Mornings in Falasteen
Mornings in Falasteen
Mahum Qureshi
A small village east of Haifa lives quietly on figs and olives, open frontiers and sunshine. The moon hangs low but as the dark sky gives way to light, the sounds of the predawn orchestra of crickets and stirring birds roll over the sun-bleached hills of Palestine. Broad-shouldered horses munch long blades of emerald green grass. They sparkle in the warm glow of the sunlight, the dew from the hazy morning intensifying its pigment. The musky smell of damp soil mixed with toasted sesame seeds welcomes any and all creatures. Golden eagles sit perched atop twisted branches of date trees, their faces stoic. Palestinian poppy flowers splash scarlet upon the neutral palette of Ein Houd. A wave of comfort washes over the people of Ein Houd when they hear the harmonic call to prayer in their native language, Arabic. Although it’s faint, one could still hear the heavy “r’s” and the deep “q’s”. A blanket of serenity settles over the village, skies gloomier and creatures calmer. All ears perk up as the melody flows through the warm wind. A light layer of fog paints the land, acting like a net to catch any heavenly souls. Their hearts drip with love and warmth and hope at the beauty of Palestine.
Bruised and bloody. Tamed and tortured. Invaded and injured. No longer is there the sweet aroma of freshly-wrapped grape leaves stuffed with tabouleh salad, now the smell of burning carcasses fills the air. Children’s cries hover over fields as they beg to be pulled from under rubble, faces bloodied then scarred with acts of violence and terrorism. The town is painted a deep crimson, not from the vibrant poppy flowers, but from the butchered Palestinian people. Smoke from gas bombs has draped the once golden sky. Explosions work as alarm clocks and news of missing people functions as after-school entertainment. 7,978. 7,978 losses. 1,620 children. Innocence. Peace. Safety. All of it, stripped away.
Falasteen’s light has been dulled, its tenderness completely skinned. Any traces of its winsome allure has been washed away by the gruesome brutality of the aggressors. Large overlapping triangles paint the city, beneath them stating the utter hatred and disgust towards the aboriginal inhabitants of the land. Keffiyehs are scarce in sight and navy green uniforms holding automatic guns are more and more standard. Blood is spilled and lives are taken.
A healing patient. A recovering victim. A mending convalescent. War has begun to quell. Busted hearts have started to glue themselves together. Small children have to come to terms with the passing of the light of their lives as they put them to rest. Wreaths and bouquets made of poppy flowers are scattered around the city. The air is no longer thick with gunfire smoke but instead with a suffocating bitterness, victims gagging on the abandonment of their souls. Buildings and other structures’ tops have blown off, the ground covered in smithereens of what was once a mosque where prayers were performed or a school where the wonders of the Quran were taught to pure little souls. The streets have become vacant at night, everyone automatically locked in their houses for the trauma of not doing so by 9:30 (before) has still not washed away. And it will not. Not for generations, at least. These children will forever be haunted by images of the day they saw their mother dragged away as she professed her love one last time, before being raped and brutally beaten to death. Or the day her father was shot in front of her and she saw his lifeless body bleed out on the floor. And when his younger sister was buried alive for refusing to deny her faith in her God. Palestinians have suffered, and they will continue to suffer but they will never stop battling this oppression. Green, red, and black fists will clutch the hope for their future and with God’s will and mercy, they will exist. They will resist. And they will return.