Less Than Perfect

{28} A War of Strength

Kanza Hadad

If my heart could bleed for eternity, still the pain would linger. So much sadness, so much corruption, so many calamities fell on those who deserved the world and more. I wanted to scream. I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs until I could no longer breathe, until my last breaths were for those who had lost theirs too soon.

Palestine was drowning in its own blood as the world watched with open eyes.

There was a stalker hunting my every move like a predator and I was his prey. My husband was in a mafia, one that was determined to eliminate any enemies in a potential drug war. My family would fall into the darkest depths of grief and depression as they anxiously waited for phone calls every night, wondering if my uncles and aunts survived, if their children were orphans, if our entire family was annihilated.

Tears burned my eyes as I sat alone in our bedroom, tears that started as raindrops had now become a river flowing freely down the pale mountains that had seen far too much in this life. Trauma was a strange thing. Generational trauma was even more so.

My parents fled, made a life for us here. I was lucky, wasn't I? I was one of the few to escape, to survive.

A headache pounded against my skull, the roughness ringing into my ears. But why didn't I feel lucky?

Fear compelled me in a way where I didn't have any energy to do anything else. I couldn't reach for my camera, to beg my followers to do more.

Why did I have to beg? A genocide was a genocide. There was no sugarcoating, no nice way of saying it. There was never a conflict between Israel and Palestine.

The Israeli government and the Zionist movement planned the ethnic cleansing of Palestinians. They had the western powers like the United Stated and the United Kingdom at the palm of their hands, bending at their every will. This wasn't a sudden thing.

No, the oppressors planned this from the 1940s. Decades of pain and suffering finally unveiled their proudest moment. They wanted to erase Palestinians from existence. Our lives meant nothing to them.

The past few weeks I had seen countless bodies of children slaughtered in broad daylight by bombs and nuclear weapons. My cousins in Palestine sent me WhatsApp messages every night of the sharp, bright lights that blew across their dark sky.

Here I was, safe in my little apartment with a husband on his way home, no fears, no worries. Here I was, comforted by the presence of security and knowing the only lights in my sky would be fireworks of people rejoicing or the stars glittering amongst us.

Palestinians never had that comfort. They were never that lucky.

You are blessed. You are alive.

Those words felt more like poison than a comfort.

No, I told myself. You are alive for a reason. You can give your people a voice.

The feeling of helplessness was more overwhelming than hope. Fear diminished light as if it never existed, engulfed people in darkness that they were left paralyzed. It was a trembling, terrifying force that shook even the strongest wills, tested the bravest resilience. 

A broken heart needed more than excuses to be healed.

My camera beckoned me, almost daringly but my vision was hazy. A stifled sob escaped me. I wasn't strong. I wasn't brave.

I was lucky because I wasn't in the midst of bloodshed.

Palestinians were brave. They were resilient in the face of hardship. Their faith stood like unbreakable pillars, strength embodied who they were. For generations, stories were passed down from grandparents to parents to children. These stories were about true heroes, about those who fought against oppression, about those who sacrificed their lives for those they loved.