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: 04 2012
: ãÊÇÈÚÇÊ ÅÚáÇãíÉ


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ÃÌáÓ Ýí ÍÌÑÉò ÑãÇÏíøÉ ÝæÞ ÓÑíÑ ÈÏËÇÑò ÑãÇÏíø æÃäÊÙÑ ÇáãÄÐøä áíÞÝ. ÇáÊÑÇÊíá ÊÏÎá äÇÝÐÊí æÃÑæÍ ÃÝßøÑõ Ýí ßáø ÃæáÆß ÇáÑÌÇá æÇáäÓÇÁ ÇáÐíä íäÍäæä Ýí ÕáÇÊåã¡ æÇáÎæÝ íÝÑõø ãäåã ÚäÏ ßá ÖÑÈÉ¡ æíÏÎá ÍÒäñ ÌÏíÏ Åáì ÃÑæÇÍåã ÈíäãÇ íÕØÝ ÃØÝÇáåã Ýí ÇáÔæÇÑÚ ßÇáãÓÇÌíä Ýí ÃÍÏ ãÚÓßÑÇÊ ÇáãæÊ ÃÓíÑõ äÍæ ÇáäÇÝÐÉ ÇáãßÓæÑÉ æÑÃÓí ãÇÆáÉñ ÞáíáÇð æÃÍÇæá Ãä ÃáÞí äÙÑÉð ÓÑíÚÉ Úáì ãÏíäÉö ÇáÃÔÈÇÍ – ÃæáÆß ÇáÞÊáì ÇáÐíä íãÑæä ÚÈÑ ÇáÝÊÍÇÊ ÇáÖíÞÉ áÞÈæÑåã. íÏÇí æÌÇäÈ æÌåí ÇáÃíãä ÞöÈÇáÉ ÇáÌÏÇÑ¡ æÃäÇ ÃÎÊÈÆ ãËá ÚÇåÑÉ¡ íÊãáßäí ÅÍÓÇÓ ÈÇáÚÇÑ. ÃÔÏø íÇÞÉó ÑÏÇÆí ÇáÃÒÑÞ ÇáÎÝíÝ ÈÞæÉ ÝíÊãÒÞ¡ æíÊÏáøì ÃÍÏ ÌÇäÈíå ßãÇ ÊÊÏáøì ÍíÇÉõ ßá ÝÑÏò åäÇ. ÊäÛÑÒ ÃÙÇÝÑí ÚãíÞÇð Ýí áÍãí ÃÌÑÍ äÝÓí¡ ËáÇËÉõ ÎØæØ ÊËáã ÕÏÑí¡ ËáÇË ÏíÇäÇÊ ÊÞÑÚ Ýí ÑÃÓí æÃÊÓÇÁá ÝíãÇ ÅÐÇ ßÇä ÇáÅáå ãÏÝæäÇð ÊÍÊ ÇáÃäÞÇÖ. ßá ÈíÊò åæ ÓÌä ßá ÛÑÝÉò åí ÞÝÕõ ßáÈ. ÇáÏÈßÉõ áã ÊÚÏ ÌÒÁÇð ãä ÇáÍíÇÉ¡ ÇáÌäÇÒÇÊ ÝÞØ åí ßÐáß. ÛÒÉ ÍõÈáì ÈÇáäÇÓ æáÇ ÃÍÏ íÓÇÚÏ Ýí ÇáÚãá. áÇ ÔæÇÑÚ¡ áÇ ãÓÊÔÝíÇÊ¡ áÇ ãÏÇÑÓ¡ áÇ ãØÇÑ¡ áÇ åæÇÁ ááÊäÝÓ. æÃäÇ åäÇ Ýí ÛÑÝÉò æÑÇÁ äÇÝÐÉ¡ ÚÇÌÒÉñ ÚÏíãÉõ ÇáÝÇÆÏÉ. Ýí ÃãÑíßÇ¡ Ãßæä ÚÇÏÉð ÃÔÇåÏ ÇáÊáÝÇÒ ÃÓãÚ ÇáÓí Åä Åä ÊÞæá Åäø ÇáÅÓÑÇÆíáííä íØÇáÈæä ÈÖÑæÑÉ æÞÝ ÇáÅÑåÇÈ. åäÇ ßá ãÇ ÃÑì åæ ÅíÞÇÚ ÇáÑåÈÉ¡ ÃØÝÇáñ ãÇ ÚÇÏæÇ íÚÑÝæä Ãäåã ÃØÝÇá ãíáæÓæÝíÊÔ íÎÖÚ ááãÍÇßãÉ¡ ÝãÇÐÇ Úä ÔÇÑæä¿ ÃÎíÑÇð ÃÑÊÏí ãáÇÈÓí¡ ÃÞÝ ÃãÇã ÇáäÇÝÐÉ ãÈÇÔÑÉ æÇÎÊäÞ ÈÈÕÇÞí Ííä íäØáÞ ÇáÑÕÇÕ¡ æÊãÑ ØÇÆÑÇÊ Ý 16 ÇáäÝøÇËÉ ÇáãÞÇÊáÉ Ýí ØáÚÇÊåÇ ÇáÑæÊíäíÉ ÇáíæãíÉ. Gaza City Nathalie Handal I sit in a gray room on a bed with a gray blanket

and wait for the muezzin to stand up.

The chants enter my window and I think of all

those men and women bowing in prayer, fear escaping

them at every stroke, a new sadness entering

their spirit as their children line up in the streets

like prisoners in a death camp.

I walk towards the broken window my head slightly slanted and try to catch a glimpse

of the city of spirits—those killed

who pass through the narrow opening of their tombs.

My hands and the side of my right face

against the cold wall, I hide like a slut, ashamed.

I pull the collar of my light blue robe so hard

it tears, one side hanging as everyone’s lives hang here.

My fingers sink deep into my flesh,

I scratch myself, three lines scar my chest,

three faiths pound in my head and I wonder

if God is buried in the rubble. Every house is a prison,

every room a dog cage. Debke is no longer part of life,

only funerals are. Gaza is pregnant

with people and no one helps with the labor.

There are no streets, no hospitals, no schools,

no airport, no air to breathe.

And here I am in a room behind a window,

helpless, useless. In America, I would be watching television

listening to CNN saying the Israelis demand,

terrorism must stop. Here all I see is inflicted terror,

children who no longer know they are children.

Milosevic is put on trail, but what about Sharon?

I finally get dressed, stand directly in front of the window

and choke on my spit as the gun shots start,

the F-16 fighter jets pass in their daily routine.

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