Burning the Pages of the Book of Life

Shortly after dark, early November, 2023. Al-Nasr Children's hospital, Northern Gaza.

Explosions sound off in the distance. But the family in the delivery room is used to this sound. They are not comfortable with the sound, but sometimes they forget it is there. This sound has already killed five thousand of their people, over the last month. But this sound— this constant sound, this lethal sound— can slip into the peripheries despite its severity.

When they pay attention, the boom and pulse of artillery stokes their anxieties and fills them with terror. But when these thuds and booms fade into the background. The humans stop holding their breath. Their adrenaline fades and their fears calm to a baseline insecurity. And yet, there are some times where life grants them distractions.

And this is one of those times. At this very moment the noises of war are all but forgotten.

Even the noises in their room— the sounds of beeping monitors and nurses’ chatter— these sounds are muffled and vague compared to the murmors and sighs of this family’s joy.

They huddle, in a clean and well-lit delivery room. And for now they choose to know they are safe, because despite the legacy of violence the Israeli state has visited upon the people of Palestine, this family has to trust that they have safe refuge in a children's hospital-- for even between bitter enemies, there must be some standards of humanity, not to mention international pressures.

They cling to a faith that Israel will not target them here.

So they feel safe, willfully, in this momentary refuge.

The attending swaddles their newborn boy, and hands him to the father, Youssef, with congratulations.

Youssef begins to weep, uncontrollably. Snot runs down like water, it drenches his beard but there is a broad, unashamed smile on his face.

He has never felt such joy! And he does not believe he'll ever stop crying-- but he doesn't mind, because these tears are sweet. He cannot speak, he can only laugh and gasp for relief.

After a hard pregnancy, and a harder labor, his beloved wife, Aisha, is safe and he's holding their son!

Their boy is born premature, to a world in turmoil-- born premature to uncertainty and fear. But he is strong.

Still, the little brand-new boy's parents know, in the back of their minds they are not secure. Beneath their joy and behind their rationalizations they know that Israel-- the oppressor-- is looking for revenge, after Hamas led that attack on the other side of the Barrier, last month during the Jewish holiday of Simchat Torah.

When they'd heard the news back in October they'd felt torn. They know their history, for as the saying goes: a man with no past can have no future. So these young Gazan parents make a point of remembering. They remember their collective injuries, the injustices suffered by their own parents and they carry these wounds in their hearts:

Both of these first time parents have ancestors who were murdered by Israeli expansion. Youssef's great grandfather was killed in the Nakba, back in the 40s. Abdel Al-Hassan wasn't a soldier, he was just a shepherd. But he was shot down by Israeli's for refusing to abandon his home. Aisha's uncle, Qadir Salah was shot to death more recently, back in 2014 at a roadblock that the IDF established outside his village. The IDF claimed he attacked them first, but nobody in Aisha's family believed this lie, Qadir was far too gentle. The rumor in his village was that he had only approached the occupiers to beg their assistance after some Israeli settlers had passed through and vandalized his home.

Youssef and Aisha know the evils of the Israeli occupation, it's in their minds and in their souls and in their very bones. It's in their poverty, and it's in their stark awareness of the comparative comfort, security, and ease which the Israelis enjoy on the other side of the Barrier.

It's not fair, and it hasn't been fair since before the Nakba.

They, like all Palestinians want justice! Their hearts burn for a right to historic and ongoing wrongs-- they yearn for freedom from Israeli occupation. They want the freedom of commerce, instead of Israeli blockades. They see Hamas militants as freedom fighters, a desperate resistance to a larger, better funded military terror group. But, they know that during the October 7th attack, Hamas targeted civilians-- and even though the Israeli Defense Force has done this time and time again, they do not feel this can be right for either side. As much as they resent the Israeli occupation, they do not hate the people of Israel. Some Palestinians celebrated the violence, but not Youssef and Aisha. They do not celebrate death-- because they know that all people are made in the image of Allah-- even the zionists.

And some of those Israeli's who were killed and taken prisoner-- they were celebrating a Jewish holy day-- some of them were in prayer.

While that Jewish manner of prayer didn't always coincide with their Muslim manner of prayer, Youssef and Aisha both knew there were more similarities than differences. They saw the Jews as cousins in faith. They even honored many of the same prophets and ancestors, and most importantly they honored the same God, only with a different language.

As people of faith, this family grieved the idea of violence perpetrated during another people's holy day.

So they feel an odd conflicting impulse: their human hearts swell at the show of Palestinian resistance to Israeli violence-- even while their human hearts also mourn the brutality done to the Jews.

And they're also gripped with a deep upwelling of looming dread-- because this family knows their history, and the abuses their people have suffered are ever present. The conflict with the Israeli terrorists has always been asymmetrical. And what's more, they have seen how Israeli political leadership uses attacks, like the Oct 7th attacks, to demonize the broader Palestinian people and to justify disparate and disproportionate violence.

Israel has told the world that they’re campaigning in self-defense to rescue the hostages taken by Hamas.

But it is an obvious lie. As before and as always, Israeli diplomats are waving their rationalizations and their excuses like a flag, looking for public support.

But how do they expect to rescue hostages with bombs when nobody— not even the Gazans— knows where the hostages are being held?

For all Youssef and Aisha and anyone else knows, the Israelis who were taken hostage may have already been blown to pieces by Israel’s own air strikes.

No, these bombs are not a rescue mission.

That shelling in the distance, they can hear it if they stop to listen. The whole world can hear it. It's like a steady beat of far-away drums, percussion reverberating through the Earth itself.

And it doesn’t sound anything like rescue. It sounds like revenge.

It sounds like a campaign of wanton destruction.

Already 5,000 Gazans have been reported dead or missing, after only a month of Israel's aggression. More than twice the death toll Israel suffered at the hands of Hamas.

These parents know the attacks must end, soon, the world won’t let Israel carry their war of vengeance past the red line of international law.

But, still they worry. If they leave this hospital-- this sanctuary-- with their newborn in tow, before the shelling stops, they will be stepping back out into the line of Israeli fire.

But now, even in these troubles, more than anything Youssef and Aisha feel their souls burgeoned by hope-- for moments after his first breath, their newborn, he smiles!

The mother, Aisha sees it first. She can barely speak-- her body is ragged with exhaustion, but still her face lights up: "Look Youssef, see his cheeks? He's smiling."

This first-time father can hardly see anything through his tears. He wipes his eyes, the better to see the infant he holds so close-- and it is true, the boy's cheeks were dimpled!

"Aisha, Aisha, this is a miracle! This is a gift from Allah! My brother told me babies are not supposed to smile until they are atleast a month old-- but our son proves him wrong! This smile is a gift from God, and we must have faith-- everything will be alright-- Alhamdulillah!"

Youssef gently passes their son to her, and says, "Omar is a good name for him, don't you think? He's arrived early but he's strong. And his smile is a sign, that he will not only survive, he shall thrive! In the years to come, his laughter will be joy for us, and comfort. Omar Said-- our child-- one who thrives, and who is fortunate!"

*

The nurses say Omar's bilirubin is too high, and that he'll have to spend a few nights under the lamps in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.

They say if he nurses, and passes solids he'll clear right up.

They give their reassurances, but Youssef and Aisha hardly need these encouraging words. Their hearts are already wrapped around little Omar Said, and their faith is strong.

They know he'll be their rock and their anchor-- he will not go anywhere.

He can't be taken! Allah would not allow any harm to befall a child so beautiful and so precious as theirs.

*

They are torn from sleep by the deafening boom of a nearby explosion-- the sirens are blaring as the evacuation begins.

Bewildered, Youssef's mind is swirling chaos, like a dust storm.

The Israelis couldn't target us here! That's beyond comprehension.

But people are screaming and yelling that they must go.

It has to be an accident! But they're always bragging about their tech being the best in the world.

Another deafening boom, they feel the building shake.

Israel can't have missed this badly. It has to be deliberate.

He runs into the hall and grabs a doctor by the arm: "What about Omar!"

The doctor shakes free of his grip, to keep running, and yells back at him: "Get out NOW! Follow the crowd. We'll take care of evacuating the children and reunite you outside. Just go!"

Youssef burns with indecision. The love of this new father is too powerful too deny-- he cannot run-- not even from Israeli bombs-- unless he knows for certain that his son is safe!

He sees people in uniform running towards the exits, many of them have crying babies in their arms-- one of them must have Omar. He decides to trust in Allah. He decides to believe the doctor who commanded him to leave. Hospital personnel would evacuate the babies, and Allah would bring their family back together once they made it to safety.

First, he has to get his wife out. She cannot walk, not yet. The labor was too fresh, too recent, and her body is too damaged.

She winces, as she tries to stand, and the pain on her face breaks his heart.

Aisha is the love of his life.

He must trust that the hospital staff will rescue Omar. But it is up to Youssef and no one else to rescue Aisha.

So surrounded on all sides by a sea of chaos, he lifts her as gently as he can, and begins to carry her--

But begs him to stop! "No, Youssef! Throw me down and run back for Omar!"

He holds her firmly over his shoulders, and tries to sooth her. "Everything will be okay. The doctor said the hospital would evacuate all the babies."

But this is not enough for her.

She screams again and again, "What about Omar, go back for Omar!"

She tries to kick free but she is too weak, too depleted, and they are being herded out of the recovery wing by a wild exodus-- this river of fleeing humans.

He promises, "You first my beloved. I'll go back for him, but you first!"

Gazan emergency services keep ushering them along. And they are swept out into the street.

The air smells like smoke and dust.

It makes him cough, and his ears are assaulted by the anguished cries of his country men.

No, not men. The voices crying for help sound like women. Or children. They are too far away to hear clearly, maybe a block away from the hospital.

Then there is the hawk-like scream of a missile and another explosion, from that direction, and a deafening silence.

Youssef's tears are bitter now. He hears his wife's voice, frantic and high with pain, "Are they really targeting a children's hospital? Would they really do this? These animals-- why?!"

And her words cling to his soul like barbed wire and tar.

His mind races:

Why indeed.

This isn't fair.

This isn't right.

What kind of monsters would target children-- babies?

I'd never-- never in a million years-- target children, not even the children of these terrorists! What low, base, poisonous animals are these Zionist scum? How could any prayerful person do this? How could any believer-- how could our cousins in faith-- do this?

Even through his cold panic, he feels a volatile rage seep like tendrils of cold into his heart. Anger and hate pulse with as much internal ferocity as the thudding shells a few blocks over. He stops wanting justice and for the first time in his life wishes he could personally slaughter other humans: whoever sent these bombs, whoever gave the order and whoever followed it.

Who gave the order anyway? The prime minister? Or some lower level devil?

Whether God answered as Allah or Yahweh, there was no way the Father of creation could condone or accept the sins that these Zionists were embracing.

Youssef would pray to be God's justice to make that faceless devil suffer-- that would be fair, for a change!

There could be no redemption and no mercy for men so far removed from their own humanity-- no mercy other than a painful death.

Then, swimming in his thirst for vengeance and fighting through the chaos of people running for their lives-- somehow, in this madness Youssef found a seat on a medical shuttle for his wife.

As the shuttle pulls away, she clutches her womb, and grits her teeth through the pain. But here eyes are wide with worry. "But our baby!"

None of the passengers on this shuttle are wearing hospital uniform.

He asks where they're going.

Nobody knows.

So Youssef shouts to Civil Police Force officer in the road: "Where can I find my baby? Where can I find Omar? Who has taken him from the NICU?

"I don't know."

And every day, Youssef keeps asking and keeps looking, even as they hobble between shelters and refugee camps.

The weeks bleed into months as they perpetually flee Israel's mounting genocide, and still he asks and still he looks.

Youssef helps Aisha along, and gives her his share of rations. But her body has stopped producing milk.

Still, it will be okay, they just have to find formula.

He knows they'll need it.

Youssef chooses to know that soon they'll be reunited. He and Aisha will find their boy, Omar Said-- the one who thrives and is fortunate.

*

But Omar was never lifted from his cradle under the bili lights in the Al-Nasr NICU.

He remains there, hooked up to empty tubes and silent monitors. Now the monitors are long dark and so are the bili lights.

No living person ever heard his screams, and besides he does not scream anymore, so it is almost like he never did.

And when the last two people who remember him are finally destroyed, by snipers or by drones or by tanks or by weaponized famine, then it will almost be like little Omar never was.

*

***

***

Authors note:

The details of this story are fiction, the specific characters are imagined. But, their pain is all too possible, as this story is directly inspired by true events and atrocities suffered by actual humans who were victims of the IDF's terrorism against the people of Gaza.

Source:

https://www.nbcnews.com/news/world/abandoned-babies-found-decomposing-gaza-hospital-evacuated-rcna127533

There's not much we can do to resist this kind of violence, but there is a boycott worth reading about:

https://bdsmovement.net/campaigns#2

BDS stands for: Boycott, Divest, and Sanction, and is organized by a coalition of Palestinian activist groups. They present multiple non-violent strategies to resist Israeli imperialism and to pressure corporations which are complicit in Israeli's war-crimes and which profit off the ongoing genocide in Gaza.

Also, I'd like to briefly touch on the awkwardness I feel, writing and editing this on the Fourth of July. For me, as a US citizen, the fourth has always felt hypocritical, from it's inception, on account of our cultural legacy of slavery. Even after slavery was officially abolished, forced labor still thrives on a technicality and under the guise of criminal justice, within our for-profit prison systems.

The moniker "land of the free" has never really held true, because it has never applied to all of us in the US.

Self-emancipated writer and abolitionist Frederick Douglass said it best, "The Fourth of July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice. I must mourn."

So here I am writing about a family hearing the distant thud of explosions and airstrikes, while I'm listening to my neighbors set off their own rockets and backyard fireworks.

And this year the disconnect is even more pronounced because ICE just got a budget boost that gives them considerably more resource than most of the world's militaries.

This feels openly fascist, and it's certainly a big slap in the face to the concept of freedom.

But to me, the most pressing hypocrisy comes from US imperialism. How can we say we're the land of the free, when our taxes are arming war criminals and terrorists? When our corporations are profiting off genocide and child murder?

Until the US can actually mean what they say: fuck the fourth of July.