It has been impossible for me to begin to confront the atrocities committed last month. A live baby put into an oven and slowly baked. The image won’t leave me, and I try to avoid the other hundred of horrors that outdo every horror I’ve been told about the holocaust. How do you overcome that brutality and believe in the possibilities of humanity?
On another part of my disappearance, I have become an expert in predicting the moment before a rocket. I announce it a minute before the sirens begin, and continue whatever I was doing until the frightening sirens and the booms that accompany them. And sometimes in the morning I tell Ezi what time they will come.
But it takes all my energy. It is like being a medium…
We’re still counting bodies,missing people. One month after the hostages – babies to old people – we are not sure who is a hostage or whose body has been thrown away. The hundreds who were saved from the party are beginning to talk now. So many people – Jews and Arabs – went back and forth with their cars, carrying people to safety. Only now have we time to pay attention to these drivers, these escapees, some of whom are ashamed that they survived the massacre. Only now are the rescuers beginning to tell of the violence, the parts of bodies they left behind…
how could anyone in the world approve of the butchering of people? And how could these murderers be allowed to stay alive?
This one is about the decapitation of a young girl:
I Am the Severed Head You Do Not Know
My hair is more blond than the sand it rolls over On my lips crowd words sharp as the knife that met my throat. You who are mesmerized by my eyes, put a chip on the wheel of fortune that spins under the eyebrows. Don’t ask my name and imagine my hands hugging the body that was so beautiful beneath my neck and now cast upon the disgrace of the earth as if it was no more than a banana peel.
The sun shone, the poet wrote, and I am barely a model of darkness. No more.
and this is about the clothing Yashar leHayal is collecting and distributing to the local refugees.
In the Clothing Donation Depot for Survivors. Expo, Tel Aviv
I sort bras and learn the difference between the lacy padded one and one that is soft-lined underwired cotton. War is a time of shame and I’m not Charles Bukowski, who surely would have tried to identify from whom it was removed and on whom it will be put on. I just stuff a pile into a used carton of chocolate bars and then pass on to the next pile.
(Translated by Karen Alkalay-Gut)
and one by me:
Regenerating
No sex in wartime, I always say. Even a touch of foreplay brings on the rockets that give it to us all at once.
Afterward, everyone who can makes babies and give them names in memory of
Ezi thinks that they set the timers for the rockets in our neighborhood on the hour. I think that if it true that the rockets in our neighborhood fall on the hour it is just because they’re in a rush to set the timers and run away.
The frequent use of human shields is another sign to me that Hamas is trying to be very careful – of their own lives. I am watching the filming from Jabalia on BBC – In Israel we can only see the catastrophe from above. But what we see is an underground tunnel exploded and we can’t see the individuals from so far away. These are the people who were warned again and again to leave the area and go to the south, but, the BBC says, some left and returned because conditions there were so bad. Some had told foreign press that they had not been allowed to leave by Hamas. When they did have choices, they were not good ones.
I too feel I am at the front, but I feel I am being protected in every way possible. The sirens, the shelters, the iron dome, the phone calls – all make me aware that there are major efforts made to protect me. The people on the street at Jabalia make it clear to me that they are shields. I pray for them – may Allah have mercy.
It is like we are dancing a dance of death. Every day is worse and we keep switching partner – Yemen, Lebanon, Syria, and of course, filling our dance card, Hamas. So what was my day like? After my exercise class, and after Ezi had me do a few sets of stairs so I’ll be able to race down faster, I decided I had to go out and get printer ink and some other stuff ‘in case.’ I drove to a mall that had all the stuff I needed and found it totally crowded. Most of the staff was Arab with varying degrees of Hebrew, and I was generously helped with all my purchases – since it’s been so long since I’ve been shopping.
Driving home, I couldn’t help wondering what happens there when there’s a siren. Shoppers probably ran down to the parking garage, but what happens to the shops? Is there a designated salesperson who locks up and sacrifices herself ?
While I came home, the sirens came on – my friend at the mall called to say she was in the parking garage of the mall. She didn’t notice what happened to the shops.
But soon after, my lunch was interrupted by another siren, and my sense of humor disappeared. It’s hard to be ironic when the situation we are in is total madness.
Here’s one example – As our soldiers were going through a tunnel in Gaza today, they were met with a group of women holding babies backed by Hamas militants.
So now I am ready to go to bed, but I have to be dressed and ready to go down to the shelter. I am trying hard not to think of the two soldiers killed today.
Nope. A big bunch of rockets just hit. I suddenly feared we wouldn’t have enough time to get to the shelter and stopped in the hall. It was much simpler than running down the stairs, but more immediate. I don’t think Tel Aviv has been hit this hard before.
This is Brigitte Gabriel. I’m not sure about her background, but I am sure she is truthful and I wish I had her nerve. look her up here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brigitte_Gabriel