Dancing on fire

I was born not long ago and came with such haste to where I am, not seeing, not hearing, not touching or tasting all that I should have, not loving all whom I should have. Where have they all gone? They have faded behind me into the fog along the river. I think it is not far now to where the river empties into the sea. I will walk slowly from here and pay attention. I will not pass by an open heart.
In the spring of 2017, I went to the eastern boarders of my village to take a part in the great return March peaceful demonstration. Since then, I began to feel severe pain in my lungs, as a result of inhaling smokes of gas bombs shot at the protesters, which is really hard that I already have breathing issues. This whole thing has escalated. My head has been involved in a lot of pain as I was not able to handle enough oxygen, so I just felt terrible. Fresh air is now a luxury we can't always afford.
Little by little, I began to swell. One night, unable to sleep, I got out of bed, went into the garden, took off my shirt. That provided some slight relief for I felt liberated for a moment, yet I had that terrifying feeling that in Gaza a relief does never last and that something has to interrupt the pleasure of this little liberty. I knew that something serious was at hand. Within a few months, the pain grew extreme, very much like the sensation of having my extremities and torso trapped in a fire that I could not escape. I could hardly breath. I could hardly walk. I could hardly open a door. I could hardly pick up a book or plate of food. Walking across a room, rolling over in bed, getting dressed, any number of simple things became excruciating. At times, when the pain medication wore off, whppich it did more quickly than it was supposed to, the pain became terrifying. I thought this might kill me. The pain was a constant throbbing and burning, all day and night.
From that time on, I prayed for several hours every day. I did not but rarely pray for myself, not even for relief from the pain. Instead, I prayed for all of my loved ones by name--family and friends—over and over. I prayed for Palestine. I prayed for poor Jerusalem. I prayed for the martyrs and for the kids a for the prisoners being violated in the Israeli medieval jails. I avoided praying for myself, not because of any piety on my part, but because praying about my health meant focusing on my pain, and I needed instead to focus away from myself.
Focus on your own pain, and your pain will own you.
One night while praying, as the throbbing felt especially intense, I heard, almost in an audible voice, "Get up and dance." I reacted with astonishment and sort of yelled, "You want me to do what? What the hell?" Yes, I swore at Palestine. The command came again. "Get on your feet. Get up and dance. You are a Palestinian; pain should never let you down"
I struggled out of bed and staggered to an open space in the bedroom. I began to dance. I prayed and danced—and began laughing. The searing-hot throb in my chest was horrific; yet the experience of dancing through such fiery pain was one of the most joyful and beautiful experiences of my life. I cherish what I learned from that fire. I cherish that dancing. Indeed, I learned we Palestinians are not the sort of people you would easily defeat. Instead, we are the sort of people you would think twice before you offend. We are an acronym and we stand for peace.
I still sometimes dance while I pray, as my memories of this have become my metaphor for a life of faith. Faith that has not been only engraved within my heart, but in the heart of every Gazan that one day we are going to get back our land and that one day we are going to live dignified. As I write this, I know i might sound odd or probably funny that I dance late at night. Nonetheless, I believe that you understand my experience and why I think of it as metaphor. Despite your suffering, you find a way to dance. You must, even laugh as you dance on fire