night” she told me.

I failed to write about the moment we opened Aljazeera and actually witnessed Palestinian civil defense pull their lifeless bodies out of the rubble. My mother in law refused to eat or drink for days. I felt she was refusing to eat out of grief, but also out of guilt. I overheard her say one day, ‘how can I eat when my brother just lost his children and all his grandchildren, and I don’t know if he’ll survive his injuries.’ I remember my body shook when she said that. How weird it is to exist during a genocide..

I then failed to write about how the remainder of our family, my dear in laws, now all living in tents. All are displaced. I failed to write about the conditions of the make shift Mowasi refugee camp, where there is a daily hunt for water, food, and medicine all while infectious diseases are now extremely common.

I failed to write about my husband’s grandmother, Wasfiya, who is older than the state of Israel, but is forced to sleep on the floor in a tent with a dozen other family members. I failed to write about how she is displaced for the second time in her life. Facing the Nakba and a genocide for the second time.

It seems tragedy after tragedy follows every single person in Gaza, sparing no one.

I finally have the courage to write about the tragedies unfolding that unfortunately don’t seem to end. My inability to write, however, does not stop the killings.

On Sunday at 2 PM local time, Israel murdered dear cousin in laws, Sama Abdelhadi (14) , Hassan Abdelhadi (16) and their mother Wisam on an airstrike on their grandfather’s home in Deir Al Balah- a designated “safe area” for people who evacuated the north.

Hassan, killed by Israeli airstrike..

See, throughout this whole war- this whole genocide, I had this horrific thought in the back of my mind. I constantly made dua, and prayed for the protection of little Sama. “Please God if you’re going to spare anyone, please let it be Sama”, I said. I loved her. She loved me.

Yet for reasons beyond my understanding, it was Sama’s fate to die. She was my best friend in Gaza constantly around me, asking me questions about traveling, taking care of my son Malik, wanting to talk to me about her hopes and dreams of being a doctor one day. Israel had other plans however.

I am out of useful words. I just want the world to know her name. To know Hassan’s name, to know the names of the 30,000 Palestinians who were forced to die for existing as a Palestinian.

Sama. Killed.

My heart is heavy, and my patience has dwindled to nothing.

the building housing multiple families including my husband’s uncles and their children. It is now gone.

This morning we found out the home I visited, excited that I might also call it home one day, was destroyed by Israel. The home that my husband, his sister and his parents built and grew up on, where all his belongings and memories were stored was obliterated by the genocidal state of Israel.

This morning we learned that his great uncle refused to evacuate his home upon the orders of Israeli soldiers. We learned that instead he was shot defending his home, and physically dragged out by the genociders, the villains in anyone’s story.

Heart break after heartbreak encompasses the realities of Palestinians in the diaspora. We romantisize and overstate our steadfastness because coming to face with this overbearing trauma is too much on any human. We say it’s ok. God will help us rebuild. We will return. We will free Palestine…

the reality however is we are steadfast by force.

Strong by force.

Resilient by force.

Otherwise everything will be crashing down. A genocide.