To all our friends, where ever they are,
Scroll your mail to 9.8.16, two weeks and two days ago. Read it again, for what I can write today will be under the same title. Demolitions again. Again in Um al Kheir.
But today I cannot go there. Only a telephone call. I shall come tomorrow. But the sights are known, and the sensations of the heart no longer need to see. I will be there tomorrow with me friends of Um al Kheir in order to participate and try to embrace the grief, the contained anger, the tears.
They demolished at 6:00 am, they demolished once more the house of Zayed, Eid’s brother. A house that was demolished two weeks ago and that the people of the village have rebuilt (after all one needs a place to rest the head on). They demolished the house of grandmother Hadra (Aziz’s mother), that welcomes in her house the children of the village that many of them are her grandchildren, and they demolished the community centre that was built with the support of you, our friends, and his development continued thanks to the incredible efforts of Aziz and his friends (by gaining financial support from different organisations and by operating it for the benefit of the people of the village). And Haj Suliman the Elder? Once more he was violently taken away so he would not disturb the hoty deed.
Once more the children and the elderly people were sleeping when the bulldozers opened their mouths, and soldiers whose hearts are shut and their faces blank destroyed the modest houses. Where would they lead the astonishing surprise, the pain of loss, the helplessness, the frustration? Where would they lead the contained anger?
What poem shall I cite this time? Brecht’s poem from last time fits the present situation as well…
Tomorrow I might write again, and perhaps not because I run out of words.
But it is unthinkable to conclude such a report without some light at the end of the tunnel. Therefore I will quote a poem I wrote 13 years ago. I feel fortunate to be able to say goodbye to something in order to be able to be connected to the heart:
With murmuring consistency
my consciousness surrenders
to the humming of its depths
weeping my parting
enfolding me like a sacred canopy.
Like a Tabernacle
my mother made me when she was alive,
like the shrouds
I made her when she died.
I cut the umbilical cord of my birth,
I bid you farewell, my motherland.
Farewell plundered treasure,
farewell you who are made arrogant,
farewell you who go to the stake
of your defilers’ oblivion.
The pain of parting slashes my throat,
my living mindfulness hears
clods of earth shed upon my grave.
Tomorrow a new day will envelop me
without my motherland.
Days of mourning are hard.
Erella, The Villages Group