The Eyes of a Palestinian Girl

I stare into the eyes of my parents, which are clouded in deep sorrow and anguish. The grief explicitly shown in their faces after the death of a just-born son. The misery and depression of living an excruciatingly painful life, barely surviving with the number of resources left; and on top of that, another child of theirs - gone. Desperation and hesitation mark their faces each and every day as they pray for a better tomorrow. 

Their eyes see it all, and their eyes have seen it all. Their hearts take it all, and their hearts have taken it all. Ever since they remember.

We have nothing. And yet, the soldiers keep finding things to take from us, rummaging our tent for even the smallest trinket, the smallest of our valuables which no longer have any value at all.

Our resources, our land, our hope. All was once ours.

Our lives, our home. All was once ours.

About 80 years ago. Before we welcomed them with open arms.

Regret fills my chest for my ancestors, who had lived and had to deal with deceit, lies, falsehood.

The soldiers took the lives of all of my siblings, my uncles, my aunts, my grandparents. I have no one in this world except for my parents, and I thank God, for every second and every breath of my life that I am alongside them.

At least I have them.

And the more things get taken away, the more I appreciate what I have. One day, everything will be gone, destroyed, thrown away in a dark abyss, and what the soldiers stole and what they live for will one day decay as well. 

The more things get taken away, the more I realize it makes me stronger. It makes me more tough. It gives me more stamina. 

This is the experience I've lived nearly all my life. And I know it has just begun and worse will always be in store, hiding in the deep corners of the earth, ready to attack aggressively at any moment, at any time.

Cameras turn to face us, our living conditions, the state of our homes, and the state of our land. I do nothing but stare at them back. Mindless machines that do not resist the commands of their owners, capturing the land that used to bring joy and felicity that now brings apprehension and terror into the hearts of its people. 

And on the other side of the camera are people who I like to call imaginary, the people who see us and choose to do nothing. The people who stare at us on their phones, televisions, hear about us on the news, and all they do is sit and wait patiently on their comfortable sofas in their comfortable homes for the Israelis to swiftly take over all of what we have left.

And that is very little, close to nothing.

What do people get from having us exposed? They acquire knowledge but choose to do nothing with it. They acquire wisdom but choose not to use it. They acquire political intelligence and do nothing but give power to the already powerful and not to the needy, not to the deserving.

This was our land. And they are destroying what they desire to settle themselves in. Our land.

I used to cuddle in the arms of my parents and wrap my own around my siblings after hearing explosions of bombs, igniting thunderously outside many miles away. My siblings would whimper alongside me, and my parents would barely manage to put on a straight, brave face, muttering supplications under their breaths to whomever it may have concerned. 

Rarely, the deaths and injured would be of folks we did not know. More often than not, however, we would ascertain that our close relative or a distant family member was no more. 

The troops were still present, turning the place upside down and scanning our tent as if we had something else to hide. As if it would not be in plain sight if we did. And in that moment, one soldier pressed his grotesque eyes into mine, giving off an appalled look. As if disgusted and shocked that my life was still remaining. That my parents' only daughter was still standing, confidently, at that. 

I was taught not to hold the gaze of an armed man, but this time, I could not let go.

My parents whispered my name and scolded me, dread capturing their hearts. More tears seeped through their dark-circled and red-rimmed eyes, streaming down their exhausted and tired-looking faces. 

The soldier gave a smug chuckle, crossing his arms and stretching out his legs. This was his entertainment. Tormenting a poor family who had already lost so much, who would, at any moment, beseech and cry out to spare us and have mercy. I was certainly taught to never look at anyone who harmed my family, but I was also self-taught to never stand down and appear weak in any given situation. 

As a threat, the armed man wordlessly raised his gun and pointed at me, assuming it was enough to draw me back and succumb to society's expectations. Little did he know about me and how stubborn I can be.  

But then, I look into the empty, numb eyes of my parents, and my ego begins to collapse. My heart starts to throb. Of pain. Of distress. Of agony. Of all the awful things this life is able to bring. My heart goes out to my elder sister, my younger brother, and now my youngest brother, who suffered from malnutrition and the inability to carry on in this world, this life.

And somewhere, on the other side, I know my siblings are in a better place. And so are my grandparents, my uncles, my aunts, and all my other relatives. A tear escapes my eye, recalling the promise I made to the ones that are no longer around. 

Who knows if I'll see them again, and if so, when.

With a deep breath, I close my eyes, suddenly aware of my fate.