loss...for Palestine
I spoke about death and in speaking about it; I think I invited it in.
It hit close to home having steered clear of me for a while, granting me time to heal since it ripped father, mother, newborn, and friends in quick succession... in a brutal onslaught that I took very personally.
We became well-acquainted he and I. I witnessed his handiwork firsthand and was pissed off. We had a serious chat, a chat which ended in the words, "Enough, jeez!" a few years back.
Then he was back, too close for comfort, making his return while I was distracted by work, commitments, fun, love, life...
threatening to take away my Sha, leaving me widowed at 55 during a pandemic.
But I fought with everything in me, and I was raging...
And he survived.
6 weeks in icu.
6 weeks on high flow oxygen.
6 weeks in delirium strapped down to a steel frame...
Alhamdullilah he pulled through, came out battered and bruised, covid marking him on his face, on his body (inside and out) leaving him on a pill regiment that needs two hands to count
and in this struggle i have no time for formalities
its the last thing I want to think about...
and the supporters of this monstrous regime leaves me fuming, their sense of superiority and their worship of power, money and control leaving me baffled
maybe trying to make sense of it is futile especially when the wounds are fresh
every
single
day
we are pummeled by news of trauma and death
if the pain is this close and personal how do we make sense of loss where is the time to process the pain if its all over all the time
the brain darts train of thoughts on endless reels touching here trying to make sense there not managing to grip the extent of it all
So many people....So many scenarios!
the phone is shrill when it pings its bad news, notifications of death and destruction coming in quick succession in the early morning hours amidst the quiet of a still sleeping world
i shield my eyes from the blue light casting shadows from my night stand, and grab the offending device to reach out across oceans to them
My conscience lingers, tugging at my defenses, demanding honesty.
I look at their images in quiet repose made silent by death, my eyes searching, questioning in the darkened room lit only by a glimmer of light stealing in through the half closed curtains:
Are you brave enough?
Living is for the fearless.
Acceptance if for the believers.
And courage is for the ones answering the call to take up the fight for those who can't.
Edgy. Unsettled. Perplexed.
Death does that.
It comes and holds up a mirror, forcing us to confront ourselves.
To question:
who am i?
Am I looking at what is happening in the world, and remaining silent?
Heavy stuff this death, this dying.
I feel weary, shoulders knotted, tears a constant under quivering eyelids. I'm not sure who I am mourning more:
The children broken and dying amidst the rubble?
A woman ripped away as if the Angel of Death was in haste?
Or a husband and father left behind wondering, muttering, raking through dirt and dust with bare hands to save his family?
Or am I also mourning the me who forgot the power of the Almighty and lived in fear?
I join in the prayers of the Palestinian mother, her frame shrouded in Belief as she once again takes to the road of the great catastrophe leaving her murdered husband and children behind in search of safety that can never be found living and dying under an occupation:
"Hasbunallah Wanimal Wakeel"
"Sufficient for us is Allah, and [He is] the best Disposer of affairs."
Fear is for the faithless.
Faith is for the fearless.
So I whisper the words "Alhamdullilah" and send it on it's way to my forever people in Palestine who through their resilience and their belief managed to save us all.
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