Another letter to the Next Century Foundation from Dr Said in Gaza:
Weather reports say that this winter will be the coldest and rainiest in years.
So far, it sounds ordinary—perhaps even beautiful, delightful—to those who love winter in the distant world, far from this land afflicted by the plague of war, among the few who have survived the guillotine.
Here, by the sea, where Al-Mawasi lies, the cold creeps in early—by afternoon, almost.
It slips into the tattered tents, gnawing at children’s bellies, breaking the bones of the old.
Waves of cold, bouts of intestinal illness, and temperatures that expose the face of a winter staring at us from afar—waiting for those who escaped the shrapnel.
Worn-out tents, low ground, a heavy wind—so heavy—and not a single drop of rain has fallen yet.
Soon, the narrow paths between tents will turn into watery channels for the flood.
A raging torrent that will carry away cooking pots, mattresses, baby diapers, stored food, clothing—underwear, even the most private belongings—everything, all swept along its long path.
Soon, while you, dear reader, stand by your window listening to the song “Rain, Rain”, there will be a mother somewhere tying her infant to her waist—so that if the flood storms into her tent, it won’t carry him away.
Last winter, the rain came suddenly—and suddenly too, the torrent rushed—and suddenly, the camp drowned.
People found themselves standing as the water covered their knees.
No one noticed this suffering. Even we did not; the sound of shelling drowned out a pain that seemed small at the time.
What does your struggle with rain mean compared to someone else’s struggle with tanks invading his city?
Back then, the rain felt lighter—almost bearable.
You could laugh as you rolled up your trousers to your knees, helping your neighbor, or being helped by him, as you both gathered what was left after the storm passed.
But today, the guns have gone silent.
Most people have lost their homes.
The cities have become ruins, where flocks of death echo through their hollow remains.
The displaced stand alone—without winter clothes, without tents, without streets or walls—
alone before the storms of rain,
while the world sings, “Rain, Rain.”
“I fear the world will rain, and you are not with me.
Since you left, I have had a rain complex.
Winter once covered me with its coat;
I felt neither cold nor boredom.
The wind would howl behind my window,
and you would whisper: hold on.”
Thus will the displaced Palestinian sing—an elegy for his home:
And now I sit, while the rain lashes me—
upon my arms, my face, my back—
Who will defend me?
For in you, O rain, there is something unknown I step into,
and something of history, and of fate.
Is our voice reaching you…?
Is it heard at all…?
Dr. Said Mohammed Al-Kahlout
The Palestine Trauma Centre
Gaza, Palestine
Image by hosny salah from Pixabay
