MOHAMMED RAFIK MHAWESH
The light rain on the other side of the window had stopped when I finished my writing class and sat near the window to look at the mean square of Gaza City, Al-Remal Square. The depression seems about to go away, yet the hot chocolate cup that I made after my students left is still pushing warmth into my heart. My colleague says, “Today, six years back, we were all listening to the radio to know where that horrific bomb that had just shaken all of Gaza had exploded, and where that louder one that followed had too. Can’t you remember?”
I nodded while looking outside, as a sign of agreement. He could be right, but not accurate. He meant only the last war he witnessed. He forgot to count the two wars that had preceded. Ghassan and I shared painful memories of three wars. But those aren’t everything brutalized Gaza suffered from. My father and Ghassan’s father had survived two different massacres: the one in 1948 and the one in 1967. Our mothers lived through the 1967 attack but not the Nakba in 1948. Everyone has their own calculations, but we all share the same experience of horrifying, scary moments.
I miraculously survived three destructive wars within seven years only, while many of my loved ones and close friends didn’t survive, and left me heartbroken. It sounds painful to me, but my friend has a prodigious memory. He remembers almost everything. And I’m quite the opposite of him. I remember little of my life between the ages of eight and eighteen. Friends, teachers, events—all a blur. But I remember every supernatural book and dystopian novel I read during that time and every rocket I heard and saw during the wars with an alarming vividness. This remembrance is like a mind notification that keeps flashbacking nightmare-like days in front of my eyes and in my head.
I created an excuse to leave work early. I went out for a walk to refresh my soul after the exhausting memories my friend just threw into my head. I hoped a brief walk would heal my memory scars. Walking in my city is special. There are so many faces—some young and still looking like they are about to leap into the future with excitement, some looking ancient (probably beyond their actual years) and resigned. So many approaches to religion—some women wearing a full face covering and others with their hair flowing freely. So many “stations” in life—some looking fashionable and others wearing worn-out, secondhand clothes.
Mohammed playing football (soccer) with kids in a Gaza City street in 2019
Photo courtesy of the author
There are many contradictions; we are not the monolithic “Gaza Palestinian” label the world wants to attach to us. Some people, those who don’t live here, see Gaza City as a hotbed of militancy and terrorism. But those who visit see an ancient culture and an insistence on living and hope.
Amid this chaos of perceptions rises a massive olive tree, so big it obscures a third of the school next to the home of a widow, Um Ahmed, whom I met during my wandering. The tree is seventy years old, she tells me—almost older than the Israeli occupation of Palestine. It has witnessed both the Nakba and our survival firsthand.
I saw children playing football in the street. I joined them and played together with them until their mothers called them in to do their homework. I love football. I celebrated every victory of my favorite foreign teams in a restaurant or café, crowding in with everyone else, eager for any reason to celebrate. Each time our favored team won, my friends and I shared exciting moments and feasted on chocolate mousse, fruit pies, chocolate crepes, banana splits, and milkshakes.
For the time being, my people’s suffering has forced me to switch from football to writing. Now I feel writing stories, poetry, and diaries is my only way out of daily life stress. My pencil is a sincere friend who cares about my deepest thoughts and transfers them into written feelings. I’ve always loved my pencil and still love to vent to it in times of uncertainty. I started reading and writing more to give my voice power; we suffer so much. I write my people’s dreams, hopes, ambitions, and the message of our freedom.
I went on walking and smelled the distinctive fragrance of mana’ish, bread baked with Palestinian thyme, wafting through the windows. I remembered when, in winter, my grandma would toast bread on the heater in the middle of the living room. We would all sit around her and dip the bread into zeit (olive oil) and za’atar (thyme) while sipping a cup of Jaffa’s famous tea—heavy on mint and sugar.
Gazan children have different memories of fighting over the “soba” heater to keep themselves warm. Soba battles were fierce, especially if you were the kid standing in front of it and blocking the heat for the other twenty people in the room.
Memories of my childhood flooded my head. I remembered how misery attacked my first years in life. During normal school days, rockets would drop. The fear that I felt as a scared child running out of school is unforgettable and still strikes my head. My friends and I were running from one place to another to find a cover from the missiles we heard dropping.
On other calm days, I remember kicking the chair of the pretty blonde girl in front of me. And when she would turn around to nag me, I would flash the biggest smile and my dimples at her. That was how I would get myself out of trouble with her.
Another memory: My friends and I were finishing our classes for the day and watching the girls from the nearby prep school walk by, swinging their books with confidence, dazzling us with their smiles, and sending us into confusion and guilt when they looked at us, while pretending not to. We kept our eyes on them until they disappeared.
Everything has changed since my school days, when Israeli settlers and the soldiers who hovered around them were ever present. Although this occupation continues to control our borders, air space, and sea, we can breathe a little easier; we are masters of our own streets. And to me, the scent of falafel and hummus at dinnertime, charcoal kebab fires, and even the sweat of bodies packed together is the smell of life, love, dreams, and ambitions.
When my walk took me through the Old City of Gaza, I reveled in the sense of history. I must confess that I know little about its origins, but I know that the oldest of the buildings, Omari Grand Mosque, dates back to the seventh century. Our history is all about a struggle to survive, just as it is today, which is why we cannot separate politics from life.
As I continued walking, I strolled by a coffee shop whose owner is widely known because of his distinctive blends. I am a coffee lover. I bought a strong, black cup, then walked on. I was surrounded by tiny shops with colorful advertising slogans and dessert stalls.
Later, I saw an old, wrinkle-faced man sitting in front of his shoemaking shop and holding a small radio; he was clearly lost in his thoughts. On a whim, I walked over and sat down with him. He greeted me warmly, almost as if he wanted to hug me. This man must have been waiting for someone, anyone, who would listen to him and to whom he could vent. The sad drone of the evening news on the radio was drawing a sign of despair on the old man’s cheeks.
Among the top stories of that afternoon was the shooting by Israeli soldiers of a farmer, a father of four, while he was planting his land with citrus trees near the border. Apparently, he had ventured too close to the wall for the guards’ comfort. Yet it was the farmer’s land, and the most fertile acres are to be found by the wall.
The other top news was happier: some students who had finally passed through all the checkpoints to start a new chapter in life by studying abroad on scholarship. There are so many barriers facing young people who dream of studying outside of Gaza—including me. I couldn’t make it out two times because of the siege that has been imposed on us for fifteen years now, and because of financial obstacles that topped my family’s dire circumstances.
We must earn a fully funded scholarship; we cannot afford any of the expenses. Then we have to persuade the other country to give us a visa; too many governments discriminate against Palestinians. And finally, we must get permission to leave and then leave safely. But, at least for these students, their dream of seeing the world outside had finally come true!
“You see these kids?” the old man asked, gesturing to children playing in the street nearby. He answered without waiting for a reply: “None of the outside world’s kids have been raised under tough times like these kids have.” The man, named Abu Ali, a father of six, coughed continuously while he spoke, a lit cigarette between his fingers. “Their families always complain about their heavy responsibilities; they can barely feed or educate or clothe them.”
I attempted to insert a positive note: “Isn’t there a possibility of a different life, different prospects, a different future?” I suggested.
“Future?” he responded, as if adding a spoonful of melancholy to my coffee. “The bullet that takes their life will come before their chance to liberate their lands, homes, and villages.”
Abu Ali then turned his ire on the local government: “There is money but in the hands of our officials. They fly around the world with our money, aiming to make the world pity and sympathize with us. But as Palestinians, we don’t want anyone to pity us. We want to be treated with humanity, justice, and equality.”
He switched course yet again: “Are you in college?” Without giving me any time to answer, he continued: “I have a shoe shop, and I work almost the whole day, but I can barely afford the school transportation cost for my sons. Education here costs thousands of Palestinian shekels per semester. Sometimes, ‘nothing’ is the hardest and the only thing you can do.” He sighed. His monologue moved me. I gave up trying to answer. I prayed for him and me, and left.
As I left, the sun was setting. I felt drained. I waved down a taxi and got in. In Gaza, we are burdened with so much hardship. Yet, as the sun blazed in a last fit of orange and red glory, I couldn’t deny the beauty. We must never stop appreciating that, and we must always dare to dream.