A Palestinian’s Journey From Playwright to War Correspondent
From a young age, writing has been my refuge, my outlet, my weapon. I began penning short plays in elementary school, using stories of Palestinian suffering on national holidays like Land Day and Independence Day as inspiration. At thirteen, I wrote a play about a martyr, a chillingly familiar sight in my world. In its heart, the scene depicts a grieving family bidding farewell to their son, wrapped in a Palestinian flag, his head covered by a black-and-white keffiyeh. The weight of his absence sinks in as they bury him in their own home, with his mother’s heart-wrenching cry – a lamentation that his son was murdered by Israeli soldiers in cold blood.
Witness to Martyrdom: A Glaring Reality
The funeral procession transforms into a defiant march, the mourners chanting in unison, their voices echoing phrases about heroism and martyrdom:
“Rest, rest, our martyr. We will continue the struggle.”
يا شهيد ارتاح ارتاح واحنا نواصل الكفاح
I had seen this reality countless times, the farewells, the collective grief, the silent vow of resurrection. These were not stories born from imagination, but lived experiences etched into the fabric of our lives by the shadow of occupation.
The Paradox of Celebration: Joy in Sorrow
The practice of chanting ululations at martyrs’ funerals, seemingly paradoxical to outsiders, has always puzzled me. Why celebrate death, why rejoice amidst sorrow? My mother, taking me along with her once to comfort a neighbour whose son had been martyred, shed light on this seemingly strange tradition.
As Umm Shadi, the martyr’s mother wept inconsolably, my mother shared memories of her son, Fadi, describing him as a kind boy who used to bring her his best pigeons. The outpouring of grief from Umm Shadi, her uncontrolled tears, revealed a heart overwhelmed by loss. It was a reminder that behind the facade of strength, there lies a deep ocean of pain.
. This clash of emotions, the joy in sorrow, was a reality I struggled to comprehend as a child, but it eventually became clear: in the face of death and despair, we embrace celebration as a defiant act, a testament to the enduring spirit of our people.
Palestinian Literature Captures the essence of Resistance
Palestinian novelist Ibrahim Nasrallah, in his poignant novel Safe Weddings, beautifully articulates this sentiment:
“Those who force us to rejoice at the funerals of our martyrs are their killers. We rejoice aloud so as not to give them, even for a moment, the illusion that they defeated us. I will remind you that after we are liberated, if we live to see it, we will cry long! We will mourn those at whose funerals we were forced to rejoice…We are not heroes, no, I’ve thought about it at length. I’ve told myself; we are not heroes, but heroes we have been forced to become.”
His words resonate deeply, encapsulating the forced resilience we embody. We are not heroes, but circumstances have thrust upon us roles we never sought. Yet, through our suffering, our collective heartache, we find our defiance, our survival.
Bearing Witness: From Gaza to the World
My life as a Palestinian has been a constant witness to cycles of violence and displacement. The images of funerals, bombed homes, burning fields, and military installations replacing our orchards are forever etched in my memory. Writing became my sanctuary, a way to process the trauma, to scream out against injustice. But the reality of the ongoing war, the horrors of what happened in Gaza during the recent genocide, has disabled my ability to write in the way I once did. The daily massacre of families in Jabalia, Beit Lahia, and Beit Hanoun, the sight of children dismembered, their bodies left unclaimed, the silence that replaced ululations – these images are too brutal to capture, too painful to articulate.
The Power of Storytelling: Documenting the Unthinkable
During the war, I found myself documenting stories, even though I couldn’t bring myself to write them. My phone became a lifeline, recording testimonies, capturing the agony, the despair, the defiance that pulsed beneath the surface. I would spend hours huddled in a car, searching for a sliver of internet connection, just to send my recordings to the Mondoweiss team. Reading back the stories I had spoken into the void, stories that echoed the pain of my people, brought tears to my eyes each time. I felt a profound sense of connection, knowing that even in the midst of chaos and fear, our voices were being heard.
Carrying the Torch
For ten years, I have worked as a journalist, but joining Mondoweiss allowed my stories to reach a wider audience. Palestinian organizations now use my words in their speeches, their pleas for justice before the United Nations. It’s a reminder of the power of storytelling, of documenting the unspeakable. We may face unimaginable struggles, but as long as we document our experiences, as long as we share our stories, the spirit of resistance will endure. The words of those who mourn the fallen, “Rest, rest, our martyr. We will continue the struggle,” ring true. It’s a legacy passed down through generations, a vow to fight for freedom, for justice, for the right to live in peace, regardless of the cost.
Join me in amplifying these voices, in demanding an end to the violence and occupation. Let’s ensure that the stories of the Palestinian people are heard.