Here is the South: Endless elegies under bleeding skies

Seeing the bodies of Ibrahim and his daughter Fatima lying before you—after barely surviving an enemy missile—is a type of trauma you can never get over, even as you are thankful for your own survival. To be forced to flee, knowing that, had your life been just a little less burdened and miserable, you could have at least carried their bodies with you, taken them away from this scene of horrors. To see Fatima killed in the quiet of her village, which had been evacuated early. To imagine her blood flying and splattering your face the same way her body flew above the wreckage of her home. To feel the pain that comes with the realization that you’ll have to leave without this little girl—the child who last night stood on her balcony calling for her father, Ibrahim, her voice carrying the noise of life before it was silenced.

Seeing the bodies of Ibrahim and his daughter Fatima lying before you is a type of trauma you can never get over; to see Fatima killed in the quiet of her devastated village, to imagine her blood flying and splattering your face the same way her body flew above the wreckage of her home, to be forced to flee, to feel the pain that comes with the realization that you’ll have to leave without this little girl—the child who last night stood on her balcony calling for her father, her voice carrying the noise of life before it was silenced.

She was helping her father persevere and carry on in his resilience—how could anyone struggle and persevere without the heartbeat of a loved one nearby? That was Ibrahim before he was martyred, giving his all to his girl and staying with her until the very end.

This enemy knows it can get close—not to you, but to those with whom you have grown familiar with, those whose love surrounds you. It doesn’t want to kill you; it wants you to see what this killing looks like. It attacks the ones you love, and preys on them using a weapon you yourself don’t possess. It vandalizes and destroys because it knows the smell of blood can shatter resolve and resilience. It comes ever closer, tearing through your sense of safety, turning those around you into torn remains, while waiting for that moment you wish you hadn’t seen.

This enemy knows it can get close—not to you, but to those with whom you have grown familiar with, those whose love surrounds you. It doesn’t want to kill you; it wants you to see what this killing looks like. It vandalizes and destroys because it knows the smell of blood can shatter resolve and resilience.

In the end, we were forced to leave our homes. We comforted each other for an entire year without understanding the terror that makes you so fragile that it leaves you with nothing but tears and screams. This terror defeats you, even though you’ve trained yourself throughout the war on Gaza that you will fight back and resist by staying in your land—that you will be that strong frontier that wouldn’t abandon its home and wouldn’t fear the devastation around it. I used to see in Gaza the weight of hardship and tragedy. I had been following Israel's war on Gaza from under the roof of my house, sharing those scenes while already defeated. Today, I know exactly how martyrs feel as they send their final words and wishes to the world. I recall their recorded voices, trembling under the enemy's burning skies.

How does someone feel when they know that Israel has reached them? Indescribable.

How does someone feel when they know that tomorrow might never come? Indescribable.

How does someone feel when they try to hang on before they are gone for good? Indescribable.

How does someone feel when they have nothing but prayers and the phrase "There is no god but Allah" before they are martyred? Indescribable.

How does it feel to be martyred by an enemy missile? Indescribable.

How can you address a martyr after their departure, to console them for the pain they endured in their final moments in this world?

In the end, we were forced to leave our homes. We comforted each other for an entire year without understanding the terror that makes you so fragile that it leaves you with nothing but tears and screams. This terror defeats you, even though you’ve trained yourself throughout the war on Gaza that you will fight back and resist by staying in your land—that you will be that strong frontier that wouldn’t abandon its home and wouldn’t fear the devastation around it.

I was standing in front of the house with my family before the enemy struck the homes surrounding us. We watched them as they fell with everyone still inside! An entire building collapsed and turned to nothing, as if it never existed. You take moments to steel yourself for what’s to come, to draw close to your mother and grandfather, holding them as smoke rushes toward you, as you forgive and cry out that you tried your best in this life.

You look at their faces, seeing a lifetime of sweetness you hadn’t fully noticed before. You look at your mother again and again, repeating that you tried your best in this life. They are only moments. And who can deny that, when death draws near, all you have is a body trying to swallow the souls of those around it, to turn itself into an impenetrable shield in order to lessen all this pain as they are being killed?

I used to see in Gaza the weight of hardship and tragedy. I had been following Israel's war on Gaza from under the roof of my house, sharing those scenes while already defeated. Today, I know exactly how martyrs feel as they send their final words and wishes to the world. I recall their recorded voices, trembling under the enemy's burning skies. How does someone feel when they know that Israel has reached them? How do they feel when they have nothing but prayers before they are martyred?

I meet my mother under a roof that, just yesterday, sheltered our ablutions and prayers. Prayer has its own sanctity and rules, and one aspect of that is to practice your worship while being calm, serene, and patient. But the enemy’s missiles kept coming, one after another, shattering the peace and serenity of our worship, bringing us closer to God during the most difficult times. Our prayers became stained with blood, cursed like the enemy’s evil.

I stand next to my mother as she recites verses from the Qur’an, ones she knows by heart. I used to tell her to lower her voice, but now I see her, with those verses, reading the ‘shahada’ and preparing herself before she is martyred. She knew we wouldn’t survive, even though she was certain that life is in God’s hands, for Israel had come to play with our lives with its missiles.

I was standing in front of the house with my family before the enemy struck the homes surrounding us. We watched them as they fell with everyone still inside! An entire building collapsed, turned to nothing, as if it never existed. You take moments to steel yourself for what’s to come, to draw close to your mother and grandfather, holding them as smoke rushes toward you, as you forgive and cry out that you tried your best in this life.

I try to repeat my mother’s prayers, but my crying prevents me. I was terrified as I waited for my death. I wanted to reach out and hold my mother, but I didn’t, because the rubble of our home would soon hold us instead.

They later got me out of our house, while my mother stayed behind in the village because the car was already full. My mother sent me away from her verses and recitations, as she drew closer and closer to death. I left, unable to stop my tears as I called out to her from afar. Perhaps my calls could somehow divert the enemy’s missiles away from her shaken face amidst the verses of the Holy Qur’an. I still call to her because I truly believe in the miracle of my plea—a plea that brought mercy on my mother, allowing her to leave alive, her face victorious after being shaken with terror from the enemy’s missiles.

I stand next to my mother as she recites verses from the Qur’an as bombs fall all around us. She knew we wouldn’t survive, even though she is certain that life is in God’s hands, for Israel had come to play with our lives with its missiles. I was terrified as I waited for my death. I wanted to reach out and hold my mother, but I didn’t, because the rubble of our home would soon hold us instead.

Today, my mother sends me her final wishes in case she dies, and I send back that I cannot go on without her. Yes, this is the enemy. Not only does it master killing, but it excels at separating, because it knows that you will not be able to carry on after seeing a loved one killed. It knows that by killing them, it breaks our spirits, ones already exhausted after an entire year. It destroys them and then rearranges its achievements in front of the world, saying: “Look at them—they are now orphans, both in self and in soul.”

We have been separated and torn apart, yet today, we are closer to the names of our martyrs. I find Samar mourning her teacher through a photo she posts. I see his face, and through her eulogy, I understand what Samar is fighting for in her exile because of this war that haunts her family and everyone she knows. I console her—she who has endured two wars; Samar is a child of Palestine and a daughter of the southern Lebanese front. Samar was affected before she was even born, so she knows exactly what the Israeli occupation means and understands that there is neither security nor life as long as it exists. She sends me her prayers, telling me there is nothing left for her to do but pray.

Today, my mother sends me her final wishes in case she dies, and I send back that I cannot go on without her. Yes, this is the enemy. Not only does it master killing, but it excels at separating, because it knows that you will not be able to carry on after seeing a loved one killed. It knows that by killing them, it breaks our spirits, ones already exhausted after an entire year. It destroys them and then rearranges its achievements in front of the world, saying: “Look at them—they are now orphans, both in self and in soul.”

Samar and my mother believe in prayer that lifts calamities—prayer that helps Samar stay balanced in the hell of exile, of living so far from home, while her loved ones are forcibly displaced and killed. It is prayer that hides us in the shadows so that we can perform it, shielding us from a death that was not meant for us.

* 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