On Eavesdropping During the “War”

- By Hasheemah Afaneh

Wikimedia Commons/Public Domain

These days—the days of the genocide on Palestinians—I go to coffeeshops. Instead of reading a book, I scroll through my phone and witness in real time the death and destruction of Palestinians and Palestine. My people and my homeland. At times, when I hear the word Palestine, I start to eavesdrop.

After the news of the bombing of al-Ahli Hospital in the Gaza Strip came in, I immediately called off work and went home. Here I was, in a health and academic institution, and there was silence. I wanted to run through the hallways and scream. It was that precise moment, only several weeks into the genocide, that I realized how alone we are as Palestinians.

They’ll think you’ve gone mad, I thought. But aren’t the people who are not moved to any action the ones who are truly mad?

As I walked back home, I stopped by a coffee shop and sat at a table next to three white men. One of them picked up his cellphone and saw the news of the hospital.

“You saw the hospital? They’re wondering who bombed it,” I overheard him say.

WHO bombed it? I wanted to tell them you have no idea what this occupation force is capable of. I wanted to tell them you haven’t lived under military occupation. I wanted to tell them that before October, I thought you didn’t have to live under occupation to understand the brutality of a war machine.

“Do you think a war will erupt in the region with this Palestine stuff going on?” The other one asked.

I resent how America invokes war on its tongue so quickly. It’s almost second nature to this country; a country which I have to remind people that I am a citizen of. It seems my Palestinian-ness has had some people question my American-ness these days. And yet, to be Palestinian means that America is in our lives, that America is in our deaths. How can America tell Israel to investigate the murder of Palestinians, when America has always been its accomplice?

I resent that the word war is uttered so callously. You don’t get to say war. You don’t get to go to war in my homeland. I wanted to say this to them. I wanted to ask those three white men what will they lose in this war?  I wanted to say our people don’t deserve to be killed while you sip on your coffee and pretend your apathy has no role in this. I wanted to say that I resent that the average American is probably only introduced to our homelands in the Middle East when they’re in rubble. My paternal grandfather would become enraged whenever he saw Baghdad on the news. “Don’t you ever let them tell you this is Baghdad!” He shouted at the TV. He lived and worked there for several years in his youth. “What’s Paris in comparison to Baghdad? You don’t know Baghdad like I do. It puts Paris to shame.”

I find my own voice rising when I tell the people around me, “Gaza is not the rubble you see. It is much more, and it will continue to be!”

America does not know that my maternal grandparents tended to their enormous garden across all seasons until the moment they passed away, and how my aunt still takes care of this garden—fruits and flowers: pomegranates and bougainvillea, figs and jasmine, grapefruit and roses.  America does not know we grow fruits and flowers despite the occupation. America does not know that roses are appearing from under the rubble, literally, in Gaza right now. America thinks fruits only come to us as handouts and flowers only when we are laid to rest.

About a month after eavesdropping on this conversation, I attended a vigil hosted by healthcare workers in New Orleans to honor World Children’s Day. During a moment of silence to pay tribute to the children killed in Gaza, a man’s voice emerged from the darkness of the oak trees.

“F*ck Palestine. F*ck Palestine. Palestinians are terrorists!” the voice shouted.

Come out from the darkness and show us your face! I wanted to break the silence and shout back, but instead, I shook my head. I wondered who this man was. Had we crossed paths before? Would he have smiled at me and said, ‘How’s it going?’ - the New Orleans way - if we were in broad daylight, just two strangers walking past each other? I will never know. It was almost ironic how the violence of his shouting shattered such a somber moment, to accuse of terrorism a group of people mourning dead children. How many others would shout from the darkness only to smile to our faces in the open?  It was a metaphor to the ugliest side of America—the America that brokers wars behind closed doors yet smiles to your face as if to say we come in peace.

My name is HASHEEMAH AFANEH, and I am a Palestinian-American writer and public health professional currently based in New Orleans. I have contributed to New Orleans Review, Adi Magazine, Mondoweiss, Sinking City Literary Magazine, 580 Split Magazine, Glass Poetry Poets Resist Series, Poets Reading the News, and others. More can be found at norestrictionsonwords.wordpress.com.