A funeral scene in a Palestinian mother's heart

Morning here isn't really morning. It is the remnants of an exhausted night, suspended between the ashes of dawn and the fires of memory. There is no sun here, just a pale light creeping in shyly, as if too afraid to confront the truth. The mother walks through the wreckage of the present, through the shards and fragments of a time that no longer has meaning. The scene repeats itself, the same scene over and over again, yet it carries within it a fresh, renewed pain—pain that time does not soothe or get used to, but instead feeds upon.

Farewell here is not like any other goodbye. It is an encounter with memory, an encounter with oneself. This body lying here wrapped in a white shroud was once filled with life, with dreams, with hope. It pulsed with determination to survive, despite everything. And today, it is just a body, a memory encased in a white shroud, a shroud that tries in vain to hide the truth.

The funeral is nothing more than a mirror, reflecting the face of life in the shadow of war. The mourners around her know the truth: we are not just saying goodbye; we are clinging to the remains. Every step the mother takes toward her son’s body is a step towards emptiness, towards the void, towards the absence that grows wider with each memory, each image that flickers before her weary eyes.

Farewell here is not like any other goodbye. It is an encounter with memory, an encounter with oneself. This body lying here wrapped in a white shroud, was once filled with life, with dreams, with hope. It pulsed with determination to survive, despite everything. And today, it is just a body, a memory encased in a white shroud, a shroud that tries in vain to hide the truth.

The funeral is nothing more than a mirror, reflecting the face of life in the shadow of war. The mourners around her know the truth: we are not just saying goodbye; we are clinging to the remains. Every step the mother takes toward her son’s body is a step towards emptiness, towards the void, towards the absence that grows wider with each memory, each image that flickers before her weary eyes.

The mother stops and stands before the body as though facing herself in the mirror of silence. There are no tears; they dried up long ago. There are no cries, no screams; grief has passed beyond the point of screaming. All that remains is a heavy silence, a silence that consumes everything around it. She lifts the cover from his face slowly, as if she were opening a door to the past, to memories that now only exist in a parallel world.

She remembers.. Not fleeting recollections, but a deep dive into the sea of memory. She remembers the moment of his birth, his first cry that was a declaration of life, only to realize now that this life was just a fleeting moment in the vastness of time. She remembers his first steps, how he would stumble and then get up again, how he defied falling. She remembers watching him from a distance, fearing for him in this world, only to understand now that the world was afraid of him.

Morning here isn't really morning. It is the remnants of an exhausted night, suspended between the ashes of dawn and the fires of memory. There is no sun here, just a pale light creeping in shyly, as if too afraid to confront the truth. The mother walks through the wreckage of the present, through the shards and fragments of a time that no longer has meaning. It's the same scene over and over again, yet it carries within it a fresh, renewed pain.

The mother wonders in her silence: Did he know? Did he feel the end approaching? Did he hear the sounds of bombing in his dreams? Did he know that this war would consume everything? The questions multiply like ghosts, hovering around her without answers. She knows these questions only bring more pain, but she cannot stop thinking.

The sky is silent, just like it always has been. She knows the sky is merely a witness here; it’s the earth that keeps the secrets, holds the sorrow, preserves the memory. The mother lets the body return to the earth, to the soil from which it came, to the place it knows well—this land that has swallowed everything, even hope.

The mother stops and stands before the body as though facing herself in the mirror of silence. There are no tears; they dried up long ago. There are no cries, no screams; grief has passed beyond the point of screaming. All that remains is a heavy silence, a silence that consumes everything.

The funeral procession moves slowly, as if reluctant to reach its end. But here, the end is not an end—it is a new beginning to a life that knows only sorrow. The mother knows that life will never be the same again. She knows that this farewell marks the start of a long journey of silence and contemplation. She knows the war will carry on, and that the funerals will repeat, but she also knows that each funeral carries a story—a story of resilience and resistance.

In the end, nothing remains but memory. Memory that clings to every moment, every image, every word. The mother knows this memory is all she has now—it is her weapon against a world that has become strange and foreign. She leaves the graveyard, but she doesn’t leave her son. She carries him with her, in her heart, in her memory. She knows time will not erase his image, and that he will continue to live within her, in every heartbeat, every thought, every breath she takes.

The mother wonders in her silence: Did he know? Did he feel the end approaching? Did he hear the sounds of bombing in his dreams? Did he know that this war would consume everything? The questions multiply like ghosts, hovering around her without answers. She knows these questions only bring more pain, but she cannot stop thinking.

The mother returns to what remains of her home, to the place that was once full of life. But now, everything here carries the taste of loss. She knows life will go on, but it won’t be the life she once knew. This is a new life, a life filled with longing, resilience, and a memory that never dies.

The war carries on. But she knows that this war, no matter how long it drags on, will not be able to erase what she carries in her heart. She is now part of the memory of this place, part of this land that has swallowed so much, yet she still manages to hold onto memory, to grieve, to endure.

The funeral procession moves slowly, as if reluctant to reach its end. But here, the end is not an end—it is a new beginning to a life that knows only sorrow. The mother knows that life will never be the same again. She knows that this farewell marks the start of a long journey of silence. She knows the war will carry on, and that the funerals will repeat, but she also knows that each funeral carries a story—a story of resilience and resistance.

In the end, one thing remains: a love that does not die. Her love for her son, for her life, for her land. This love is what keeps her standing, what keeps her alive in the face of death. She knows life will persist, and time will continue, but she also knows that this love is what gives her the strength to face everything.

Yousef El Qedra

The Tent, west of Khan Yunis

September 2024

* The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author’s and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Raseef22