I Am

A wall

2012-02-01T14:09:00.000-08:00

It’s funny there’s a sidewalk here. I walked with my finger tips touching the huge blocks of the great, made-to-scare-me wall. I didn’t look at the graffiti; I know it very well. The sky was halfway eaten by the wall, and the sun was no better. I stumbled with a stone, which was probably thrown by some of my friends yesterday. I sat down where I stumbled and grabbed the stone, stared at it for a minute, and threw it to the other side of the wall. I listened for an aw, a curse word, footsteps , a call, a whisper, or a gun shot. Nothing. I kept on walking. It didn’t seem to end. My finger tips were now colored with all dry paint colors. I stopped. Turned my face to the wall. Put both my hands on it. I pushed. I kept pushing,my arms straight, my teeth stressed, my legs rooted to the ground, the paint of the graffiti’s smell going through my lungs, the man on the other sidewalk stopping to see what will come out of this. My feet started backing the other way. A sound from inside me broke out to a scream. I collapsed to the ground crying. And, the man on the other sidewalk giggled and went on walking.

She dropped it.

2011-12-27T04:21:00.000-08:00

She dropped it and ran away. She was standing right in front of the door of her school, holding her book, getting prepared for her exam. A huge number of explosions followed the one the hit near her school. She stopped. Looking around, terrified, she saw police men crying, cars hurrying, kids running. The bombs continued. She didn’t know where to go. Her headmistress stopped taxi drivers to pick up the scared students. She stood there in silence. A bus with the back door open passed her, letting her see the dead bodies piled inside. Her eyes turned wide open. Her lips froze. Her hands shook. Her knees could no longer carry the heavy picture that has just passed. She tried to stand, but no one looked at her. Everyone was running . A teacher tried to reach her, but another bomb was dropped and the teacher got back behind the door of the school. The girl felt the ground shaking under her collapsed legs. Her hands shook more. She was still in shock. She knew air strikes very well. She always sees them on TV. She knows that this happened before. But, the bombs went on. They were telling her that this is not just a strike. This is one hundred strikes in a minute. This is a try to break the record, and you’re just one girl on the ground, shaking, gulping loads of smoke, paralyzed by fear. The teacher reached her, dragged her to a car, and closed the door.

In Gaza II

2011-11-16T13:02:00.000-08:00

In Gaza, the smell of the air after it rains is so tempting that you want to keep standing in the street for no reason but to keep the fresh smell in your lungs. In Gaza, you envy others for being so happy and others envy you for having nothing. In my precious Gaza, you curse having to go to university ( you curse everything actually, not only that. You curse your friends, your neighbors, the news, your clothes, taxis, the food and on goes the list) at eight because you spent the night doing nothing but watching documentary videos about Gaza, which is the place you think you know the most.

Only in Gaza, you get used to being uncomfortable, sitting in a Taxi while being crushed by an old woman, who knows that you're not comfortable, still asks you if you are. You look away and say you're fine. Education in Gaza drives you crazy, for you wonder where all the girls go if not to university, complaining about the huge number of girls on the stairs, and of course the ones using the elevator. Misery chases you all the way to your home because you know all the time is going to slip away cleaning and watching documentary videos, although you have planned on studying the whole day long_ sometimes, you sleep, out of nowhere, you fall asleep, just like that!

People never get used to the sounds of bombs and shelling though they know them pretty well. When a bomb is dropped somewhere from the sky to the Gazan ground, your parents rush to the radio, helplessly, thinking that it would help. You feel scared because your bed shook. Then, you laugh at yourself because you know it's not an earthquake.

Masmiya

2011-11-15T11:26:00.000-08:00

It hurts a lot when you want to change your hometown on Facebook and find out that it is listed under the name of another country. You hopelessly try to change the country the name of your hometown is attached to, but nothing happens. I come from a beautiful town, not so far from the beach. It has a lot of green fields. I've passed it once. Only, I didn't know that it was actually it until we passed it. " You're from Masmiya! Why didn't you say so a minute ago. We've just passed it!" the driver starts. You open your mouth in excitement wishing he would turn the car around and go back to it. He makes a stupid excuse that you're already late for going back to the checkpoint. You know it's a lousy excuse because your permission ends at 7 pm, and it's not 4 yet. You hold a tear back. You hopelessly try to remember how the place you passed a minute a go looked like. The driver tells a story about a burnt house there. You feel proud. You wish you could jump out the car and run back to it. Hug it. Touch it's sands, enter the burnt house and say hello to its dead residents,you wish. The idea of not taking a picture tortures you all the way back home. You tell your father about it. He smiles. You don't understand, but you go on telling them all about your exciting trip to the dreamy, far, magical city of Jerusalem.

I visited Jerusalem on the 31st May 2011. I will never forget that day, and the way I felt when I saw our lands beyond Gaza. Happiness and misery couldn't have mixed better than then.

To Jehan (Jeeje)

2011-11-01T15:30:00.000-07:00

Dear Jehan,

Today, I read your story "When you shoot, please shoot to kill". I cried. I cried so hard that I turned my face to the wall and tried to hide my tears. I disturbed the girls in the bench in front of me, asking for tissues. I belittled the girl sitting next to me offering chocolate.I was about to spit on the fancy chocolate pieces she offered. I wanted to slap a girl on the way to the library asking me if her make up was ok. I ran to the library as fast as I could. I actually faked writing this on my notebook from a reference. I wanted to be forgotten. I wanted to cry until I die. This story made me ashamed of eating, laughing, wanting to do anything but crying. Your story is.... I don't know what to say. I've looked for a word for five minutes but I couldn't find any.

You, being in this world, makes it a better one. You can actually make a difference. You and many other great people I know, and probably others I don't know.

Yours,
Rawan

You can read Jihan's story and see her blog here:
http://palinoia.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/%E2%80%9Cwhen-you-shoot-please-shoot-to-kill%E2%80%9D/

Our dear Drone

2011-10-30T15:04:00.000-07:00

Hi droning drone,

you know what: you've become a real friend of mine. I swore at you. I spit at you. You keep me awake. You have actually been talking to me all day long. Well, to be honest my friend, I tried to ignore you by using my headphones and watching TV. But you wouldn't quit, would you? Well, congratulations you've broke the record you've made more than one million friends in less than two days. Take good buzz of yourself.

Yours, A Gazzzzan

The parts of my friend

2011-08-19T14:58:00.001-07:00

I couldn't see a body. I saw parts of it. Dusty. Reddish. Burnt, yes that's the word. I saw A father along with his son and brother, with their flesh mixed. Recognizing them was hard for me. Knowing which is whom and who is who didn't work as I tried to figure out where my friend was! I saw him riding that bike just a minute ago. That blast did it all, my friend. It did it all.

2011-01-19T01:49:00.000-08:00

Writing about losses seems so typical now. Everyone here has their own story, but the main point it always the same: some lost one parent, some lost the two of them, and others lost their whole family. After I had written a few stories that are probably presenting a slight percentage of the tragic scenes lots of children have witnessed I thought to myself" there are thousands and hundreds of thousands of the same plot, and of course many before me have written about them. Doesn't the world already know? Hasn't what happened two years ago told enough? Need I say more?

I can not say that when I write about these people and place myself in their little spots I can't say that it doesn't hurt. It does. It cuts so deep. And to me telling their stories is the only way I can help. Not them of course. No one can. They lost the most precious people that their minds can think of, precious to their hearts, to their senses, to their everything. Most of them will grow stronger. Some will feel lonely. Others will seek revenge.

I can tell a happy ending, but that will only happen the day every Palestinian's dream come true, the day when all of us stand under the shadow of justice. Peace. The day when every child sees that his father's dead body lying under this dusty ground has grown a victory so high. Staggering in the snowy land of Jerusalem in the midst of January is the dream.

Until then, my words will be slaved to the reality. Until we make a difference.

My Fake Silver Medal

2011-01-16T02:27:00.000-08:00

We won the match. Second place in the Gaza strip among UNRWA 5^th graders. It was a too fine day to stay indoors or to even get a ride home, so I decided to walk, proudly with my fake silver medal. Something was strange when I approached my neighborhood. I could feel people looking at me; however, they looked away the second I laid eyes on them. Even Abo Mohammed who is the man that that makes falafel in the area refused to take the sheikel from me. Instead, he was unusually kind. As I was walking, eating my Falafel Sandwich, with the salad leaving a trace behind me, my house starting to show up, the roof the windows, I could then see the so many people gathering in front of the house. I started running, and when I reached all of those people, I dropped my sandwich which was then empty. Being a small boy, I tried to find my way through the men's legs to the door I could only hear my aunt sobbing. My Mum sitting there looking at nothing and tapping her hand on her huge belly softly, she was about to shed a tear. I could see it glowing in her eye hopelessly. She didn't. In the guests room, my aunt sobbing, most of our neighbors were sitting there. And, there, in the middle, was my Dad wrapped in white, with only his face shown, eyes closed. He wasn't taking a nap; that I was certain of. I ran to him. He seemed so calm. He had so many little cuts in his face, and I wasn't sure if that was HIS body inside the white cloth. I looked at him for a minute or so. Then my aunt came and hugged me so tight, while she continued her weeping which made me start crying, for I figured it out. My Dad will never see my fake silver medal.

My mother gave birth three days later. When she saw the child, she said with her sweat going down on her face" he looks like no one but his father". And only then she burst into tears.

New 2011 : Israeli Crimes in Gaza war 2008 Bye Bye Gaza

2011-01-16T01:17:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BhwqPGKRLfk

They were playing with our souls as if we were dolls! Watch... and judge.

Tawjehi

2011-01-02T13:49:00.000-08:00

You are very anxious to get some time on your own to read a book you have now spent four months reading, but another student sees you sitting alone beginning to read and asks you if you're free; although you're not you say you are and answer their questions. You're actually a Tawjehi student(senior high student). Everybody knows that you are a Tawjehi student. Most of whom didn't know or didn't care what your grade was before. You know you're a Tawjehi student when the number one question they ask you becomes" How's your study" while you appreciate their concerns and answer your typical everyday answer_ even if it's not true. " it's ok ".

Here, you organize your precious time in an extreme way you even calculate your lunch time and how much time it takes washing your face in order to have enough time studying. However, the second there's no electricity you forget about it and curse
Having wasted an hour planning a schedule.

you start your new year with no fire works. You expect some coming down from the sky, though." They say war is in February". "can't they wait until we finish our curricula?" " which curricula ?" "I mean can't they wait until March?" you suddenly stop and stare at your brother in amazement. You laugh. You have this weird conversation in a very normal way that you barely notice. Yes you become aware of these things as an expert, for you have spent 16 years of your time in the most unpredictable area.

You plan for your new year you want to do everything. You have actually been planning since the summer vacation. Being a Tawjehi student, everything is procrastinated for the next year: driving license, learning Turkish, changing your room decoration, reading a list of books. After Tawjehi becomes your most common phrase.

A Little Girl

2010-12-25T02:25:00.000-08:00

Sleep in here sleep little girl
I would keep you so warm
Sleep… darling I'll hold you so firm
You're here in my lap no need for fright
Keep on your happy sight
Sun will shine
Birds will wake the sleepy night
You're my….

My Mom suddenly stopped singing and stopped calmly feeling my hair. Her hand also stopped shaking. She was keeping me on her lap, trying to keep me warm in that cold night. It was too dark that I could barely see her face. She was very warm, but she gradually lost that comforting heat. I tried to keep it, so I covered her with the small blanket she was covering me with and I stayed in her lap. Some minutes passed; however, she didn't continue singing, and her body kept going colder. There was so much going on outside. I could hear a man weakly weeping. I thought she was listening to the sounds outside trying to know what was happening.
I sat beside her, for, then, she was so cold that I couldn't stay in her lap. " Mama, why is the man outside crying?". She didn't answer. She kept listening. I said no word afterwards. I may have slept for a short while after the noise was a little bit lower. When I woke up I saw my mother with her eyes closed covered with my blanket. I thought she must have been awake the whole time I was sleeping, that's why I didn't try to wake her up; she would get in a really bad mood if I do. I poured her some water and put it in front of her. She was still cold. I was cold too but I thought she was so much colder. I sat right in the opposite of her and kept waiting her to wake up and drink my glass of water and then thank me for it. Thinking of my dad and two brothers who got out of the house carrying a white shirt and how much noise happened after they got out, while my mother followed them so fast and came back so slow, with that noise frequently coming back, I kept staring at her cold body.
Now, two years later I understand it all, the cold, the whimper, my dad's white shirt, my brothers, everything, even the mess outside. I understand why the men who came that morning took only me and why they wouldn't listen to me yelling at them saying that my mother is still there feeling very cold.

Rawan Yaghi
25th December,2010

This reminds me of war

2010-12-10T05:10:00.000-08:00

This reminds me of war. The cold. The sound of thunder sounds like F16 planes sometimes like Apache rockets. When further, they sound like tanks bombs on borders. It hasn't rained yet and it didn't rain much during war either. It'll rain soon, and that thunder far away will reach us. The lightning draws the picture of the new old bombs. The clouds look so much like the smoke that we once woke up and saw surrounding the city from north east to south west. Even my red blanket does. No electricity but the radio is on. The news is a little bit different, sounds so comfortable and calm. My room is decorated differently; now my bed is right under the window. My books are twice different. I used to like winter, and I won't like it until another war is launched. Maybe it will come to an end.

2010-12-06T12:48:00.000-08:00

2010-11-28T05:33:00.000-08:00

Just a theory

2010-10-22T09:32:00.000-07:00

We're in the car, passing many things. And questions start flowing with everything we pass by. Why aren't the people walking on the sidewalk? Why are there shops everywhere? Why can I see our flag only in the barbershop? Why are boys and girls wearing jeans? Why is there a sign with English letters on a restaurant in the middle of an Arabian city? How are the none English speakers going to understand it? Can they not afford the restaurant? Why is the rubbish outside the container not inside it? Why doesn't this street have a sidewalk? What are the young MEN doing in the sport club? Are they really playing sports? What sort of sports are they playing? Why does something always have to be written on the walls? Why did that man throw the paper on the ground? What did his son think of him? Why do girls suddenly have big heads?

Why are there three shops in the same block? Why do taxies stop in the middle of the street? If all these silly questions don't have answers why should the important ones do?

From Beneath

2010-09-02T02:46:00.000-07:00

I didn't even know if my eyes were open. After a big mess everything seemed so calm I could sense the dust covering my face, the only part I could feel. I could feel my breath hitting one of the bricks of my room's floor. Air found its way through everything surrounding my body. Silence was all I could hear. My arms trapped somewhere under the wooden edges of my bed, my toes, my legs, my hair, they all were jailed and penalized not to move. I was afraid. I waited and waited trying to recall all the joyful events in my life, as my mother once advised me to do so when I'm afraid, though they were few: My elder brother's big wedding, my grandmother coming from Hajj and bringing me a doll singing, the last Eid when I got my biggest Edeyya ever, my mother bringing us home a new baby after me _I wonder if that was a happy event for me, but I could certainly see the joy my parents had looking at that little thing. My breath firmly came back to my face touching it as to comfort me and tell me that everything will be ok. A minute later I started crying, though. And only then I realized that my eyes were closed, for I could feel my wet eyelashes. It did not matter; opening them and closing them were thoroughly the same. I cried so much that my tears mixed with the dust on my face felt like mud at the edges of my face. I must have been bleeding, since a killing pain started growing in my chest with the growing of my weeping. I tried to move in order to stop the pain. Only one muscle, I found out that something very sharp, extremely strong, calmly was standing through my skin. I stopped crying. I waited. I bled.

Your....

2010-08-18T14:35:00.000-07:00

It's an old memory, yet plays among us all the time. A folded picture with an outstanding smell of jasmine. It's that thing far away to be reached; that's why we ignore thinking of it. Or maybe we're afraid of thinking of it. Ashamed. It's a glance of a golden dome with old buildings all around, only old people praying, while the young ones are left to be masked fighting to pray along with the old ones. There are some blond people with shorts and cameras somewhere in the picture. Two soldiers are walking in an old narrow street. You can't see cars, though. Everything seem so old except the two guns of the two Israeli soldiers. In just a picture, you see people coming and going, people selling and buying, crowds going in a big gate leading a whole market filled with jewelry, cloth, clothes, carved wood, and everything that indicates the eastern culture, with huge walls surrounding something that must be hugely valuable, a tire on fire somewhere in the middle of the picture, it's black smoke burning your eyes that you can't keep them open anymore. Somewhere beneath all of that there's a Hebrew young worker digging the ground looking for something he doesn't know so that the jews behind that old wall would have some sort of an ancient clue that would tell them that they have the right to be where they are. While, in front of the wall, there would be an old lady with everything carved deeply in the wrinkles of her forehead, cheeks, around her lips, down in the shadows of her little eyelashes, about her being where she is. Oh I forgot to mention that it's a picture of Je… Jeru..salem. How do I know! A picture is talking to me " I am your Jerusalem" while I calmly and carefully fold it back and place it under my pillow.

18August2010

Blue sky

2010-08-17T06:56:00.000-07:00

A blue sky is what I think of when I want to sleep. It might be somehow weird, but I do imagine myself in a very large and wide land with green grass, olive trees scattered around, and orange branches surrounding that land. I see myself looking at a blue sky with that tickling feeling in my eyes. It's probably something I do to ignore the annoying sound of generators felling the neighborhood, or maybe to convince myself that no Apache nor an F16 will pass across this blue sky, for, if that happens, the sky will no longer remain blue. That color will turn to a smoky black cloud. That tickling feeling will soon be an awful burning pain that will force my eyes to drop a tear or two. A blue sky is after all, as many things are for us, too far to be reached.

Rawan

A stone

2010-07-25T08:20:00.000-07:00

Ahmed threw the stone. He threw it at a big tank, fully loaded with explosive balls. Ahmed probably wasn't thinking of what he's done, for it was the first time to throw a stone at such a huge, ugly, iron, metal made moving thing. "It felt awesome" Ahmed said to his second best. " that's useless Ahmed; nothing happened to the tank" replied his second best carelessly. "who cares!" Ahmed said while collecting stones from the ground. Ahmed, a ten year old boy, knew that the stone he threw would have a meaning beyond damaging the loaded tank! Nonsense, he only did it for pleasure. What about his facial expressions while throwing the stone? Were they expressions of pleasure ? That determined look. He has probably taken it from his father, who told him a story of him throwing stones at Jeeps when he was young the day before, with the same determined look. Who cares if Ahmed didn't cause a huge damage to his enemy. He felt awesome. And he will do it again the next day with or without his second best.

2010-07-17T11:44:00.000-07:00

Desperately looking at his son, trying to realize what has just happened, shaking the stiff body of his beloved, forgetting about all the sanity in him while screaming up loud: "no", with soldiers standing in front of him and his dead son , only looking with pleasure, soldiers full armed with the heaviest weapons that the boy had ever seen in his short life, Abu Mohammed crying loudly first time in his life, hugging his little boy, touching his hair in an insane way as if he's scared he will never do so again, Abu Mohammed failed to protect his one and only son.

Rawan Yaghi

The old man

2010-07-08T06:44:00.000-07:00

The old man was staggering on the shore sands. Life has obviously tired him with all its troubles, and the sun has already taken away his true skin color. Walking along with his son, they were carrying some cold frozen drink trying to sell some for the relaxed people who barely would give the miserable man and his son a look. His son was just like him only a little bit taller. And to keep up with his dad he started to have a hunch. At the end of the day, one wonders how could this old man stand on his feet this long especially walking on these sands trying to get only few money back to his family. One wonders why can't the boy enjoy his holidays like most of the kids swimming in the sea. One can see how much the boy hates what he's doing.

Sun has started to give up light while going down behind the fishing boats. And swimmers got out of the water. Mothers started changing the wet clothes of their children, yet the old man is still staggering with his son

7th july 2010

Rawan

What are you going to be ?

2010-07-01T03:00:00.000-07:00

"What are you going to be ?" He asked. Frankly, I got tired of hearing the same question when ever I meet someone and they ask me in which grade I am. And my answer is even worse " I haven't decided yet," logically, what can one be in here? A teacher that hates his students. An unemployed engineer. A doctor that hates himself because he doesn't have enough time to rescue his urgent patient or he has to ruin a patient's life to keep him alive! Those thoughts assail my mind every time I start thinking about collage.

Never have I thought that growing up would be this hard. Never in my life have I felt this confused and frustrated. I always thought of future as that glowing light at the top of the mountain, but seems that I have fallen in a deep hole where it is too dark to climb back again.

I am a Palestinian, I thought, I already have a job. I have been feeding it since I was a five year old little boy. Scenes around me have been stuffing my memory with the images of dead bodies and wrecked houses. I have seen my brothers being humiliated. Those frighteningly dark memories were my motivation to eagerly start my life with the thoughts of revenge in any way possible. "I will be free" would be my answer

By Rawan Yaghi

1st july 2010

I am a kid.

2010-06-05T08:55:00.000-07:00

I am a kid, at least this is what they call me. I cried once in my life, but no one ever knew why, not even my best friend. I didn't cry when my mother died. I didn't cry when my sister got married. Nor did I do so when my dad got sick. I didn't even cry when the dentist pulled my tooth as hard as he could.

People always wondered why I never cry. I watched my friend bleed till death while I stood there with nothing to do. I went back home that day and kept staring at the old ceiling of my room till the next night. I didn't cry. I pulled myself back together, I don't actually know how exactly I did that only it was as simple as getting up from my bed. But I never convinced myself that this was the reason of my none sensitivity.

I once asked my mother why people cry; she answered "Because they're humans, darling" she was always this mysterious and warm. After that I started questioning myself being a human. I told myself that I looked like one only I never cry.
When I turned 16 I had my Palestinian ID card and my mother was in her worst conditions, so we had to move her to another hospital, a hospital behind borders and check points. Since I was old enough and my sister was too young and my Dad was already sick, I was the only one who could accompany her through her long exhausting 3 kilometers trip! We reached the point where one gives his entry permission to a 20 year old soldier so that he can allow him to get to the hospital behind the checkpoint, my hollow looks weren't very appealing to the soldier, thus he didn't allow me in with my mother. She had to go through it all alone. I didn't cry when I exchanged the last looks with her; although, the stream of tears down on her face would make that cold moon melt down. My mother died the next day in the hospital behind the borders. I didn't burst into tears imagining her all alone taking her last painful breath, thinking that it was my fault that the soldier didn't let me in with her. All I did was pouring that bitter coffee for people, sympathizing with my family, for three days.
I think that there's no need to mention how much I suffered during my life afterwards. That's not the problem. I wonder what the problem is!

By: Rawan Yaghi

In Gaza

2010-05-17T00:40:00.000-07:00

In Gaza, You lie on your bed holding your pencil, drinking your coffee-milk cup. You want to write about your birthday, probably, someone else's birthday maybe, but these lyrics keep interrupting your thoughts " take me to a country that has no entries nor guards. Take me to a country that has no names that is planted with freedom, a country for everyone" you wonder how impossible could this be. Minutes later, you find yourself dreaming of such a country. You realize you have been dreaming of it for 62 years while you're only 17 years old.

In Gaza, You start an argument with your friend about freedom. You say that words never did any good for us and never got us our freedom back and that we are living the most humiliating life on earth with people controlling what we eat; controlling who comes in and who gets out, steeling our lands and we are standing with absolutely nothing to do but saying some words! And, still, she insists that having those words is the peak of freedom.

In Gaza, You wonder " why is it me who has to stay in the kitchen after lunch while everyone else can go continue what they were doing before ?" you wonder you are even about to explode wondering, still you don't say a word since you know your mother will be satisfied after you are done.

In Gaza, You welcome your cousin whom you haven't met for ten years. You speak about Gaza while standing on a balcony of an eighth floor apartment facing the sea. He tells you that such a view is a couple of million Dollars worthy in the country he came from. You explain where Rafah, Khanyounis, Deer el Balah, Gaza, Jabalia, Beet Lahia are. Then you stop, take a deep breath and tell him that there, where the big smoky tower is, starts a so called country occupying yours and his. You hear that ordinary beat; yes it's normal for you but not for him. Thus you explain that it's a wedding and such a beat keeps going on from 1 o'clock till the beginning of the wedding party. And he actually likes it. You tell him that not only that happens but, normally, before a wedding there must be a party for the groom where they block the street, get a folk band, and dance Dabkah ( the Palestinian traditional way of dancing) till midnight in the middle of the street; of course you can't ignore the fact that your dad keeps swearing at them "Damn Arabs, they're blocking the street as if they own it " but again your cousin likes it and even more "that's mad " he says with an excited smile .

In Gaza you keep talking on and on and on but you never reach what real Gaza is.

By: Rawan Yaghi

Dreams for sale

2010-05-02T09:00:00.000-07:00

I screamed out loud: I want to be.

Be someone, but it only was a buzz that e.

A land, I don't want to leave.

Maybe a new room I want to have dadyyy.

A high mark probably

A scholarship ! what a girl's dream !

Oh, how nice that PC looks!

I want that book to read.

Friends ! I wonder if that's available anymore.

Cake? how silly!

what about a third language to master?

Collage; which the ? could be.

Love? l..love; not available, sorry.

By :Rawan.

And the mystery continues

2010-04-28T03:04:00.000-07:00

sadness burns

2010-01-15T02:22:00.000-08:00

I Follow Her Shadow

2009-12-23T03:25:00.000-08:00

I follow her shadow

Where ever I go ..

Goodness I hide, and goodness I show

Hollow I feel indeed

Don't be sad, it says !

but how can thou

with hollow eyes

slaughter me you asked

my soul is for thee

loudly she replied

raise me to the skies

rise madself and dies

A flower from you

and a flower from thee

A rose is you

and a rose is thee

.....

by : me

Jews and Jerusalem :fake relationship

2009-09-16T03:50:00.000-07:00

اعترافات خطيرة تعكس زيف العلاقة بين اليهود والقدس

بقلم/ صالح النعامي
كاتب ومحلل سياسي

يروي المؤرخ اليهودي أفيشاي رايخمان أن مؤسس الحركة الصهيونية تيودور هرتسل كتب في خواطره عندما عاد إلى جنيف من زيارته للقدس، واصفاً تلك المدينة ومعبراً عن مشاعره تجاهها، أنه كتب " مدينة أشباح تلك التي يقدسونها، لقد كرهتها من أول نظرة، لا أدري كيف يطيقون العيش فيها، كل ما فيها يثير التقزز، لم أشعر أنني في يوم من الأيام يمكن أن أحن إليها، من هذا الكذاب الذي روى لنا أن لهذه المدينة سحر أخاذ، من هذا الكذاب الذي روى أن رائحة القدسية في جبالها تزكم الأنوف، أي شعراء أفكاون أولئك الذين تغنوا بتلك المدينة الملعونة، لا جمال هناك، لا سحر هناك، لا قدسية هناك، حاخامات في حائط المبكى تدور رؤوسهم كما يدور الرحى، منظر يثير الاشمئزاز لعيون كانت ترقب منظراً آخر، مع أنني أقول في العلن أن تلك المدينة التي صلى اليهود منذ ألفي عام لكي يعودوا إليها، وحلموا أن يكونوا في قلبها أو أطرافها…… أنا سأظل أقول ذلك، لكني شعرت بالاختناق عندما رأيتها من بعيد، لن أشعر بحنين لتلك الهضاب القاحلة والصخور النكدة، ولأنني سياسي لا مجال للعاطفة في التأثير على تفكيري، ولأنني يهودي يهدف الى تحقيق حلمه القومي، فأنني سأبقى أكرر أن القدس هي قلب الشعب اليهودي النابض ومحط أنظار أبنائه في كل أصقاع المعمورة……لكني في الحقيقة أشفق حتى على الديدان التي كان قدرها أن تحيا في هذه المدينة". ويختم هرتسل خواطره قائلاً " تباً لك أيتها المدينة الملعونة".

وهذا هو الشاعر اليهودي الفرنسي رينيه فابيوس الذي زار المدينة بعيد انتهاء حرب الأيام الستة، يكتب الى أحد اصدقائه عن انطباعاته عن هذه المدينة
قائلاً " أنني لم أر في نفسي أي أثر لحنين لهذه المدينة ". ويضيف قائلاً " لن أعود إلى هناك، لن أعيش فيها ولو للحظة "

. أما الشاعر الإسرائيلي المعاصر ابراهام جنيوم، فقد نظم قصية عقد فيها مقارنة بين تل أبيت التي تمثل قلعة العلمانية الإسرائيلية وبين القدس، وقال في مطلع قصيدته " تحدث أيها الأبله ما شئت عن القدس، فهذا لا يعنيني، لست في حاجة للاستماع إلى تلك الترهات، دعك من هذا الحديث الفارغ عن القدسية و السحر، فهذا طعام الجهلة والمخبولين، أما أنا فاذبحني في تل أبيب، نعم في تل أبيب أريد أن أحيا، فيها أريد أن أسكر حتى الثمالة، أما أنت فلتذهب للقدس، ماذا عساك سترى أيها المعتوه ؟ جبال صامتة، طرقات حزينة، حاخامات يمسكون بلحاهم الكريهة المنتنة، كنس ينبعث منها الكذب……. امض في طريقك، ودعني في تل أبيب، دعني على هذا الشاطئ، أمام تلك اللجنة الزرقاء، نساء بلباس البحر، تحدث عن القدسية ما شئت، أما أنا فلن أمنحك سمعي، فلا وقت لدي للخزعبلات، وفر على نفسك هذا العناء…..فلتذهب أنت ومقدساتك للجحيم".

Jews and Jerusalem: The Fake Relationship

By: Saleh Al-Naami
A Political Analyst

Translated by:
Waleed Abu Sultan

The Jewish historian, A Fishy Ragam, states that when the Zionist Movement founder, Theodor Herzl, went back to Geneva from Jerusalem, he described it-Jerusalem- as: “It is a city of ghosts; I hated it at the first sight. I do not know how they- its original people- endure living in, for it is sickish and ugly. I did not think that I will yearn to it. Who that liar is who recounted that it is a city of magic; who that hypocrite is who narrated it is a blessed city. I wonder how they carol of this cursed city. They are charlatans! No beauty, and no attractiveness. It is a loath view when the rabbis at the Western Wall move their nicks like the gristmill. Despite all that, I still say in public that it is the city where Jewish preyed in for two thousand years in order to come back again to as they dreamed; I will mention this wherever and whenever I go, but I felt suffocated as I saw it. Never will I miss the deserted hills and morose rocks. However, for I am a politician, no way for emotions, so that it would influence my thinking, and for I am a Jew aims at achieving his national dream, I will reiterate that Jerusalem is the pulsing heart of the Jewish people and the direction of his sons all over the earth... But, In reality, I pity even worms that were destined to live in this town." Herzl concludes his thoughts by, "Woe to you, O cursed city".

In addition, the French Jewish poet, Rene Fabius, who visited the city- Jerusalem- at the wake of the Six Day War, wrote about his impressions to a friend of his on the city, saying "I have not seen any trace of longing in myself for this city." He added, "I will not return there; I will not live there even for a moment."

Moreover, the contemporary Israeli poet, Abraham Ganyum, wrote a poem in where he conducted a comparison between Tel Aviv, which stands as the Castle of Israeli Secularism, and Jerusalem. He said at the beginning of his poem "Dear Idiot, say whatever you want about Jerusalem, for I do not care; even I do not need to listen to such nonsense. Let this idle talk about blessing and magic away since this is the food of ignorant and obtuse. Yet, I desire to die in Tel Aviv. Yes, I want to live in Te Aviv, where I want to fluster till I get drunk. But, you, you can go to Jerusalem. Tell me, what you would see there, idiot? I can tell you: You will find silent mountains, sad roads, rabbis holding their stinky, stench beards, sweepers lying wafts from, and so on. Go on your way, and let me in Tel Aviv, let me on this beach, in front of the blue scene, women whose dresses look like the sea. You can speak about the blessings as much as you want, but I will not lend you my ears, I have no time for this nonsense; Do not bother yourself… Hold your sacred places and go to hell with them."

ما بين الحياة و الموت

2009-01-27T04:08:00.000-08:00

ما بين الحياة والموت

جوع قاتل .. وسجن تحاصره اقتباسات مسلحة

ودموع تزف بالقهر أمواتا

وأبنية .. ورجال شرطة .. وامرأتين عائدتين من رحلة في جوف الشمس

"علينا أن نحارب قبل أن يطالنا الموت" حفاظا على حياتنا

وآخرون .. بسم الله يسمون

كالعادة .. يبتسمون ويرفعون بيانا إلى قبة الرب في الأرض

وتقذف الأصوات .. كي يتقرح الصمت

حتى ينام أبناءهم دون أن يقذفوا أحذية عليهم

وينام الجرح قطباً قطباً كما ابتدأ

لم يمت يوما

تحادث الأم ابنها .. ضميرنا

ويسأل الصبي أي الضمير يملكون

فتتعثر الكلمات وتتبعثر كالعطر في نحر صبية ماتت كالسحاب

ما زلنا كما نحن اثنين

واحد يملك سلطة على لا شيء

يخشى الليل

مسؤول عن قيمة معينة من البشر

وهو على باطل

وآخر ..

يلتقي مع "قبة الرب" سرا

لم يختلف عن الأول سوى في بضع شعرات وشعارات

وهو لا يدري ما يفعله .. ولا تهمه سوى مصلحته

ولكن ..

كذلك هو على باطل

والصبية تسأل الصبي

أرأيت أحدا

كالأمس .. لم أجد سوى الندى ..

فيشتد أرق الصبية ..

فيسألها أسال الدم فتقول

كالندى

ينامان موتاً كهلال اليوم

والسجاجيد المسلمة تنتشر في بيوتنا

تحمل الأم والأب

ويدعوان .. "اللهم اغفر لكل من مات اللهم وحد الصف اللهم ارحمهم وارحمنا وثبتهم وشد أزرهم"

وينامان ولا يموت الدعاء

لا نملك سواه

وتبقى السماء مفتوحة ككل يوم

واليوم لا نملك سواه

ويرحل الشاعر وترحل المسرودة وتبقى القضية ما بقيت

.. أبية

by : أمــــــــجــــد المقيـــــــــــــــــد

يوميات غزاوي تحت القصف

2009-01-22T06:06:00.001-08:00

يوميات غزاوي تحت القصف‏

واجا اليوم العشرين..

وكل يوم بنقول هادة أقوى يوم.. وأعنف يوم ..

لا بس بجد.. اليوم أعنف وأقوى يوم شفناه..

كنا نشوف أغلب القصف على التلفزيون .. هلقيت صار قدامنا مباشر..

طول الليل الدنيا تضوي وتطفي.. زي الألعاب النارية..

بس العالم الألعاب النارية عندها من الأرض للسما.. إلا في غزة.. من السما للأرض..

هيهم وصلوا تل الهوى (منطقة سكنية).. يعني بشيكل (العملة المتداولة بغزة) بكونوا عنا.. مش بشيكل ونص حتى..

أنا قاعد عالكمبيوتر.. وأهلي كلهم مجتمعين قالبين محللين عسكريين.. وعاملين غرفة عمليات مشتركة.. ومستغربين اني قاعد عالنت.. على أساس إنو الدنيا حرب لازم أضل قاعد ألطم..

تلت أسابيع قاعدين في الدار لا طلعة ولا نزلة.. ولا شغلة ولا مشغلة.. فش كهربا ولا ميا.. من كتر الزهق من القعدة الواحد بتحير ايش يعمل في الدار.. مرات بقعد أعد البلاط.. ومرات أكم كسرة في الستارة.. وأحياناً بقعد ألعب في الجوال (في حال كان فيه بطارية).. أو بقعد أتشغل في واحد من اخواتي..

ما علينا.. الحلو في الموضوع انه شلومو بتبين حنيته في وقت الحرب .. بقولك حفاظاً على رفاهية الشعب.. اعطونا تلت ساعات تهدئة في اليوم.. الواحد يعمل فيهم اللي بده اياه..

وأحلى ما فيهم انهم مشكلين.. يوم من الوحدة للأربعة.. ويوم من التمنية للحدعش.. ويوم من العشرة للوحدة..

وبقولك احزر الفترة تاعت بكرة واتصل على رقم تلت تمنيات اتنين صفر وواحد احمر.. بتكسب جائزة..

والله الواحد بتحير ايش يعمل في التلت ساعات .. مسافة ما يفكر وين يطلع (على أساس ضل مكان في غزة الواحد يروح عليه) بكونوا خلصوا..

اليوم قعدت أفكر أفكر ايش أعمل.. لقيت احسن اشي أعمله اني أنام.. عشان الجو بكون هدوء وفش صوت قصف (نسبياً) ..

لأنه طول الليل صوت القصف وصوت الزنانات بخليش الواحد يعرف ينام.. الواحد بحس انه في واحد بخرق في نافوخه بمقدح..

طول ما الواحد قاعد وهوة بسمع يا صوت صاروخ قريب.. يا بعيد.. يا بحس بهزة.. وبدينا نسمع مناطق غريبة صاروا يقصفوها..

مرة مقبرة.. ومرة صالة أفراح.. ومرة عمارة سكنية.. ومرة دار مهجورة.. حتى الفنادق ما سلمت من اذاهم أو بقصفوا مكان قصفوه قبل هيك (للتأكيد)..

طبعاً في هادي المناسبة بحب أتقدم بالشكر للطيار اللي بقصف بإنه بحدف صاروخ صغير عالدار قبل ما يجيبها نصين بالصاروخ اللي بعده..

شايفين الإنسانية لوين.. وبتقولوا عنهم عاطلين.. يعني اللي ما بصيده الصاروخ الأول.. معاه خمس دقايق ينفد بجلده قبل ما يجيب أجله الصاروخ التاني..

الأعمار بيد الله.. الواحد عنده يقين انه كل شي بأمر الله.. عالرغم بإنه الواحد بطل يخاف زي أول لما يسمع صوت صاروخ..

بس إلا إنه الخوف من انه الطيار أخو الشلن تحلو دارنا في عينه ويمزعنا صاروخ بحجة الغسيل اللي عالسطح بأثر عالزنانات..

دايما بحاول أواسي حالي بالمقولة اللي بتقول "متخفش من صوت الرصاص.. لأنه الرصاصة اللي حتقتلك مش حتسمع صوتها"..

بس هالمقولة بتنطبقش عالصواريخ.. ولا ايش رأيكم..؟

أكتر اشي بكيف عليه لما يرن تلفون الدار.. بنصير نتقاتل مين يرد عالتلفون أنا واخواتي.. عشان نحكي مع الناس اللي بتصلوا من الدول العربية..

كل واحد وحظه.. يطلع الإتصال من المغرب.. الجزائر.. مصر.. ليبيا.. السعودية.. السودان.. أو يتخوزق ويطلعله واحد بقولك جيش الدفاع الاسرائيلي..

ويطلع الشب بحذرك انه يكون عندك سلاح.. أو تتعامل مع واحد من المقاومة..

بس اليوم حسيت انه فش إلا تلفونا بكل غزة.. مسكتش وهوة يرن..

- ألو السلام عليكم...

- وعليكم السلام..

- معك فلانة من ليبيا.. الله معكم.. الله ينصركم.. الله يقويكم..

- تسلمي يا حجة.. إدعو لنا..

- الله ينصركم ويحفظكم..

- يلا سلام عليكم..

- وعليكم السلام..

هادي عينة من المكالمات اللي بتوصلنا.. مع انها صغيرة وفهاش رغي وطق حنك .. إلا إنها بتحسس الواحد انه مش لحاله وفي حد معاه..

ويا حبيبي لو خلال المكالمة نزل صاروخ ولا الخمسمية تاعت الأباتشي اشتغلت.. شوف العياط على التلفون .. وبدل ما هما يصيروا يواسوك ويهدوا فيك.. احنا بنصير نهدي فيهم ونسكتهم..

لأ والشغلة الجديدة اللي غايظاني قصة الفسفور.. أنا طول عمري بسمع انه الفسفور في السمك.. وإنه مفيد للشسمو.. وكل ما الواحد كان ياكل سمك.. كان يحس حاله صار يضوي من الفسفور..

بس هان الوضع مختلف.. فسفور صح بخليك تضوي.. يعني أول ما تيجي عليك قذيفة فسفور.. وتهب فيك النار.. حيصير اللي يشوفك يقولك منور ياحج.. الله يلطف فينا..

طبعاً وقت الفراغ الواحد بحاول يستغله بإشي مفيد.. أنا استغليت وقتي برياضة جديدة.. وهية رياضة براميل الميا..

أول ما أفتح عنيا على طول بمارس الرياضة اليومية.. بطلع على سطح الدار بتفقد البراميل.. وقديش ضايل ميا.. طبعاً عن طريق الدقدقة على البرميل..

الواحد صارت أذنه موسيقية برميلية.. وصار من صوت الدقة على البرميل يعرف إذا كان فاضي ولا مليان (طبعاً هادي الكل بعرفها).. بس الجديد واللي اكتسبته مع الخبرة انه لو كان البرميل مليان أعرف أكم لتر ميا فيه..

أنا لقيت حالي لهلقيت عايش قلت أكتبلكم أحكيلكم عن وضعنا.. بكرة يمكن أكون عايش بس مش قادر أكتب.. أو مش عايش من أصلو..

إدعولنا.. إدعوا تنحل هالقصة على خير.. إدعوا للمقاومين.. إدعوا للشهدا.. إدعوا للجرحى.. إدعوا للناس الله يصبرها.. إدعوا للكل..