I Don't Know in What Way I'll Die: A Message From My Friend in Gaza - Opinion - Haaretz.com
I don't now how many more days remain for me to live, because death surrounds me from all sides just like it's surrounding this city, which is bleeding incessantly.
I don't know in what way I'll die: Maybe from a bomb fired from a small drone hovering in the smoke-filled sky, maybe from the shrapnel of a Howitzer that fires its shells randomly, maybe from a fighter ship directing its fire at our area, which is near the sea. Maybe a treacherous missile fired from a reconnaissance aircraft or an F-16 warplane will kill me…
The only thing I know is this: That I no longer think about how I'll die, but where my body will lie, whether I'll fall among the ruins near my home while fleeing from the shells with my children, or whether my limbs will be scattered on the dirt path that is filled to the brim with tents. And maybe I'll be buried without even saying goodbye to my wife and the remaining members of my family.
I can picture it now in my mind: We're running toward the Shati refugee camp, the sky is raining fire, the missiles are exploding around us, I fall to the ground and see my young son bleeding and moaning. I stretch out my hand to him, I cry and try to crawl to him, but discover that I've turned into scattered pieces and feral dogs are approaching to devour what's left of my flesh.
And there, between the moment of death and the moment of awareness, my memory goes back, my vision is sharp today, I return to the days when I would dream about a glorious future for my children. I saw them as doctors healing people's hearts, and engineers building a new life out of the ruins. But the occupiers have decided otherwise: In the eyes of the young soldiers, Palestinian children don't deserve a tomorrow, and their dreams are nothing but a threat that must be erased.
I'll die in silence, while the world watches my body, which is of no significance for it. It makes do with sitting in front of the TV screens and following the scenes as if they were a long horror film, sometimes it will applaud with cold tears and sometimes it will yawn, but it won't shout. And the story, the story of a writer and his family, is like the stories of tens of thousands who were killed by young soldiers who don't like butterflies. As if we were superfluous creatures, more numerous than necessary for an absurd story whose only hero is blood.
I will die while my fellow writers are sleeping and I'm touring above the clouds and the planes and the satellites and the stars and the galaxies, and ascend to God and a warm breeze carries my spirit there beyond the last heaven, and a million children with steel wings accompany me.
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Yousri Alghoul is a prominent writer in the Gaza Strip. He remains in Gaza City with his family and his four children. We became pen pals as well as friends. I follow the documentation he sends me almost every day, and translate it to Hebrew. I received this text a few days ago. Alghoul also wrote that he won't leave his city, where he's living next to the ruins of his house, even at the cost of his and his family's lives. He has nowhere to move to and no way to do so.
The State of Israel will never be forgiven for the eradication, murder and destruction being perpetrated in the Gaza Strip by its army, with the support of most of the country's citizens.
Ilana Hammerman, translator