Terror fell upon my sleeping kids
on a May spring night
supposed to be full of joy.
They ran toward me with fright.
I opened my arms to them
in our small house
made out of compact mud and straw.
It fell while I was grabbing my three kids
with strength, weakness and fear.
Like them, with them, I ran
but toward no one
I ran toward the unknown
from a village to another
chased by guns and cannons
from every mountain and hill.
I saw nothing but fire everywhere.
Shrieks and cries broke the silence.
Fire reflected on the vacant faces
of those who had left their properties.
I walked days and nights
through the dry lands
soaked by rains of spring
not knowing where to go.
I left my everything
-myself-
over there
and became displaced.
I still live in the unknown
waiting for my case to be resolved.
Mohammed Arafat
15-05-2020
My grandfather was not a refugee like the 1.3 million Palestinian refugees living in Gaza, which is home to a population of approximately 2 million people. He was a farmer, who worked in cities like Haifa and Aka before inheriting his own farm in Gaza from his parents. Aaccording to him, not being able to go back to work in Haifa and Aka like before, however, made him feel like he was a refugee. This turned him into a completely different person. He fell in love with his farm in Gaza and used to spend more than 50 hours per week on that piece of green land.
It was his refuge for most his life. He made his Arabic salad there, using the tomatoes, onions, and peppers he planted. Green and sour grapes were an option when he didn’t have salt. The olive oil gave his salad a unique taste that I can’t describe in words. My father begged him not to drink the unfiltered water at the farm, but he couldn't be convinced, as he loved everything that came from his land. He once described his farm’s unfiltered water as real and the filtered as fake.
The shade from the high olive trees that had been planted on his farm hundreds of years ago was his cover from the sun in the summer, and their dark green leaves were an umbrella for him in the winter. Citruses were his fruits, and the huge, local eggplant and cucumber were his vegetables.
I once questioned how he had shaved his beard before his death. I found out later that he had his own, little place for shaving on his farm. He hid a blade, a piece of soap, and a broken mirror behind a rock beside the farm's back fence.
The tough man with green eyes and gray hair, who walked an hour to his farm with a walking stick every day at dawn, was my grandfather. I guarantee he loved his farm more than anything else—not because it’s where he spent his time, but because land means life.
I am not exaggerating when I say that he died from sorrow over the 2012-2013 bombing of his Gaza farm.
