Less Than Perfect

{20} For Palestine, My People

Kanza Hadad 

Tragedies came in all forms. They were the types of irrevocable pain that stayed with us throughout our lives, but massacres stayed with us for generations. I always related a tragedy to personal lives, to woes that only affected myself, however watching my people being slaughtered over and over again, hearing the vivid details from my grandparents and family all lead to the same path. 

It wasn't a tragedy that plagued my people. It was centuries of discrimination, of injustice, of ethnic cleansing that eradicated their existence. They were being killed for defending their homes, for choosing to keep their identities when the world told them to abandon it. 

What was happening was much more than a tragedy. 

As I watched the news roll another clip of innocent civilians bleeding to death on the sides of dirtied roads and fallen glass, my stomach churned uncomfortably and my eyes watered for the grief the Palestinians were enduring. 

Mothers wailed at the loss of their children, souls too pure for this world brutally killed by the missiles they never fathomed. Fathers buried their sons, beards soaked in grief and eyes swollen from the night's smoke. Siblings held onto each other as they waited for their deceased parents. 

Tanwir lowered the volume on the television, the anchor's voice dulled out by the gunshots and missiles from the recording, the pictures of another person's misery. The photos could not capture the heartbreaking pain all Palestinians felt. It didn't amount to the years of abuse we endured, the decades of sacrifices our parents and their parents and those before them made to keep their families safe. 

My own family narrowly escaped when they lost their homes. It was a miracle that my father found work in the United States, that his family was hidden in Jerusalem, a city proclaimed to the Israeli government. Not every Palestinian was as lucky as I was. Not every Palestinian life was valued. 

How could they? How could they hurt so many people, and still think this was a holy war?

"Ethnic cleansing," whispered my husband, brown eyes centered on the screen. "They should call it for what it is instead of skipping around the issue. Someone needs to hold the US accountable for their continuous support."

A weak laugh escaped me as I pulled my knees to my chest, heart clenching at the news. "Isn't it funny how our country made the Palestinians the villains until it was too late, until the massacre escalated to a point where they could not ignore our cries anymore?" My voice was distant, raspy with the emotions that plagued me. 

I didn't know if my family overseas was safe. I didn't know where they were or if they were another body to bury. Ya Allah, let my relatives be safe. Let them survive.

"Any word from your parents?" 

I shook my head as a cloud of dread hung over me. Fear grasped me with talons, digging into my skin till my blood went cold. For all I knew, I was one phone call away from losing my family members, my cousins, my grandparents, my aunts, my uncles. There was no way of knowing anything except from the snippets of news or social media. 

My husband deeply sighed, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the sofa. "All we can do is pray, Kanza." He paused briefly, contemplating his next words as a crease formed across his forehead. "I wish we could do more. I wish we could save them, but we can't. Not like this in our home."

"It's not fair," I whispered, a lone tear escaping. 

His gaze softened. "I know. I can't imagine how hard it is for you, but do understand that I'm here."