By Shaimaa Abulebda
It’s winter, and I am counting down to Ramadan. The nights are long and cold in the crowded tent, away from home. One morning, the weight of the genocidal war and displacement gets hold of me, and I get angry at everything and everyone around me. With the unraveling of the rage that has been pent up inside me for far too long, I stop recognizing myself.
And so, without informing my family, I start walking, away from the tent in the Saudi quarter and head west. I walk to abate anger, to overcome anxiety, and to alleviate fear. I walk and find myself by the beach.
A Scene at Rafah’s Beach
Waves lapping soothingly.
Two sisters skipping away from a wave.
Giggling kids, with pulled-up pants,
taking their first shot at fishing.
A father lounging on the beach,
watching over his daughters.
A mother giving a bath to her baby boy.
A father holding an empty plastic bag
to collect shellfish with two daughters,
and calling for the son to join in the picking.
Four old friends discussing truce negotiations.
Two boats for fishing.
Two warships on the lookout.
A drone buzzing, a warplane roaring.
Shouts of “Yallah!”
A peddler calling out “Gahwa!”
Another shouting “Yallah feeno!
Grab the last two pieces!”
And paper kites flying over,
reclaiming our sky.
February 2024.