A fighter for freedom and justice from Palestine, Gaza.

Archive for May, 2010

Freedom Flotilla: Their only fault is their humanity

Palestinians were waiting on fire for the Freedom Flotilla– the vessels that were carrying seven hundred Turkish, some people from different nationalities. Those ships were coming to Gaza carrying 10,000 tons of humanitarian aid to Gaza. Although they were on the international waters they have been attacked by Israel forces. However, nothing that Israel does is surprising. Israel stormed and attacked those vessels violently and prevented them from continuing their pure humanitarian work they were intending to do.

They continued creating trivial excuses for their ugly crimes. Israel said that those ships were not only for providing aid, but also it was an act of provocation. However I need an explanation, will it be reasonable to kill up to nineteen people and wound more than thirty for this reason though? I can’t understand, are they really humans?

Here in Gaza, public strike is announced. Protests are spread in every street. The Palestinian people ignored their differences, including their political point of view, to be one force to express their rejection of the ongoing aggression against them, and declare their solidarity with their brothers in all the countries who were martyred and were injured this morning while marching in the Freedom Flotilla to break the siege on Gaza.

On behalf of all Palestinians, I say thank you for everyone sacrificing to break Gaza siege. We are all proud of those people who insisted to support Gaza even they were threatened by Israel.

My father’s memories from the day of his release in 1985 swap deal

Twenty-five years ago, my father’s eyes saw the sun after staying in the dark Israeli prison for 15 years. In 25th of May, 1985, my father regained his freedom. “I was sentenced for lifelong imprisonment and I thought that this prison, Nafha, would be my grave! Thank God I didn’t stay that long there, and I was got out to marry your mother and to bring you to this life,” my father told me smilingly. He considered the 15 years of misery as not that long period. Yes, it’s not that long if compared with the life sentence to which he was bound if the exchange deal of prisoners between the Palestinians and Israelis didn’t happened.

the story of the exchange deal all started when Ahmad Gibreel, the leader of P.F.L.P, captured three Israeli soldiers in revenge of thousands of Palestinian prisoners kidnapped by Israeli without any apparent reason. After a long process of negotiations, both sides struck a deal that Israel would release 1250 prisoners in return of the only three Israelis that Gibreel held captive. My father was included in the deal, and fortunately, he was set free.

It’s a funny thing that only three Israelis caused uproar in the Israeli public opinion and media at that time, but the thousands of Palestinian prisoners behind Israeli bars didn’t stir, except for the resistance that always forced Israel to meet some demands regarding the Palestinian prisoners, any serious effort that would lead to their release. The same thing is happening now with Gilad Shalit, who had been arrested by the Palestinian resistance. Palestinians are “terrorists” because they captured one Israeli soldier who was atop of his war machine, but Israelis are not, however, they have continued to incarcerate 8200 Palestinian prisoners in most terrible environment. I cannot understand this equation. Is Shalit’s life equal to their whole lives?

My father narrated that story with tears struggling to fall. He was staring at a picture stuck on the wall of his room. This picture is a painting that my father drew during his imprisonment.”I cannot forget the moment when the leader of the prison started calling off the names to be released,” he said.

Among the prisoners was Omar Al-qasem– the leader of D.F.L.P. in prisoners. The leader of the jail asked him to retail the list of the names loudly. He was so excited at the beginning hoping that his freedom would have to be restored. Every time he said a name, a scream of happiness convulsed the walls of prison. Suddenly, his face’s features started to change. He became reluctant to speak because he noticed that his name wasn’t among the names. He withdrew himself silently and went to his prison to go on with his resistance as a mountain. Sadly, he died in that horrible narrow oubliette after 20 years of resistance and glory.

The tears of happiness and sadness mixed together. The freed prisoners were not happy for regaining their freedom as much as they were bleak for leaving the other prisoners in that dirty place where the sun never steps inside. “We were as a big family sharing everything together. We all handled the same issue that we were united to fight for,” my father said. “Although I am free now, my soul always with my friends who are still suffering in there,” he continued.

I looked at my father with a feeling of proud imagining how he could bear staying in that tight prison. An area of 6 square meters had only one tiny window and contained eight prisoners at least. I bet that no one could stay in his room for a day, so how could all that huge number of prisoners bear staying for several years or even for the rest of their lives? I am sure although they are alive, they are dying.

The Dream of Return Will Never Die

I was watching a documentary report about Al-nakba Day, the day when my grandparents left their homeland by force in 15th of May, 1948. I was looking at my mother’s glittering eyes. “Are you going to cry?” I asked. “Your grandfather used to go every day to a high place in north Gaza called Alkashef Mountain. People used to see him sitting, pondering his raped homeland, Beit Gerga, and crying.” She said with that gloomy broken voice. My grandmother used to say a proverb sarcastically means that the lands are ours and the strangers fire us. She is completely right. I don’t understand how anyone could dare firing people from their lands.

Our poor grandparents thought that the immigration caesarean would be for a week or maximum two years. They were very simple and uneducated people that they didn’t understand the game that Israel and its allies played. Sadly, my grandparents died but they dreamed of return until the last moment of their lives.

I remember the times when I and my family were surrounding my grandmother listening closely to stories from her life. I used to ask her to tell us about Al-nakba every time. At first, she used to refuse complaining that she repeated that events millions of times to us. I am sure she never got fed up saying about that miserable day. She always did try to wag the nostalgia in us to our homeland which we have never seen.

When my grandparents were in Beit-gerga, their homeland, they were farmers, living for the glories of the land as every Palestinian that time. In Al-nakba Day, a ground invasion started. They became horrified. Many people from the north came running fearfully and barefoot. Huge numbers of victims died that day. One of them was my grandmother’s father. He insisted to remain home so they killed him. This was the fate of anyone who confronted them. My grandparents came to Gaza as refugees. Every single day they said “tomorrow we will return back,” but they didn’t. They died after leading that hard life and they never smelt the smell of sand again. My grandparents died but our dream of return has never died. We won’t stay refugees; we shall return.