Melodies of the Palestinian

story collection

Melodies of the

Palestinian

Dr. Sanaa Shalan

(bint Na,imah)

TRANSLATED BY
Dr. ZERNADJI CHAHIRA

first edition
2024
 Book Title:Melodies of the Palestinian
First Edition:2024

Author:Professor.Sanaa Shalan (bint Na,imah)

Translated by: Dr. ZERNADJI CHAHIRA

Book type:story collection

Number of pages:342

Filing number:(2024/5/2998)

Classification number 813.9

ISBN:978-9957-545-71-0

Descriptors: /Arabic Finction //Arabic Literature/ Translated Literature/

All rights reserved to the author: Professor. Sanaa Shalan (bint Na,imah)
Author’s address:Professor. Sanaa Shalan
Jordan, Amman, Post code: 11942
P.O. Box 1351
Mobile, WhatsApp and Viber: 00962795336609
selenapollo@hotmai.com
Facebook: Sanaa Shalan
Publisher data:TNOOR Cultural Center AL
Al tnoor Kulttuurinkeskus ry
Väinölänkatu 19 B 38
33500 Tampere Finland
Hassan Abbas .Dakhel
altnoor62@gmail.com
Printing press: Al tnoor Kulttuurinkeskus ry Press
Finland - Tampere – 33500
Cover design:Asma Jaradat - Asma Office for Design and Directing
• The author bears the full legal responsibility for the contents of this publication. This
publication does not reflect the views of the National Library Department or any other
government department.
• Theprimary indexing and classification data was prepared by the Department of National
Library.
• All rights reserved to the author Professor. Sanaa Shalan (bint Na,imah) . No Part of this book
may be reprinted, photocopied, translated or entered into a computer or translated into a disk
without the permission of the author.
Melodies of the Palestinian

Index

Story story name page

number

Index 5
Translated By: Dr. Zernadji Chahira 13
Dedication 19
Homeland Melodies:
1- Trees 23
2- Feet 25
3- Hitting the target 27
4- Rape 29
5- Quadruplets 31
6- The Mother 33
7- swing 35
8- Muezzin 36
9- The Holocaust 38
10- the miracle 39
11- Lost 41
12- Dates 42
13- The Wedding Dress 43
14- The gravedigger 46
15- The dwarf 48
16- The Canaanite 50

5
Melodies of the Palestinian

17- Traitor 53
18- Lion's Milk 55
19- Embryo 57
20- Leave 59
21- Compensation 61
22- Day of Judgment 62
23- Infertility 64
24- Church 66
25- Medicine 68
26- Men 70
27- Struggle 71
28- Special case 72
29- His mother's son 73
30- A smile 75
31- Mountains 77
32- Betrayal 79
33- Engagement 81
34- planting 82
35- Alzheimer's disease 83
36- Eid pants 85
37- Stone 86
38- Olive 88
39- Tree 90
40- New baby 91

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Melodies of the Palestinian

41- Deafness 92
42- Fishing 93
43- Leader 95
44- Band aid 97
45- The brothers 98
46- Fatherhood 99
47- Family tree 101
48- Martyr 102
49- Mermaid 104
50- wall 106
51- A Palestinian myth 108
52- virgin 110
53- vote 111
54- Love story 113
55- Two Feet 114
56- Fantasy movie 115
57- Mother’s Day 117
58- Panting 118
59- School 120
60- Face 122
61- Tunnel 123
62- Sleep 124
63- Gift 125
64- Escape 126

7
Melodies of the Palestinian

65- Graveyard 128

66- Coat 130
67- Journalist 132
68- Friend 133
69- The keffiyeh 135
70- The passage 137
71- Honor 138
72- Desert 140
73- Painting gallery 141
74- The House 142
75- One Sentence 143
76- Mosque 144
77- Solidarity 146
78- The veil 147
79- Expected 148
80- Black Sea 150
81- Hobby 151
82- Guardian 152
83- The Palestinian Republic, with a length of 95 km 153
84- A Shadow Dancer's Story 155
85- Eid 158
Captivity Melodies:
86- Hopes 161
87- Baby prisoner 162

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Melodies of the Palestinian

88- Strike 163

89- The poem 165
90- Tears 166
91- The prisoner 167
92- Milk 168
93- Prisoner 170
94- Birthday 172
95- Nudity 175
96- Heart 177
97- Sperm 179
Refugee Camp Melodies:
98- The Path 183
99- Tal Al-Zaatar 184
100- Hanzala 186
101- Picture 188
102- A Farm Chicken 190
103- The last fight 192
104- Ain al-Hilweh camp 196
105- Aisha colors 198
106- Palestinian 200
107- Pride 201
108- Ration Card 203
109- The camp 206
110- Punishment 209

9
Melodies of the Palestinian

111- Luxuries 211

112- Violon 213
113- Nahr Al-Bared 215
Diaspora Melodies:
114- Residency 219
115- The Sea 220
116- The slap 222
117- The Painter 224
118- Fish 226
119- swap 227
120- The White Shoes 229
121- The Employee 231
122- The Son of a Martyr 233
123- Tent 235
124- Flask 236
125- Dementia 237
126- Voice 239
127- The Lucky Boy 240
128- Waiting list 241
129- Messages of Longing 243
130- Flight 244
131- Trains 245
132- Lunch 247
133- Difficult birth 249

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Melodies of the Palestinian

134- Death 251

135- Necklace 252
136- Airport 253
137- A coin - a penny 255
138- Al-Baqja 257
Arabs Melodies:
139- The Monster 261
140- Reinforcement 263
141- Blood 264
142- A New Curriculum 265
143- Zionists 266
144- Honor 268
145- Arabism 270
146- Soldier 272
147- Demonstrations 274
148- Orphan 276
Enemy Melodies:
149- A thief's wife 281
150- Silence 284
151- Arabic Song 286
152- The whip 289
153- Dress 292
154- Thief 295
155- Mercy 296

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Melodies of the Palestinian

156- Deception 298

157- Man 299
158- RPG 301
159- Sharon 304
160- Slave 306
161- Book 308
162- Museum 310
163- Hobby 312
164- Medal of Valor 314
165- myth 315
166- Memory loss 317
167- Aromatic plant 319
168- Student 322
169- Ozone 325
Enemy Melodies:
170- Statue 329
171- The wind and the dogs 351
172- sickle 332
173- Cravings 334
174- Resurrection 335

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Melodies of the Palestinian

TRANSLATED BY: Dr. ZERNADJI CHAHIRA

The short story collection (Melodies of the Palestinian) by

the writer Dr. Sanaa shalan (bint Na,imah) is not just ordinary
musical compositions aren't melodies at all. They are threads,
vibrant and alive, woven into the very essence of the
Palestinian spirit. these melodies breathe with the moment, a
living conversation between musician, emotion, and the
hushed whispers of the audience. This inherent adaptability
is a mirror to the Palestinian experience itself – a constant
dance with change, a relentless pursuit of cultural
preservation amidst a shifting landscape.

(Melodies of the Palestinian) becomes the canvas of the

Palestinian soul. It paints not just the harsh realities of
hardship, but also the unyielding hope that blooms even in
the cracks of struggle. The soulful notes, carried on any
instrument that can hold a melody, speak a language older
than words. It's a language woven from the threads of
generations, a song of resilience, dreams carried on the wind,
and the echoes of a land etched in memory.

Tradition isn't a cage for )Melodies of the Palestinian(; it's

the fertile earth from which they sprout. Musicians find
strength in the rich tapestry of their heritage, drawing
inspiration from the past to birth something entirely new.
This echoes the unwavering spirit of the Palestinian people,

13
Melodies of the Palestinian

who find solace in their ancestry as they forge a path towards

a brighter tomorrow.

The magic of )Melodies of the Palestinian( thrives in the

collective. Just as melodies intertwine in a beautiful
conversation, Palestinian society itself is built on the bedrock
of community and resilience. Their unwavering spirit, a
chorus that has echoed through time, carries them through
hardship.

By attuning ourselves to the art of )Melodies of the

Palestinian(, we gain a deeper appreciation for the Palestinian
experience. It's a testament to their enduring spirit, their
boundless creativity, and their remarkable ability to adapt.
Their song, a powerful echo of resilience, continues to
resonate through the ages, a testament to a people and a land,
forever intertwined.

Sanaa Shalan, a Jordanian writer with deep Palestinian roots,

is more than just an academic. Born in Amman, her family's
story originates in the occupied West Bank village of Beit
Nattif. As the eldest of twelve, her journey began in
Jordanian schools, blossoming into a distinguished academic
career.

Shalan's impressive educational background includes

degrees in Arabic Language and Literature, culminating in a
PhD focused on fear and symbolism in the works of Ahmed
14
Melodies of the Palestinian

Mansour Al-Zoubi. This academic prowess led her to the

faculty of the University of Jordan, where she continues to
share her knowledge with future generations.

While her research delves into modern Arabic literature,

narrative theory, and gender studies, her heart lies in
portraying the strength of Palestinian women. Membership
in both the Jordanian Writers Association and the Palestinian
Writers Union reflects her commitment to her heritage.

Beyond academia, Shalan's true passion lies in fiction. Her

novels have many Awards like the Katara Prize solidify her
position as a leading voice in contemporary Arabic literature.

But Shalan's power lies not in accolades, but in the stories

she tells. Her masterful touch guides readers through the
complexities of occupation, exile, and the unwavering desire
for home.

The translator isn't merely a conduit of words, but a bridge

builder. They stand between cultures, forging connections
across invisible chasms. In their hands, language becomes a
tool for empathy, a way to peek into a world often hidden
from view. It's a pursuit fueled by imagination, a weapon in
the fight for social justice, its impact echoing far beyond the
page.

15
Melodies of the Palestinian

Yet, translation is a labor of love, sweat, and contemplation.

It's a meticulous dance between research and reflection, a
constant effort to construct a bridge strong enough to bear the
weight of two cultures. The goal? To create something
faithful to the original text, yet readily embraced by a new
audience.

The task is daunting. Arabic and English, two languages with

vastly different structures, pose a constant challenge. The
translator must be a creative problem solver, finding
solutions that are both effective and natural.

But there's a nagging doubt. A feeling that something

precious gets lost in translation. An intangible essence, the
soul of the author woven into the very fabric of the words.
Can this essence truly be captured, or is translation inherently
an act of betrayal?

Is the translator a traitor, then, twisting another's work in their

attempt to represent it? Or is it the soul itself that's at stake,
forever intertwined with the original creation?

This is why I, the so-called traitor, don't simply translate. I

strive to build a new text, both a reflection of the original and
a work with its own spirit. My aim is to capture the essence
of the source material while crafting a bridge for the reader,
one that allows them to cross over and understand even if the
origin remains unfamiliar.
16
Melodies of the Palestinian

The verdict lies with the reader. Did I succeed in bridging the
gap? Did I stay true to the original, or did I stray too far? The
translator's soul is a mystery, and the answer, like the act of
translation itself, is never quite black and white.

Dr. ZERNADJI CHAHIRA

17
Melodies of the Palestinian

Dedication

To my Palestinian mother (Na'ima Al-Mashaikh), the eternal

capital of my heart, who taught me the meaning of patience,
resilience, giving, and courage.

19
Melodies of the Palestinian

Homeland Melodies

21
Melodies of the Palestinian

Trees
Covered in lies, the invaders descended on the villages.
Theirs was a symphony of violence: the crackle of gunfire,
the screams of violators, the thunder of displaced lives. The
Zionist gangs that invaded Palestinian villages and used
slaughter, gunpowder, humiliation, violation, rape,
displacement, looting and destruction said: It was the
Palestinian people who attacked their members, killed their
soldiers, and beat the drums of war. They spun a twisted
narrative, portraying themselves as victims. The world, eager
to believe a palatable story, showered them with support.
Only the olive, fig, orange, pomegranate and grape trees
remember the faces of the Zionist gangs creeping through
them, coming from afar, where there is cold, snow, cruelty
and departure. Only the silent trees bear witness to the truth.
Their ancient memory carries the image of these strangers,
their faces etched with the coldness born from distant lands.
They did not come as liberators, but as plunderers, with their
hands stained with blood and theft.
Only the olive trees saw the strange, sinful faces, extending
their hands to kill, plunder, rape, and steal breaths. These
persecuted people have no choice but to open the interior of
their lands with their axes to extract from them the secret of
their immortality: fruitful trees and a pleasant smell. The
oppressed, who were forced to leave their homes, turned to

23
Melodies of the Palestinian

their land to seek solace. With each blow of the axe, they
discovered not only a source of sustenance, but also a defiant
spirit. Fruit trees, fragrant symbols of resilience, whisper
tales of true victims - martyrs etched on their bark, eternal
testimony to a stolen homeland.
The whole world, willingly or unwillingly, applauded the
Zionist murderers and usurpers.so that history would not
forget a crime called Palestine 1 assassination, and the
world’s applause rang hollow, whether hesitant or
enthusiastic. Here history stands, engraved not in passing
statements, but in the enduring strength of the people and the
silent testimony of their land.

1
- Palestine: romanized: Filasṭīn[e]), officially known as the State of Palestine,
Dawlat Filasṭīn), [f] is a country in the Levant region of West Asia. It is
officially recognized as a state by the United Nations and numerous countries.
Palestine shares borders with Jordan to the east, and Egypt to the southwest.
The state comprises the West Bank, including East Jerusalem, and the Gaza
Strip. Population of Palestine exceeds five million people, and covers an area
of 6,020 square kilometres (2,320 sq mi). Jerusalem is its proclaimed capital
and the official language is Arabic. Majority of Palestinians practice Islam,
while Christianity also has a significant presence.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/State_of_Palestine
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Melodies of the Palestinian

Feet
Her feet were martyred in the battle, as were all her family
members. They were gathered around a short wooden table,
waiting for the call to Foutoor 1 , when a Zionist shell
devoured them.. Eid came and she was alone in the hospital.
Her friends at school visited her, accompanied by some of
their teachers. They were all wearing identical leather shoes
provided by a donor from outside Palestine in a large
shipment sent as a gift from his shoe factory.
Her shoe was next to her head.
Her friends felt guilty as they strutted in front of her in their
new shoes, while she was helpless and without feet....
The sun set below the horizon, painting the wing with colors
of sadness and hope. Barefoot angels, their laughter muffled,
surrounded her bed, with every step a silent prayer. Illusory
shoes danced on her feet, a testament to the spirit that refused
to be trapped. Her heart, a cracked mirror reflecting their
love, the leather shoes, once a symbol of charity and
compassion, now as neglected as husks. Instead, the cold
ground hugged their soles. The air was full of unspoken
apologies, and her smile, though tense, held a hint of triumph.
They finally learned the true meaning of walking in someone
else's shoes - not with borrowed soles, but with open hearts.

1
- the evening meal to break the Ramadan fast.
25
Melodies of the Palestinian

On the second day of Eid, the hospital floor shone and turned
into a field of emerald grass. Her phantom feet, led by the
whispers of the wind, danced between the blades, her
laughter echoing in the silent pavilion. The smell of spices
and laughter filled the air, like a ghostly feast where her
family, despite their distance, was present in every beat of
her heart. As the sun went down, casting long shadows, she
realized that love, like a stubborn vine, can flourish even in
the cracks of loss. In the quiet of the amber, a new feast was
born, a feast in which the feast was not about food, but about
a shared grief and a bond forged in the fires of loss.

26
Melodies of the Palestinian

Hitting the target

He doesn't like to play football, but he likes to watch his

cousins play in that small square in the old city hidden behind
the old houses and cellars.
He promised his mother that he would return home before
sunset, but the setting sun suddenly fell on the place without
fear, so he hurried home carrying his promise to his mother
before dark. Relatives and friends encouraged him to finish
the last round of play and determine the winner according to
the final score. He hoped from the bottom of his heart that
the last minutes would pass quickly in order to achieve the
decisive goal. He quickly returns home before his mother
gets angry.
Minutes passed until the enemy decided to enter the match
in the final moments of his rounds. He entered the game
without permission. And hit the ultimate goal. He fired a
deadly missile at the bodies of young players who did not
return home before dark.
He fled, not towards the sanctuary of the homeland, but rather
into the depths of the labyrinthine alleys, and the weight of
false promises clinging to his torn breath. The sunset, which
was a harbinger of homecoming, now paints the city in
nightmarish colors. The boy who hated football escaped from

27
Melodies of the Palestinian

its harsh echo, carrying not a result, but a burden heavier than
any trophy.
This is no longer a story of lost sunsets and parental scolding.
It was a descent into the shadows, a stark canvas where
innocence collided with darkness, and where the rules of the
game were rewritten in the crimson ink of violence.

28
Melodies of the Palestinian

Rape
Dreams in Palestine are forbidden to its people by a
customary Zionist decision, but despite that, by day and by
night, she caresses her dream wedding. The vision of a
flowing, silk white dress whispering against her skin fills her
mind. She imagines her groom, his kind eyes reflecting the
love she craves, his strong arms a promise of forever.
Fragrant lilies, a symbol of new beginnings, adorn the door1
way where she envisions sticking the dough, a tradition of
prosperity. But a deeper yearning tugs at her heart. The image
of the bride entering, cloaked in her grandfather's worn
garment, speaks of a lineage, a connection that transcends
time. It's in this cherished dream that she finds solace,
waiting for the day it becomes her reality.
Her external beauty was faint and did not attract attention,
but the beauty of her soul was a ray of light, and few men
could see the lights within her eyes.

1
- to stick dough and flowers on the door: Sticking dough and flowers on the
door: This ritual, often seen in fairytales or cultural traditions, could symbolize
welcoming good fortune, fertility, and prosperity into the new home. Flowers
might represent beauty and joy, while dough could represent abundance and
nourishment. Grandfather’s cloak: Wearing her grandfather's cloak signifies
the bride's connection to her family history and the protection or blessings
passed down through generations. The cloak might also represent wisdom,
tradition, and a sense of belonging.Marrying a tall, handsome man: This
signifies the bride's desire for a desirable and strong partner. "Tall" might
symbolize status and achievement, "handsome" suggests physical
attractiveness.

29
Melodies of the Palestinian

A fiery protectiveness burned in her heart. When invaders

dared to attack her father on his own land, she wouldn't stand
by. In a flash, a stone met the hand that struck her old man, a
satisfying thud echoing the fury that coursed through her
veins. But her defiance came at a heavy price. Thrown into
the prison, she became a captive, a pawn in a twisted game
of revenge.
Regret was a stranger to her. She'd defend her father a
thousand times over. Yet, a deep ache settled in her gut as she
thought of the gift, a symbol of hope for her future husband,
now callously wasted by the soldiers within these cold,
unforgiving walls. It was their way of breaking her, of
scorching the very essence of who she was. Rape, a vile tool
wielded to extinguish her pride and steal her self-esteem.
Emerging from that prison, she was no longer the same. Her
dreams lay shattered, innocence stolen. But amidst the
wreckage, a flicker of something unexpected arose. Seven
young men, strong and honorable, stood before her. Drawn
to her like moths to a flame, they didn't see a broken woman.
They saw a warrior, her spirit untamed by the horrors she'd
endured. They came not out of pity, but out of respect, a
desire to win back the honor that those prison walls could
never steal. In their eyes, she wasn't a victim, but a testament
to the enduring strength of the human spirit.

30
Melodies of the Palestinian

Quadruplets

They were a meticulously sculpted quartet, four little girls

with faces like fallen angels. Their hair, a cascade of wild
beauty, mirrored the desert rose in bloom. Their eyes, the
color of sunlit meadows, held a depth that echoed the
swirling mystery of a rain-drenched Roman pond.

Identical twins, they were an inseparable unit. Only their

mother, Basila, could tell them apart with a secret code – a
color for each girl, a silent language understood by those
closest to them. Clothing served as their outward expression;
a tapestry woven for the world to see.

Today, however, their resolve was as unwavering as the

desert itself. Their beloved Uncle Ibrahim was marrying after
Eid al-Fitr, and they craved a unified front – a pair of
identical white dresses, a symbol of their unbreakable bond.
Basila, despite her reservations, couldn't deny their fierce
determination.

With a sigh, she conceded. The dresses, embodying their

shared dream, became theirs. They clung to them,
inseparable, a silent vow etched on their faces. Basila,
needing some provisions, left them for a fleeting moment

31
Melodies of the Palestinian

with the kind saleswoman. A quick trip to the market and

she'd be back, reunited for the journey home.

But fate, a cruel twist of destiny, intervened. A missile, a

searing streak of violence, rained down on the unsuspecting
market. The once vibrant dress shop was now a scene of
devastation, a chilling echo of the fleeting nature of joy. The
girls, their white dresses forever marred, were caught within
the inferno.

Basila returned to a scene ripped from a nightmare. Where

the market once teemed with life, there was only scorched
earth. Among the debris, all that remained were remnants of
torn white fabric – a haunting echo of the innocence that had
been. The weight of an unbearable truth settled upon her. The
inseparable quartet, her beloved girls, were gone, their
unique spark extinguished.She began gathering the scattered
flesh to her chest after she was unable to distinguish for the
first time in her life. Between her four daughters.

32
Melodies of the Palestinian

The Mother
They call her Mother Khadra. Not a mother in the traditional
sense, for she hasn't given birth to a single child. Yet, her
heart overflows with maternal love for a multitude. Every
soul held captive within the walls of the prisons becomes her
son, embraced as family the moment they cross the threshold.
Her life story remains a whispered mystery, but of theirs, she
knows every detail. Days are woven from threads of tireless
visits, a comforting presence for those confined and a beacon
of support for families on the outside, bound by a shared
struggle.These "sons" – not by blood, but by circumstance –
are those who answered the call to defend a cause close to
her heart.
She is the mother of all prisoners in Zionist prisons in
occupied Palestine. Every Palestinian or non-Palestinian
prisoner becomes her son as soon as he enters the prison. She
spends all her days in prison visiting her captive sons from
inside Palestine and from abroad.
She is the mother of the Jordanian who left his school and
came to defend Palestine. She is the mother of the Iraqi
prisoner who swore to pray in Al-Aqsa Mosque after its
liberation, with his participation. She is the mother of the
Yemeni prisoner who came to participate in the liberation of
Al-Aqsa. She is the mother of the Algerian prisoner who
swore to struggle to liberate Palestine just as his father and

33
Melodies of the Palestinian

grandfather struggled to liberate their country from the

French colonialists. She is the mother of the Egyptian
prisoner who left his bride and came to Palestine to defend
her because she is the most beautiful bride.
It counts the days remaining until they are released from their
prisons, and follows up with lawyers and private institutions
to follow up on prisoners’ cases. It also sends letters to their
families and writes false letters to them if they do not receive
a response for some reason from their families outside
Palestine.
She is the mother of all prisoners. She deals with the
merchants in the market and refuses to bargain on the prices
of her goods of vegetables and fruits.

34
Melodies of the Palestinian

swing
The wind whispered secrets through the skeletal branches of
the dead trees that surrounded the Zion Girl's village, her
laugh, a joyful and terrifying melody at the same time,
echoing in the wind as she pumped her legs, pushing herself
higher and higher on the forbidden swing. It wasn't just any
swing, though. It was carved from a crimson wood that
seemed to bleed in the dying sunlight, and it pulsated with an
unnatural rhythm, reflecting the frantic beating of the girl's
heart. This red-skinned Zionist girl spent most of her time
playing on the swing, which was the Palestinian girl's dream,
and perhaps She needed a companion like her to share her
fun and games and the dangerous secrets of her childhood, as
she thought. One night, under a sky choked with a million
watchful eyes, the girl slipped through a gap in the barbed
wire, leaving behind her a trail of shimmering crimson
feathers, like a bleak promise. She ran to the swing, its shape
strange against the dying sun. The wind howled, carrying a
chorus of guttural whispers. The shadows lengthened,
turning into monstrous shapes that penetrated the edges of
the vision. But she doesn't reach it. Zionist settlers chase her
with axes, knives and daggers.
They cut her into pieces and burned her with a burning fire
as punishment because she was an innocent Palestinian girl
who dreamed of playing on the swing of a cursed, red-
skinned Zionist girl.

35
Melodies of the Palestinian

Muezzin1

His old age, illness and poor eyesight did not prevent him
from going to the mosque to call the call to prayer five times
a day and during forty years everyone in the city of Hebron2
memorized the call to prayer with his voice

1
- The muezzin is the person who proclaims the call to the daily prayer (ṣalāt)
five times a day (Fajr prayer, Zuhr prayer, Asr prayer, Maghrib prayer and Isha
prayer) at a mosque from the minaret. The muezzin plays an important role in
ensuring an accurate prayer schedule for the Muslim community. The English
word muezzin isborrowed from, muʾadh·dhin [mu.ʔað.ðin],
simplified mu'azzin, the active participle of Arabic: "to call". Thus, it means
"the calling one". The professional muezzin is chosen for his good character,
voice and skills to serve at the mosque. Muezzins are typically men. The
muezzin is not considered a cleric, but in a position comparable to
a Christian verger. He is responsible for keeping the mosque clean, for rolling
the carpets, for cleaning the toilets and the place where people wash their hands,
face and feet when they perform the Wuḍu' (Arabic: wuḍū’ the "purification"
of ablution) before offering the prayer. When calling to prayer, the muezzin
faces the qiblah, the direction of the Ka'bah in Makkah, while reciting
the adhan.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muezzin

2
- The City of Hebron:is a Palestinian city located in the southern West Bank,
about 30 kilometers south of Jerusalem. It's nestled in the Judaean Mountains,
sitting at an elevation of 930 meters above sea level. Hebron is considered one
of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world, with a rich history
dating back over 4,000 years. Hebron is significant for its religious importance
to Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. The city is home to the Cave of the
Patriarchs, which is believed to be the burial site of important biblical figures
such as Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and their wives. Due to this religious
significance, Hebron is considered the second holiest city in Judaism after
Jerusalem and one of the holiest cities in Islam.Hebron is the largest city in the
West Bank by population, with over 215,000 residents. The city has a complex
36
Melodies of the Palestinian

A Zionist soldier ordered him to go back to his house and not

to raise the call to prayer because of the curfew that is
imposed on the city at all times, but he refused to miss the
call to prayer. A tense silence stretched between them. The
frail figure of the old man stood defiant; his voice raspy but
firm. "No," he declared, his words echoing in the empty
street. "The call to prayer is for all to hear, a beacon in the
darkness. I will not let fear extinguish its light, not even at
the cost of my life!"

A Zionist bullet killed him on the courtyard of the old city, a

few steps away from the door of the mosque. The Zionist
soldiers recklessly dragged him into an armored track, in a
precautionary measure of unknown duration, but his soul was
determined to raise the call to prayer on time. The voice of
the muezzin in the sky of Hebron, bidding farewell to his
body, which he left far away.

The muezzin, lay crumpled on the cobblestones, the crimson

stain blossoming on his chest a stark contrast to his white
robe. But a tremor shook the earth, and a gasp escaped the
soldiers who had just silenced him. A spectral voice, ancient
and strong, echoed from the minaret -his voice, yet somehow
grander, imbued with an otherworldly power.

and divided political landscape. A portion of the city is under full Israeli control,
while the remainder is administered by the Palestinian Authority. This division
has led to ongoing tensions and friction between the Israeli and Palestinian
communities in Hebron.

37
Melodies of the Palestinian

The Holocaust

He watched them all attack the old Palestinian farmer, his

wife, and his little granddaughter, separating them north of
the barbed wire that separates the destroyed area from the old
Palestinian field, and tearing them apart with axes. At the
same time, he stopped his hand while responding to the blows
of his little granddaughter, who was clinging to her
grandmother’s lap, while the axes of the Zionist invaders
were combing her flesh from behind.

He saw them doing it in cold blood, gladly, and for no reason

other than to enjoy torturing defenseless people.

Terror choked him. Helpless, he witnessed the brutal attack

on the Palestinian family. Their screams echoed in his ears, a
horrifying counterpoint to the chilling joy on the faces of the
attackers. It was a monstrous scene, far removed from the
stories his parents told him. His mother approached him and
patted his shoulder with her hand stained with the blood of
innocent people. Then she carried him in her arms. We Jews
are weak and we have to defend ourselves

His father added: “It's like someone reading a forged book.”

They killed us there. Yes, in the Holocaust in Germany, they
killed us all. We must take revenge on the whole world for
this.”

The child was silent and continued to stare at the faces of his
brutal parents, and he secretly prayed to God to send his
parents to hell, no matter what the Holocaust.
38
Melodies of the Palestinian

the miracle

Over the course of forty sunrises, bombs rained down, each

explosion a harsh indictment of a world that had turned its
back. He saw death as a predator stripped of its mask, but
people met his gaze with defiance. He had learned then that
death, with all its power, was a coward, a face-stealer, and
nothing more.
In the war-torn wasteland, where hopes were bombed into
oblivion, he never believed in miracles, because he saw death
separating the faces of innocent people and grazing in the
burning land of revolution and struggle against the Zionist
entity.
He comes from Sweden to fight death and pain in this
hospital, which has become crowded and doomed to be like
an abandoned station haunted by evil spirits. However, in this
besieged hospital, the symphony of life defied the
apocalyptic tune.
The bellies of all Palestinian women, whether they are young
or in their mid-teens, even unmarried women, have never
been touched by a man, or cannot have children. Filled with
quadruplets, five, or sextuplets, the wombs moved with
screaming, violent movements with the declared fetuses
growing at an unnatural speed, and almost all the fetuses
leaving the womb to become babies, slipping into the sticky
world to continue the path of struggle.
39
Melodies of the Palestinian

He believes that the time of miracles is over, but now he

believes that the Palestinian woman’s womb is a miracle
capable of reviving life. Disbelief stuck to him like splinter,
jagged and heavy. He saw the feast of death on the faces of
innocent people, and their laughter suffocated by the smoke
of the revolution.
He decides to ignore the bombing and the wounded that rain
down on him from all sides, until he gets enough rest and
begins to receive these children who come to this world.

40
Melodies of the Palestinian

Lost

Decades have bled into one another, thirty long years since
the enemy's fury ripped through her village in - Tulkarm1.
Looting, screams, the metallic tang of blood – the chaos
swallowed her youngest son whole.

Ever since, her life has been a relentless pursuit. Shelters,

hospitals, prisons, graveyards – hollow echoes of her son's
name. She scoured the faces of his companions, searching for
a flicker of him hidden beneath the trauma. But her quest
yielded only dust and despair.

Seven sons she offered as martyrs, each a valiant shield

against the unrelenting foe. Yet, her heart ached for the
eighth. Not for a reunion, but to fulfill a mother's twisted
vow. All her sons, pledged to the defense of Palestine. And a
vow, once spoken, is sacred, even if the offering is carved
from a heart already shattered.

This is not a story of a broken woman, but of a woman

unbroken. Her fire may be fueled by grief, but it burns with
the unwavering purpose of a mother, a warrior, a keeper of a
promise etched in blood.

1
- Tulkarm or Tulkarem is a Palestinian city in the West Bank, the capital of
the Tulkarm Governorate of the State of Palestine., the Palestinian cities
of Nablus and Jenin to the east. According to the Palestinian Central Bureau of
Statistics, in 2017 Tulkarm had a population of 64,532 Tulkarm is under the
administration of the Palestinian National Authority.
41
Melodies of the Palestinian

Dates

His grandmother recounts her years of calamities and

misfortunes whenever he, his brothers, and his cousins want
to joke with her and take her out of the Sufi devotional
atmosphere she has been living in for years since the
martyrdom of her middle son at the hands of the Zionists.

They choose the birth of their last granddaughter and ask

her: When was that? By staring at their faces, she cannot find
a pale event associated with this birth. She was silent for a
while, then smiled at them with sadness and resentment, and
said: “I remember when my children were martyred, and you
must remember when your children were born.”

42
Melodies of the Palestinian

The Wedding Dress

The once-pristine wedding dress lies crumpled on her bed, a

testament to a promise long deferred. Years have leeched the
vibrant white to a dull echo, the fabric worn thin from
countless nights spent draped across the bed or folded in the
belly of her old leather suitcase – a worn companion that now
sleeps atop her closet.

Dust, the enemy in all its subtlety, had necessitated multiple

cleanings. Each wash a bittersweet ritual, the water swirling
with the remnants of faded joy that clung to the silk. When
she donned the dress, the worn silk whispering against her
aging skin, she'd catch her reflection in the cracked-cornered
mirror. A ghost of a smile would play on her lips as she
murmured a promise – a happy day, soon.

Memories flickered – joyful parades before friends and

family, the dress a beacon of hope in a life now shrouded in
sorrow. Each pirouette, each fleeting moment of imagined
happiness, etched a deeper line on the face reflected back at
her. The lines weren't just from age, but from the weight of
unfulfilled dreams, the echo of a promise clinging to a
tattered gown.

For many months, her wedding dress has been waiting, and
no relief is coming near her or it, so that it can fly to her

43
Melodies of the Palestinian

husband-in-waiting after crossing The Rafah Border

Crossing1 to the nearest airport in Alexandria or Cairo, to
board the first plane to Dubai, where her husband lives and
works, and where she met him for the first-time years ago,
when she was visiting her sister who has been living there
with her husband and children for twenty years.

Her husband needed many months to be able to send his

family from Hebron to the Beach refugee camp in Gaza to
propose to her, and then to entrust his father with a legal
power of attorney to complete the marriage procedures with
her.

Since that moment, she has been waiting for the Rafah
crossing to open so that she can join her husband, but the
crossing has been permanently closed for a long time, and
she failed to cross her desired destination, and she returned
home defeated and sad, listening with shyness and
suppressing the crying of her wedding dress, which has been
dreaming for a long time to fly to the arms of the man she
married with a stay of execution, pending the fate of a prison
crossing that does not even open its doors to a sad wedding

1
- The Rafah Border Crossing , romanized: Ma`bar Rafaḥ) or Rafah
Crossing Point is the sole crossing point between Egypt and Palestine's Gaza
Strip. It is located on the Egypt–Palestine border. Under a 2007 agreement
between Egypt and Israel, Egypt controls the crossing but imports through the
Rafah crossing require Israeli approval.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rafah_Border_Crossing
44
Melodies of the Palestinian

dress. The wedding dress lay crumpled on the bed, its once
pristine white now tinged with the dust of yearning. Each
crease held a whispered promise, each stain a memory of
joyous tears and hopeful anticipation. The old leather
suitcase, perched atop the closet like a weathered sentinel,
housed her trousseau, each silken garment humming with
dreams deferred.

45
Melodies of the Palestinian

The gravedigger1

He walked with a swagger, his head held high, the nickname

a badge of honor etched on his brow" He reveled in the
hushed awe it elicited, a name whispered with both fear and
grudging respect. His father, a specter in his memories, was
a legend, an engineer whose brilliance birthed nightmares for
their enemy. He is proud of his father, whom the Zionist
enemy -calls "the gravedigger."

He wasn't just any engineer; his father sculpted symphonies

of destruction, each circuit board a verse in a macabre poem.
His tools weren't screwdrivers and soldering irons, but
whispers of sand and the cold caress of moonlight on steel.
He spun webs of detonation, his creations luring the enemy
into pits that yawned open like hungry mouths, swallowing
them whole in a chorus of earth and fire.

He is an engineer specializing in telecommunications. He

could have been one of the most important scientists in the
world in this field if he had been given a fair chance and had

1
- A person whose job is to dig graves: This is the most literal meaning of the
term. Gravediggers are typically employed by cemeteries or funeral homes.
Their job is to prepare graves for burials, ensuring they are the correct size and
depth and in the designated location. A metaphor for death: The gravedigger
can also be seen as a metaphor for death itself. In this sense, the gravedigger
represents the inevitability of death and the finality of life
46
Melodies of the Palestinian

not been a prisoner of a continuous struggle against his

Zionist enemy.

His father designs the most important systems for remotely

detonating bombs. He lost his legs in one of the enemy's raids
on his headquarters. He miraculously escaped death. From
that day on, he devoted himself to burying the Jews. He
makes traps for them that turn the earth into hell under their
feet and bury them in their places.

He insists that his friends call him "the son of the

gravedigger," proud of his father. And whenever he hears
them glorify him with this title, he remembers how much he
misses seeing his father, whom he has not seen for more than
a year. He is busy digging graves for Zionist soldiers..

47
Melodies of the Palestinian

The dwarf1

Salah, a man sculpted in miniature, earned his nickname "The

Dwarf." Yet, his stature belied a spirit that soared with eagles.
Scornful glances and the indifference of beauties held no
sway over him. Freedom for Palestine, that was his burning
desire, and a glorious martyr's death, his ultimate purpose.

But fate, a fickle mistress, dealt him an early hand.

Martyrdom, ever eager, knocked on the oaken door of his
soul one night during a daring commando raid. Abu al-Nur,
their steadfast leader, guided their steps towards the enemy's
most guarded secrets. A hidden landmine, a silent predator,

1
- The word "dwarf": can have several meanings, depending on the context:A
person of unusually small stature: This is the most common meaning of
"dwarf." In medical terms, dwarfism is defined as an adult height below 4'10"
(147 cm). There are many different medical conditions that can cause dwarfism,
and it's important to remember that people with dwarfism are individuals with
their own unique experiences and preferences. A plant or animal that is
atypically small: This meaning is similar to the first, but it refers to non-human
organisms. For example, there are many dwarf plant varieties that are bred for
their compact size. *A legendary creature: In folklore and mythology, dwarfs
are often depicted as small, magical beings who live underground or in hidden
places. They are sometimes portrayed as skilled craftsmen and miners, and they
may also be associated with treasure or trickery. *A star: In astronomy, a dwarf
star is a star that is much smaller and less luminous than the Sun. Examples
include red dwarfs and white dwarfs* To make something appear small: This
meaning is less common, but it can be used figuratively to describe something
that is overshadowed or insignificant compared to something else.

48
Melodies of the Palestinian

lay in wait. Its hungry breath stole Salah's legs in a single,

brutal strike.

His comrades, hearts heavy with despair, offered their backs

to carry him to safety. But Salah, ever the strategist, saw the
burden he'd become. One less warrior meant one more life
spared. His voice, hoarse with urgency, demanded they leave
him. Hesitation flickered in their eyes, a silent plea. With a
tremor in his own voice, he threatened to become their enemy
if they didn't flee the approaching snarl of enemy hounds.

Tear-filled eyes and leaden hearts obeyed. Salah, a lone

sentinel, held the pursuing darkness at bay with the staccato
song of his gunfire. The last bullet sighed from his weapon
as the enemy's hail of lead found its mark.

Months passed, his body a prisoner in foreign soil. Finally

released, riddled with bullet wounds and marred, he returned
home. A small, broken trunk, a testament to his sacrifice, was
all that remained. His feet, stolen, but his spirit,
unconquerable.

His comrades, bound by the invisible threads of brotherhood,

refused to let his final resting place mirror his physical form.
He deserved a grave that echoed the immensity of his soul, a
monument to his towering spirit. And so, they laid him to
rest, a small man in a giant's embrace.

49
Melodies of the Palestinian

The Canaanite1
His enemies prevented him from practicing the greatest joy
in life, which was teaching Palestinian history to his people.
They destroyed the school, which was his temple of pleasure,
and dispersed his students after they killed his student - Saad
- who called himself the Canaanite, proud of his origins, and
called his enemies mutants 2 . The once vibrant school, his
haven, lay in smoldering ruins, a testament to the barbarity

1
- Canaanite meaning can refer to a few different things, depending on the context:1.
The Canaanite people: If you're referring to the Canaanites themselves, they were an
ancient Semitic people who inhabited the land of Canaan, roughly corresponding to
modern-day , Palestine, Lebanon, and parts of Syria, from around 3000 BC to 1200 BC.
They were known for their maritime trade, advanced metalworking, and polytheistic
religion.2. The Canaanite language: The term "Canaanite" can also refer to the extinct
language spoken by these people. It belonged to the Northwest Semitic branch of the
Afroasiatic language family, closely related to Hebrew, Phoenician, and Aramaic.3.
Canaanite religion: The religious beliefs and practices of the Canaanites are another
aspect of their "meaning." They worshipped a pantheon of gods and goddesses
associated with nature and fertility, with Baal being the chief deity. Their religious
practices included temple rituals, animal sacrifices, and fertility rites.4. Figurative or
symbolic meaning: In some contexts, "Canaanite" can be used more figuratively or
symbolically. For example, it might be used to describe someone who is associated with
materialism, hedonism, or idolatry.
2
- mutants: the issue of God transforming some nations due to their injustice is
a complex topic that has been discussed by scholars and theologians for
centuries. There is no single definitive answer in Islam, but there are many
different interpretations based on the Holy Quran and the Sunnah of the
Prophet. One interpretation is that God's transformation of some nations is a
divine punishment for their injustice and corruption. God is Just and Merciful,
and He does not wrong anyone, but He sends down punishment on the unjust
to deter them and show His power and greatness. The Holy Quran mentions
examples of previous nations that were transformed due to their injustice, such
as the people of Noah, who were transformed into monkeys, and the people of
Aad, who were transformed into birds. Another interpretation is that God's
transformation of some nations is a warning to other nations from falling into
the same sin.

50
Melodies of the Palestinian

of his foes. They had silenced not just the echoes of laughter,
but the very whispers of the past he so cherished.
Saad, his brightest star, was extinguished. The young man,
brimming with pride in his heritage, had dared to call them
"mutants," a defiant spark in a world choked by ignorance.
Now, scattered like dust in the wind were his students, each
one a repository of knowledge the scholar had painstakingly
nurtured.
He was a warrior without a sword, his weapon the tapestry of
time. Yet, despair would not claim him. The legacy he
carried, the stories entrusted to his care, burned brighter than
the flames that consumed his temple. He would become the
living archive, the voice of history refusing to be silenced.
His enemies might have stolen his classroom, but they could
never extinguish the fire of knowledge that burned within
him.
He decided to take revenge for his martyred students. The
scholar, his eyes burning with the fires of vengeance, had
become a student of war. Gone was the teacher, replaced by
a strategist who poured over maps and whispered tactics with
a band of resistance fighters. Their target: the very heart of
the mutant camp, a pyre to consume the legacy of those who
had stolen his.
The plan was a tangled serpent, fraught with peril.
Fortifications bristled with defenses, patrolled by watchful
eyes. Yet, the scholar, fueled by the memory of his fallen
students, particularly the radiant face of Saad, the Canaanite
boy who had called them "mutants" with such defiant pride,

51
Melodies of the Palestinian

toiled night and day. He studied their routines, their

weaknesses, becoming a phantom in the shadows until...
victory, like a thief in the night, was within reach.
From his hidden vantage point, a pang of sorrow twisted
through him. None of these faces held the warmth of a
Canaanite sun, the same sun that had kissed Saad's skin. Still,
with a deep breath that tasted of ash and grief, he ignited the
flames. The camp roared in protest, a funeral pyre for his
stolen joy. As the fire cleansed, a strange sense of peace, a
Canaanite sense of purification, washed over him. In the
dying embers, he could almost see Saad, a ghost of a smile
playing on his lips. The scholar raised a hand, his voice raw
with emotion, and uttered an ancient incantation, the
forgotten words of Canaan. May the flames, he roared, expel
every trespasser, every mutant, who dared defile his land, his
people! The wind seemed to carry his words, a defiant prayer
for a future bathed in the golden light of his heritage.

52
Melodies of the Palestinian

Traitor

He doesn't know why his commander in the Zionist army is

pushing him to confront the angry Palestinian landowners
who are protesting the confiscation of their land by their
cursed entity. His commander tells him that because of his
Arab origins, he is able to understand them better, but he
knows deep down that they are sending him to them because
they don't care if the angry landowners kill him as long as he
is one of them and of their skin, even if he has shed his roots
and stripped himself of his origin. Why, he thought, did his
commander insist on throwing him into this viper's nest? The
air crackled with the anger of the assembled landowners;
their faces contorted in fury over the land seizure his "entity"
had orchestrated.

His commander, a man whose gaze never seemed to settle on

anything for long, offered a placating smile. "You're one of
them, aren't you? Blood tells. You'll understand their…
frustrations better than any of us."

But he understood all too well. He understood the sting of

betrayal, the simmering resentment of a people dispossessed.
He also understood the cold calculation in his commander's
eyes. They were sending the Arab to face the Arabs, an
expendable shield – someone whose death, if it came to that,
wouldn't ruffle a single feather within the entity's sterile halls.

53
Melodies of the Palestinian

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. He, who had meticulously

shed his origins, who had traded the warmth of his heritage
for the sterile efficiency of the entity, was now deemed "one
of them" simply for the color of his skin.They didn't care that
he'd uprooted himself, that his loyalty lay solely with the
entity's goals. He was a convenient pawn, someone they
could sacrifice without a qualm. Fear choked his voice.
Arabic, the language of his dreams, felt foreign on his tongue.
A stinging blow to the head, a rock launched from the angry
throng, spurred him to flee. The earth beneath his feet seemed
to tremble, rejecting his hesitant steps. He was an outsider,
cast adrift, no longer belonging anywhere.

54
Melodies of the Palestinian

Lion's Milk1
When the call to defend his land echoed through the village,
he wasn't afraid. Fear couldn't find purchase in a heart
nurtured by a pride of lionesses. He stood tall, his gaze
resolute, the moonlight milk shimmering on his calloused
palm. This wasn't just milk, it was an elixir of bravery, each
sip carrying the whispers of countless tales woven by
firelight, each drop imbued with the unwavering spirit of
generations.
When he ascended the jagged peak, eyes scanning the
horizon, he didn't see soldiers, he saw birds. Not just any
birds, but crows, their dark shapes blotting the sky, carrying
the stench of greed and oppression. He was not just a man,
he was a falcon, soaring high on the wings of his mothers'

1
- Lion's Milk: The phrase is a metaphor for courage, suggesting that the brave
person has been nursed by a strong and courageous lioness, rather than a weak
and feeble human woman. It implies that the brave person's strength and
courage stem from being raised in a challenging and demanding environment,
similar to how a lioness's cubs are nurtured to be strong and fearless hunters.
This metaphor highlights the notion that courage is not an inherent trait but
rather a quality that can be cultivated and nurtured. By associating courage with
the lioness, a symbol of strength, ferocity, and resilience, the phrase suggests
that courage can be developed through exposure to challenging situations and
by learning from strong role models.
The phrase also carries connotations of resilience, perseverance, and
unwavering determination. Just as a lioness must be strong and determined to
protect her cubs, so too must the courageous person be unwavering in their
pursuit of their goals and in facing adversity.

55
Melodies of the Palestinian

love, his keen eyes guided by the moonlight in his veins. His
dive was swift, silent, deadly. Each strike wasn't just a blow,
it was an ode to the women who raised him, their love
echoing in the wind, whispering tales of freedom in the ears
of the fallen crows. The enemies hung a picture of him on the
facades of the city, and wrote the following words on it to
intimidate him and destroy his morale: “This terrorist is
wanted by the authorities and will be killed soon.”
The next day, a new photo emerged of him holding an RPG.
He had pasted it over yesterday's photo and written on it, in
contempt and provocation of his enemy: "This freedom
fighter will kill the entire enemy army and they are all wanted
by him."

56
Melodies of the Palestinian

Embryo
The world turned silent. No longer the familiar rhythm of his
mother's heartbeat, the comforting rumble of her voice.
Instead, a cold, sharp sensation tore through the darkness. He
knew nothing of blades or brutality, only the sudden, jarring
expulsion. The little fetus that slipped from its mother's
womb did not know why a sharp knife pierced its transparent
silver cover .
He landed with a muffled thump. Not the soft cradle of his
mother's womb, but a harsh, unforgiving earth. An instinct,
primal and pure, urged him to cry out, but no sound emerged.
His vision, hazy and unfocused, caught a glimpse of crimson
staining the once familiar warmth.The hand of a midwife,
relative, or woman to take care of him did not reach him until
he fell on his head for no reason. He fell on his face,
prostrating as if kissing the ground. His mother was dying,
gasping quickly, after a brutal Zionist soldier cut off her right
breast with a new blow from his brutal knife, then opened her
stomach to remove her fetus from it.
His mother. A gasp, a shudder, a slow fading of the only
comfort he'd ever known. A sense of wrongness, a coldness
that seeped in, replacing the lifeblood that was draining
away. No one cared about his dead, bleeding mother until she
was extinguished. His forehead remained touching the
ground, and his small, soft, bare neck challenged the face of

57
Melodies of the Palestinian

his mother’s killer, as he stood enjoying watching her

struggle and the struggle of her fetus as it emerged from her
womb.
Rough hands, not gentle and reassuring, snatched away the
last vestiges of his sanctuary. He felt himself being lifted, a
fleeting sense of hope, then a sickening thud as he was
carelessly tossed aside. He was trampled by the feet of the
soldiers of the Zionist gang, and his last time in the world, he
saw the people of his village in the distance disappearing
behind the horizon, pursued by the remnants of the brutal
raiders, and the bloody sunset embraced the grief of his
father, who had become mad due to the horrific scene of the
murder. He kept repeating: “They killed my wife and opened
her stomach.”
He lay there, a fragile, unwanted thing, his tiny body a
testament to the barbarity that had unfolded. In the distance,
figures fled, silhouettes against the blood-red sky. His father,
a broken shell of a man, his cries echoing across the ravaged
landscape.
The fetus tries to press his lips together to ask for help from
his father, who is chasing the sunset, fleeing into the distance,
but death is urgent, extricating him from the suffocation of
his grief and pain, and relieving him the next hell called
expulsion from his homeland.

58
Melodies of the Palestinian

Leave

In 1948, when the world shifted under their feet, the old man
planted his heart like a stubborn olive tree in his homeland.
"Here I will grow old, here I will die," he declared, his voice
seasoned with resolve. His wife, a woman woven from
moonlight and the scent of thyme, echoed his vow, "And I
will wither beside you, like a vine clinging to its ancient oak."
Their words were met with laughter, then whispers, then
silence as the storm brewed on the horizon. The year 1967
arrived, a cruel wind tearing at their roots. Uprooted, they
were forced to walk the path of exile, leaving behind
everything but the stories etched in their souls.
The old couple, their bodies frail but their spirits unyielding,
refused to be carried. "Leave us!" the grandfather boomed,
his voice cracking like dry earth. "Let us nourish the soil with
our bones!" But their pleas were lost in the desperate
scramble for survival.
As they neared the border, a strange hush fell. The old man's
eyes, usually sparkling with defiance, grew dim. His wife,
her usual hum replaced by a chilling silence, leaned against
him, her hand turning as cold as the desert dawn. When they
were mere steps from the line, a single olive leaf, shimmering
with an unearthly light, drifted down and settled on the old
woman's chest. A gasp escaped her lips, followed by a sigh
59
Melodies of the Palestinian

that mingled with the rustling leaves of their beloved olive

grove.
In that moment, a wave of understanding washed over their
children and grandchildren. Their hearts, heavy with grief,
understood – the grandparents had chosen their resting place.
Without a word, they turned back, carrying not just the
bodies, but the weight of an unfulfilled promise. As they
crossed the border, the olive leaf fluttered from the woman's
chest, transforming into a flock of doves that soared towards
their homeland. It was a silent vow, a promise whispered on
the wind – they would return, and the land would remember.

60
Melodies of the Palestinian

Compensation

He heard a legend called compensation to the people of Gaza

for the destruction that befell them. He did not count his
financial losses, he did not worry about the large wound in
his thigh, and he did not inspect the rubble of his home and
the homes of his brothers to count the furniture that had been
destroyed or the building that had been leveled to the ground.
Rather, he hurried to the sea of Gaza, which he loves. He
spent a whole week making statues from sea sand in the form
of lost family members
On the morning of the eighth day, he completed making a
group of his sand statues, which embody those he lost from
his family
He reverently kissed his statues and cried out with remorse.
Come compensate me for the loss of them all. Come and
bring them back to life. This is my only compensation for
their loss.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Day of Judgment
He stands contemplating the Zionist colony that was just
established on the remains of his land after it was all
confiscated. The old man gripped his gnarled walking stick,
the polished wood a stark contrast to the raw, red earth
beneath his feet. It wasn't a walking stick, not anymore. It
was a piece of his past, a fallen branch from one of the ancient
trees that had once graced his land. Now, a metallic city
sprawled where his village had been, a monument to
conquest built on the bones of his memories.
Tall, sterile buildings marched across his view, each a stark
reminder of what had been ripped away. Here and there,
crude chimneys exhaled plumes of black smoke, a constant
insult to the clear blue sky he'd known all his life. Cement
walls, painted a sickly yellow, held within them the bodies of
his enemies, literally mortared into the foundations of their
victory.
His granddaughter, a small spark of defiance in a world
turned cold, tugged at his sleeve. "Grandfather," she
whispered, her voice barely a tremor, "There are so many of
them."
He glanced down at her, eyes filled with a lifetime of sorrow.
"Aye, child," he rasped, his voice rough with unspoken pain.
"Let them come. Let them build their towers and monuments.
This land," he swept a bony arm across the desecrated

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landscape, "This land holds a memory. A memory of

resilience, of defiance. In their haste, they've built their own
prison. Here, amongst the bones of the past, they'll crowd
their way to a hell they themself have built."

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Infertility1
He is not the man who was actually born from her dreams,
but rather he is the knight masked in the Palestinian keffiyeh
who does not accept the Zionist bastard’s rule over him and
his people, and that is why she married him.
Their marriage was not born of dreams, but of forged steel
and shared ideals. She longed for children, not for family
bliss, but to continue his struggle. Every month, hope blooms
as fragile as the moon, then withers under the harsh whispers
of doctors. Infertility, a cruel curse, painted dreams barren.
But a woman woven of moonlight and rebellion, she refused
to give up. Every sunrise, she drank the moon dew from an
enchanted cup, hoping it would imbue her womb with the
magic of resistance. The nightingale sang ancient traditions,
whispering about a hidden spring guarded by mythical
creatures. She embarked on a dangerous journey, her soul a
whirlwind of determination.
She proposed to one of her relatives, to be his second wife
who would give him what she was unable to do. She pressed
the fires of her jealousy to her chest to contain them silently
and secretly, and began to wait for the birth of the little

1
- Infertility: is the inability of a person to get pregnant after one year of trying
to conceive.
Cervical mucus problems: Thick or hostile cervical mucus can make it difficult
for sperm to reach the egg.

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revolutionaries, even if they were from another woman. Her

tears were sharp like daggers of moonlight, threatening to
spill, but she swallowed them down, her pride an iron shield.
She realized that this woman was not a competitor, but an
echo of her longing. They banded together, united not by
jealousy, but by a shared love for the Masked Knight and
their country.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Church
The scent of warm spices and anticipation wafted from
homes as men, their prayer rugs folded under their arms, they
were on their way back to their homes after finishing Friday
prayers at Al-Aqsa Mosque.
They knew that their family was waiting for them to have
lunch with them, a ritual of family gatherings on Friday
lunch.
But a storm brewed on the horizon, unseen, soldiers, their
faces twisted with hate, turned the men's path towards the
looming silhouette ofthe Church of the Holy Sepulchre,
which opened its doors, to hide in it.
It is a Palestinian church whose heart is half Christian and the
other half Muslim, this church was no stranger to duality, its
stained-glass windows whispered stories of both the cross
and the crescent moon. Here, faith wasn't a dividing line, but
a shared thread. The doors creaked open, a beacon of refuge
in the sudden darkness.
The priest, a man of unwavering resolve, stood guard,
shielding those who sought sanctuary within, he was
determined to protect the Muslims who sought refuge in the
Lord there, but the Zionist bullets determined to assassinate
them all, these bullets, blind to faith, tore through the
sanctuary. They cut down those kneeling, those standing,
those united in fear. Blood, the same crimson tide regardless
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of belief, pooled on the hallowed floor. In that terrible

moment, the church, a testament to a shared humanity,
became a tomb where Muslim and Christian became one.
The Zionist soldiers shot everyone who sat or was in the
church. Palestinian blood remained united the moment it was
shed on the ground, one Palestinian blood in a church that
embraces a Muslim and a Christian.
The Zionist soldiers left, the Palestinian martyrs were carried
away, and the church remained open to its visitors.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Medicine
In the city of Jenin 1 choked by silence, where shadows
stretched long under the curfew moon, lived a boy. Though
only five, he carried the weight of the siege upon his small
shoulders. His mother, her heart a flickering candle in the
wind, needed medicine, a lifeline against the encroaching
darkness.
Hunger gnawed at the city, but fear was its sharpest tooth.
Zionist Soldiers patrolled the streets, their rifles spitting
flames at any who dared defy the iron curtain of night. Yet,

1
-Jenin: is a Palestinian city located in the northern West Bank, about 40
kilometers (25 miles) west of Nablus. It is the administrative center of the Jenin
Governorate and has a population of approximately 40,000 people Jenin is a
historically significant city, dating back to the Canaanite period. It has been
ruled by various empires throughout its history, including the Roman,
Byzantine, and Ottoman empires. In 1948, Jenin was occupied by Israel during
the Arab-Israeli War. It was subsequently occupied by Jordan during the Six-
Day War in 1967. In 1995, Jenin was transferred to Palestinian control as part
of the Oslo Accords.Jenin is an important agricultural center, known for its
production of olives, wheat, and vegetables. The city is also home to several
universities and colleges, including the Arab American University and the Al-
Quds University Jenin Branch.Jenin has been a focal point of the Israeli-
Palestinian conflict. The city was heavily damaged during the Second Intifada,
when Israeli forces launched a major military operation in 2002. The operation,
known as "Operation Defensive Shield," was aimed at stopping Palestinian
militants from carrying out attacks inside Israel. However, it also resulted in the
deaths of dozens of Palestinian civilians.Today, Jenin continues to face
challenges, including poverty, unemployment. However, the city is also home
to a vibrant and resilient community.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

his heart a drumbeat of love, could not let fear silence his
duty.
He slipped out, a moth drawn to the moonlit pharmacy across
the barricaded streets. Each cobblestone whispered danger;
each shadow harbored unseen eyes. But he walked, his tiny
hand clutching an empty medicine box, a talisman against the
night's chill.
His journey was not ordinary. As he walked, the city itself
seemed to breathe. Cracks in the pavement glowed with
moonlight, revealing veins of gold beneath. The wind carried
the whispers of resistance, the echoes of courage from those
hidden in its depths. Even the soldiers, their faces shrouded
in darkness, seemed to waver, their boots heavy with
unspoken doubt.
Three tanks materialized from the haze; their turrets aimed at
the lone figure. A booming voice crackled, "Go home, little
terrorist!" But he stood his ground, the empty box held high.
His voice, small but clear, rang through the silence,
"Medicine for my mother, or she will die!"
He takes a bold step on his way without looking back, and
the sounds of the Zionist enemy's bullets race to reach him,
assassinating his childish determination. All the bullets hit
him, and on his second step he collapsed to the ground, his
little hand refusing to let go of the empty medicine box.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Men
Fury blazed in the woman's eyes. Ignoring the Zionist
soldier's barked commands in Arabic, Contempt burned in
the woman's eyes. Arabic barked like a threat went unheard.
With the fury of a mother defending her cub, she unleashed
a projectile – a shoe aimed squarely at the soldier's chest. The
man, revealed as a turncoat by both his accent and cowardly
behavior, grimaced and shoved her back with surprising
force.
He barked orders for separation, demanding a female soldier
conduct the search. A sardonic twist played on the woman's
lips. Her gaze, a defiant inferno laced with disgust, met his.
"Men?" she spat, the single word a venomous
indictment."Where are the men?

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Struggle
He knows in life one will that resides within him, which is
that he wants to liberate Palestine from the Zionists, the
"Sons of the Forbidden." Theories and debates held no sway.
His battle cry was simple: "Fight until they crawl out like
dogs, or die on our soil."
His life was a war song. Marriage, work, dreams - sacrificed
on the altar of liberation. He fought, oblivious to the passage
of time, until the inevitable commando raid. Soldiers fell,
camps crumbled. Yet, as his own demise loomed, a quiet
satisfaction played on his lips. "I fought them," he whispered,
a victor even in the face of death.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Special case
Trapped from birth in a silent world, his mind a kaleidoscope
of vibrant dreams, he never spoke. He understood little of the
world beyond his mother's touch and his younger brother's
unwavering devotion. His mother desperately craved that
single word, a flicker of connection in the vast landscape of
his silence. Doctors became a pilgrimage, each visit echoing
with the fading hope of a miracle.
Then, the Zionist bombing rained down. Unforgiving fire
engulfed them, stealing the sky and turning his familiar world
into a twisted nightmare. Iron, not meant for angels with
broken wings, rained down upon his head. He, who held no
threat, no value beyond love, became another statistic in the
city's brutal tally.
Days turned into a desolate search. His mother, her heart a
tattered map leading nowhere, finally found him. A pale
figure lost in a sterile hospital bed, the stench of death
clinging to him.She held him close, turning his frail body to
face her. Tears, a storm within, threatened to drown her. And
then, a flicker. A smile, the first she'd ever seen, touched his
lips. It was a borrowed word, a shard he'd gathered from the
whispers of wounded souls, medics, and concerned visitors
"Palestine," a single, precious word that shattered the silence
of his world.It was the language she'd longed for; it was
everything. In that moment, a miracle bloomed in the ruins,
a testament to a love that defied even the cruelest silence.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

His mother's son

Her pride and joy, a melody incarnate. His voice, a gift
passed from mother to son, could coax tears from stone or
send shivers down spines with a recitation from the Quran.
Yet, this son, sculpted from her own features, held a heart
alien to hers.
He was her only solace, a life meticulously nurtured after the
cruel hand of fate stole her young husband. Despite their
impoverished state, she showered him with a love bordering
on indulgence, a fact that earned him the nickname "Mother's
Son." His shortcomings, his laziness, his dependence – all
were borne with the quiet acceptance of a mother's love.But
there was a line, a crimson boundary he dared not cross.
Betrayal. That was the unforgivable sin. How, when, or
where it festered remained shrouded, but the evidence was
undeniable. Her son, her "Mother's Son," had become a
serpent in their midst, a snitch who sold out his own kin, the
Fedayeen, to the Zionist soldiers. He was an accomplice to
their treacherous slaughter.
The revelation sliced through her heart, a sickening
realization. He was a cancer, a threat to the very cause they
held dear. This son, so like her yet so different, was a dead
branch clinging to a mighty oak, determined to sap its
lifeblood.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Love, however, could not cloud her judgment. As painful as

it was, the branch had to be severed, even if it bled from her
own heart. With a heavy yet resolute spirit, she informed the
fighters. Let them claim his head in the mountains, far from
her sight, away from the searing image of his silhouette,
forever etched with the stain of betrayal.
The night of the execution arrived. After offering her evening
prayer, she drifted into a peaceful sleep, a strange sense of
serenity washing over her.She had protected her cause, her
land, her very soul. In that moment, the spoiled son, the
traitor, faded away. All that remained was a mother, finally
free from the burden of a son who never truly belonged.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

A smile
His smile was an enigma, a map etched into his face by life's
journey. Each wrinkle, each crease, spoke of battles fought
and won, scars hidden beneath the surface. The smile itself,
though constant, held a thousand shades. Sometimes, it was
a warm hearth, inviting others in. Sometimes, it was a stoic
wall, guarding secrets too painful to share. His life, like his
smile, was a tapestry woven from sorrow and joy, darkness
and light
The smile never left him throughout his life, and the muscles
of his face shrank into a wide smile capable of swallowing
the greatest sadness, pain, deprivation, and disappointment.
His smile was able to swallow the memory of the scenes of
genocide in the Sabra and Shatila camp - and to bury his
tears deep inside himself as he saw the burned remains of his
family rotting in the streets of the camp and being trampled
by the occupation forces boldly and shamelessly. His smile
prevents tender hands from caressing his orphan and begging
him for kindness. This smile also cast doubt on his
seriousness and discipline when he applied as a volunteer to
join the ranks of the guerrillas, but in the end, it became his
distinctive mark, as he refused to let anyone see a tear in the
eyes of the Palestinians.
Now his smile appears even bigger as he chases death and
reaches for the fuse of the explosive belt to wipe the face of

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Melodies of the Palestinian

the earth in this night disco, crowded to the point of vomiting

with Zionist soldiers who, a few days ago, were storming
annihilation into a school for Palestinian children in the Gaza
Strip1. His smile widened further, the fuse tightened, and his
death gasps increased. The smile of satisfaction did not leave
him.

1
- The Gaza Strip: or simply Gaza, is a polity and the smaller of the two
Palestinian territories (the other being the West Bank). On the eastern coast of
the Mediterranean Sea, Gaza is bordered by Egypt on the southwest and Israel
on the east and north.
The territory came into being when it was controlled by Egypt during the 1948
Arab–Israeli war, and became a refuge for Palestinians who fled or were
expelled during the 1948 Palestine war. Later, during the 1967 Six-Day War,
Israel captured and occupied the Gaza Strip, initiating its decades-long military
occupation of the Palestinian territoriesThe mid-1990s Oslo Accords
established the Palestinian Authority (PA) as a limited governing authority,
initially led by the secular party Fatah until that party's electoral defeat in 2006
to the Sunni Islamic Hamas. Hamas would then take over the governance of
Gaza in a battle the next year, subsequently warring with Israel.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaza_Strip
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Melodies of the Palestinian

Mountains
The barren peaks, silent witnesses to millennia, trembled
with a newfound fury. Below, their vision blurred by the veil
of night, ran the invaders, drawn by the promise of unclaimed
land. The distant, barren mountains see the Zionist colonists
running towards them. They are unaware of its people, who
live in the foothills, cities, villages, and coasts, to lay their
hands on it. The mountains alone, towards which see them
running in the cover of night, decide that only their
Palestinian people will stand on their p eaks, the mountains
held secrets, held the pulse of their people, woven into every
crevice and crag. As the enemy's machines dared to defile
their slopes, a tremor rumbled through the earth, a primal cry
echoed across the heavens. "Hearers of the sound!" it
boomed, a language older than time, understood by hearts
attuned to the rhythm of the land.
From slumbering villages, nestled in the foothills and
clinging to coasts, arose the people, children, elders, warriors
– a tapestry of souls united by the mountain's call. With
possessions bundled tight and families nestled close, they
climbed, their ascent echoing the mountain's defiance. Their
ascent was a pilgrimage, a reclaiming of what was rightfully
theirs, they rush to live on the mountaintops before the
Zionist invaders seize them, and leave the rest of their
families in their original homes.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Silence descended, profound and heavy. The mountains,

once again, stood bathed in moonlight, their people secure in
their embrace. The invaders were gone, leaving behind only
the echo of their failed ambition and a reminder: the
mountains belonged to those who heard their call, who
understood their language, who were, in essence, part of their
very being.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Betrayal
The coin felt alien against his calloused fingers, a foreign
chill against the familiar heat of betrayal. It was heavier than
expected, denser than the weight that had settled in his gut.
He turned it over, the image of the king mocking him with its
cold, uncaring stare. A metallic tang, sharp and acrid, filled
his nostrils. It wasn't the scent of riches he'd imagined, but
something akin to blood. A metallic hunger gnawed at him,
a hunger that had nothing to do with his empty stomach
The price of betrayal held no sway over him. Hours crawled
by; a nail driven into his imminent fiery demise. The familiar
weight of coin in his pocket went unheeded. Fear of
exposure, a gnawing companion for others, found no
purchase in his soul. He had tasted blood before, the blood of
traitors, and now the cup was about to be turned on him.
Death, however, held no allure. Not the ignominy of a
whimpering execution, throat slashed, unmourned, left to
fester in the open. Not the grotesque tableau of a body
swaying from an olive branch, a macabre feast for carrion.
With a death he'd sculpted for himself still fresh in his throat,
he craved a defiant twist of fate. The world, all its worlds,
snarled its disapproval, but a flicker of rebellion ignited
within him. His mother, barely buried a few days past, burned
with a righteous fury he couldn't face. A traitor's stain, a
coward's brand – he couldn't touch her coffin, couldn't walk

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Melodies of the Palestinian

beside her on that final journey. Shame gnawed at him; a

constant witness as hunted eyes mirrored his betrayal. The
Fedayeen, Palestinian ghosts with vengeance in their sights,
lusted for his head, a cheap price for the havoc he'd wrought.
The Zionist soldier, a ghost in familiar enemy garb, strolled
into the camp. Dust devils danced on the horizon, mirroring
the turmoil within him. This wasn't his first infiltration, nor
his first lie. Today, however, the lie carried the weight of a
mountain.
A gaggle of soldiers awaited him, their faces etched with the
routine of another briefing. The Zionist officer, a practiced
deceiver himself, would soon unveil his "new intel" – a
meticulously crafted web to lure them all into oblivion.
Beneath the soldier's tattered uniform, a concealed inferno
pulsed – an explosive belt, his twisted penance.
The moment arrived, heavy and final. With a silent apology
to the sky, he detonated the minefield he wore. A searing
inferno consumed him, washing away the sins that gnawed at
his soul. In that fiery baptism, he became a martyr, or perhaps
a traitor. History wouldn't judge, wouldn't understand.
Only his mother, a celestial witness, would know the truth.
Her ethereal smile, a beacon in the chaos, would forever mark
his final act as one of redemption.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Engagement
Every suitor presented to her, was a pale imitation. They held
themselves with an awkward gait, their voices lacked
warmth, their eyes held no spark that mirrored Hassan's.Her
family watched; their faces etched with worry as she politely
dismissed each man.
Hassan. His laughter, the strength in his embrace, the way
his love for Palestine mirrored her own - these were ghosts
that lingered, refusing to be replaced.Days bled into weeks,
then months, each rejection a fresh wound.
"He's gone, " her mother pleaded, her voice strained. "You
can't spend your life searching for a ghost."
But she couldn't, wouldn't let go.Hassan's face, etched in her
memory, became the only standard against which she
measured every hopeful heart.Tonight, another one would
arrive.She steeled herself, a warrior clad in grief.
Her gaze fell upon her parents, their shoulders slumped with
the weight of her sorrow.A tremor ran through her as she
looked at Hassan's picture, a silent promise hanging heavy in
the air.
"I won't betray you," she whispered, her voice thick with
emotion."Even after all this time, my heart remains yours.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

planting
They bulldozed her land after burning her crops this year.
They released wild pigs on the vineyards, and in the end,
dried up the well that sustained her farm. She, the only
Palestinian left among them, felt utterly alone. Bullied by
those who now controlled the farms surrounding hers, farms
confiscated from her people. They had taken everything.
But solitude did not breed despair. With a heart ablaze, she
replanted the seeds of defiance. The very corn they tore from
her grasp, she sowed anew. Miraculously, each kernel
sprouted not grain, but a defender - Palestinian farmers, their
faces etched with determination, rising from the earth to
stand beside her. The land, once plundered, now echoed with
the rhythmic dance of hoe and shovel, a symphony of
resilience.

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Alzheimer's disease1
Sixty years of continuous struggle could not shake him from
his deep belief in his right. Not a single night passed without
him struggling to cling to his land. He did not lose his resolve.
The whole world conspired with its Zionist enemy. As for
this dreaded disease called - Alzheimer's - it is the one who
fears that it will eat away at his memory and does not
remember the borders of his land. Its area and the number
and type of trees planted there are not known, so he cannot
continue to pursue the cases he filed against the Zionist
settlers who imposed forceful oppression and tyranny on the
northern parts of his land. Is Alzheimer's a Zionist disease

1
- Alzheimer's disease is a progressive neurodegenerative disease that affects
millions of people worldwide. It slowly destroys brain cells, leading to memory
loss, cognitive decline, and eventually, death. While there is no cure for
Alzheimer's, there are treatments that can manage symptoms and slow the
progression of the disease.Memory loss: This is the most common and well-
known symptom of Alzheimer's. People with Alzheimer's may forget recent
events, repeat questions, or have difficulty finding familiar words.Cognitive
decline: People with Alzheimer's may also experience difficulty with problem-
solving, decision-making, and planning. They may have trouble paying
attention or following instructions.Behavioral changes: Alzheimer's can also
cause changes in mood and personality. People with Alzheimer's may become
withdrawn, anxious, or depressed. They may also have difficulty controlling
their impulses or lash out in anger.Early stage: In the early stage of Alzheimer's,
symptoms may be mild and go unnoticed. People may forget names or have
trouble finding words, but they are still able to live independently.
Sourceswww.scribd.com/document/533118718/Ncm-114-Midterm-Module-
Content

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that will eat away at his memory as it has eaten the memories
of many people before?
He decides that the best way to attack is to defend. He begins
to record in a large notebook every little thing that he wants
to remember about his land, his homeland, his struggle, and
his enemy. He is lurking around his dreaded disease, and has
provided him with the necessary tools to overcome it.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Eid pants

The boy stomped his foot, a stubborn glint in his eye. "Black
linen pants for Eid!" he declared, leaving no room for
discussion. His mother, caught between his demands and her
husband's weary eyes, chimed in, "He's just a child. Eid
clothes are for little ones like him."

His father, burdened by unseen troubles, could only nod.

He'd work the extra shift, pick those cursed crops, just to
fulfill this small wish. But this time, something was different.
The boy insisted on tagging along.

The journey to the fields was an eye-opener. Checkpoints,

barbed wire, and a gnawing emptiness replaced the familiar
warmth of their village. His father, once a towering figure,
seemed to shrink under the weight of their stolen land. The
work was relentless, a harsh reminder of their forced
servitude.

As the day wore on, exhaustion etched lines on his father's

face. Yet, there was no rest for the weary. Shame, a new and
unfamiliar feeling, bloomed in the boy's chest. He watched,
his heart heavy, a silent apology forming on his lips.

Evening brought the market's familiar bustle. The boy, his

voice barely a whisper, touched his father's calloused hand.
"No more work, I don't need the pants anymore. I've grown
up, and grown-ups don't need new clothes for Eid."

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Stone

Dibo Habibi, that's the name the little boy gave to his father.
Even at the age of seventeen, Diab carried the weight of a
husband, father, and support for his son and widowed mother.
But in his son's eyes, Diab was not burdened, but rather a
hero. Like everyone else in the village, he saw magic in his
young father.
He was sitting on Diab's broad shoulders, laughing as the
world changed beneath him. The houses became castles, the
streets turned into rivers, and Diab was his mighty horse.
With every strong step, Diab gently rocked him, in a calm
rhythm whispering tales of courage and love. In those
moments, he was not a boy in a war-torn village; He was a
prince on a magical dragon, flying in a world where his
father, Dibo Habibi, could conquer anything
The boy burned with envy. Every day, his father would return
from the skirmishes, his weathered face etched with
exhaustion, a single stone clutched in his hand. He wouldn't
let the boy carry it, wouldn't let him join the fight against the
Zionist soldiers who dared trespass on their land. The boy
dreamt of being big enough, strong enough, to join his father
in the endless dance of hurling stones, delaying the enemy,
giving the guerrillas a sliver of a chance.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Dibo Habibi, his love, was supposed to wait. They were to

throw stones together, side by side. But war had its own cruel
timetable. Dibo was brought back one day, not throwing
stones, but carried upon them, a victim of an unseen sniper's
bullet. A chilling smile touched the boy's lips as he saw the
lone stone clutched in his father's hand. It was a grim
promise: whoever stole their land would be stoned.
Fueled by grief and a burning sense of purpose, the boy
sprang to action. With nimble fingers, he snatched the stone
from his father's grasp, a silent oath replacing the whispered
endearment that died on his tongue. "Dibo, my love," he
murmured, his voice thick with unshed tears, "You have
grown up. Tomorrow, I will go out to stone this enemy."

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Olive

The scent of olives hung heavy in the air as the older brother
crouched beside his younger sibling. They stood beneath the
sprawling boughs of an ancient olive tree, its gnarled
branches casting dappled shadows on the Palestinian
mountains of Gerizim1. The older brother spoke, his voice

1
- Mount Gerizim: (/ˈɡɛrɪˌzɪm/; Samaritan Hebrew:ʾĀ̊rgā̊rīzem; Hebrew: ‫הַ ר‬
‫ גְּ ִרזִים‬Har Gərīzīm; Arabic: Jabal Jarizīm or Jabal at-Ṭūr) is one of two
mountains in the immediate vicinity of the Palestinian city of Nablus and the
biblical city of Shechem. It forms the southern side of the valley in which
Nablus is situated, the northern side being formed by Mount Ebal. The
mountain is one of the highest peaks in the West Bank and rises to 881 m (2,890
ft) above sea level, 70 m (230 ft) lower than Mount Ebal.The mountain is
particularly steep on the northern side, is sparsely covered at the top with
shrubbery, and lower down there is a spring with a high yield of fresh water.
For the Samaritan people, most of whom live around it, Mount Gerizim is
considered the holiest place on Earth.
The mountain is mentioned in the Bible as the place where, upon first entering
the Promised Land after the Exodus, the Israelites performed ceremonies of
blessings, as they had been instructed by Moses.
Mount Gerizim is sacred to the Samaritans, who regard it, rather than
Jerusalem's Temple Mount, as the location chosen by God for a holy temple. In
Samaritan tradition, it is the oldest and most central mountain in the world,
towering above the Great Flood and providing the first land for Noah’s
disembarkation. It is also the location where Abraham almost sacrificed his son
Isaac. Jews, on the other hand, consider the location of the near-sacrifice to be
Mount Moriah, traditionally identified by them with the Temple Mount. Mount
Gerizim continues to be the centre of Samaritan religion to this day, and
Samaritans ascend it three times a year: at Passover, Shavuot and Sukkot.
Passover is still celebrated by the Samaritans with a lamb sacrifice on Mount
Gerizim. Today, about half of the remaining Samaritans live in close proximity
to Gerizim, mostly in the small village of Kiryat Luza.
The Samaritan village of Kiryat Luza and an Israeli settlement, Har Brakha, are
situated on the ridge of Mount Gerizim
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Gerizim
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hushed with reverence, "These trees, they hold more than

olives, little one."

The younger brother tilted his head, his brow furrowed in

curiosity. The grove had always been a familiar haven, a
place of laughter and play. But now, his brother's words cast
a new light upon it.

The older brother continued, his gaze sweeping across the

seemingly endless rows of trees, "Every one of these, it
grows on a special kind of ground. A place of redemption."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Each
guerrilla, when their fight is done, becomes one with the
earth, and from their sacrifice, a new life emerges – an olive
tree."

A gasp escaped the younger brother's lips. He darted a

glance around the grove, his eyes widening as he saw the
countless trees stretching out before him. Realization dawned
– their cherished orchard wasn't just a source of life, it was a
vast, silent cemetery. But instead of fear, a surge of pride
filled his chest. He was entrusted with the care of not just
trees, but the final resting places of heroes.

"So, the olive tree," he whispered, his voice filled with

newfound respect, "it's sacred. Not just a symbol of peace,
but a symbol of the Palestinian fighters too."

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Tree
As the bulldozers retreated, defeated by the tree's stubborn
resistance, Hajja Fariza, the old woman emerged from the
dust. Her eyes, though filled with grief, held a spark of
defiance. She approached the wounded giant, her weathered
hands trembling
From her head covering, she unfurled a white veil,
shimmering with the moonlight it had absorbed over the
years. With reverence, she bound the severed branches,
whispering ancient words of healing and strength. The veil,
imbued with the prayers of countless ancestors, pulsed with
a soft, emerald light.
The earth itself seemed to respond. Stones, nudged by unseen
forces, formed a barrier around the tree's exposed roots,
shielding them from further harm. The air crackled with a
strange energy, and the whispers of the wind carried the
message: "This tree shall not be felled."
News of the "Cursed Tree" spread like wildfire. The
bulldozers, their metallic hearts filled with fear, dared not
return. The few who ventured close felt an invisible hand
push them back, a silent warning to respect the land and its
spirits.

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New baby
Life and death wrestled on the unforgiving asphalt. The
woman, wracked with pain, gave birth not in a sterile room,
but on the harsh crossroads of war. Her cries for help were
drowned by the rattle of gunfire. The Zionist soldiers, arbiters
of cruelty, separated her from her husband. He, defiant even
in the face of death, refused their humiliation. Bullets found
him, stealing his breath in a crimson symphony.
Their child, a wailing testament to resilience, arrived amidst
the carnage. The grandmother, eyes steeled with grief,
received them both. Her washcloth, meant for a newborn's
innocence, cleaned the blood of war from his tiny body. The
coffin, intended for a loving farewell, cradled his father
instead. Tears were absent, replaced by a resolute smile – the
unwavering pride of a mother who birthed a martyr.

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Deafness
The world had always been a silent symphony for him, a
canvas painted in vibrations and gestures. Deafness, a cruel
souvenir of childhood sunstroke, had kept him in a world of
hushed beauty. The cacophony of the streets, the shouts of
strangers – they were all a distant melody he didn't yearn for.
But his heart yearned for one sound – the voice of his son, a
melody unlike any other. His son, blessed with a voice that
echoed the serenity of the Quran, a voice he longed to hear
even once. Deafness, however, stood as an unyielding wall
between him and this cherished desire.
Then, the earth shuddered. A deafening explosion ripped
through the courtyard, a monstrous scream tearing through
the fabric of his quiet world. In that instant, a terrible truth
pierced him deeper than any sound ever could. His eardrums
shattered, the world a cacophony of ringing and screams. He
could hear. But the first sound that assaulted his newfound
hearing was the choked cry announcing his son's death – his
son, the angelic voice he'd so desperately wished to hear,
silenced forever.

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Fishing

The sea is accustomed to their words, their hymns, their

dreams, and the rituals of fishing, eating, buying, and selling
that unfold along its shores. Even their supplications in
moments of turmoil delight it, for the sea finds a strange
amusement in their pleas for its bounty. For thousands of
years, the sea has held these inhabitants of the Palestinian
coast in its heart. An alliance of love has bound them since
time immemorial, and forevermore it shall remain.

The sea remembers the details of their suffering. When he

thwarts the Zionist fishermen, a current of sadness and grief
stirs its depths, sending a frothy green foam rippling across
its surface.

The sea holds treasures for its Palestinian fishing friends:

stories whispered in the waves, pearls hidden in the sand, a
gentle caress of the tide, and an abundance of fish. It listens
intently to their songs, a melody that tickles its vast soul.

Now, a heavy loneliness weighs on the sea. It sees the

Palestinian fishermen unable to reach its depths, their faith
shaken. The sea clutches their abandoned ships, a giant rock
on its chest, and sinks deeper into its watery solitude.

This morning, the sea witnessed an attack on its waves. It saw

those who sought to steal the fishermen's vessels. Rage
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swelled within the sea. It lifted the ships onto the highest
peaks of its waves, towering over the attackers. In its fury,
the sea transformed them back into simple creatures,
monkeys and porpoises. Now, they must search the depths
for scraps, food for the very fish they sought to steal.

The sea chuckles softly, anchoring the fishermen's ships in a

sheltered bay along the coast. It waits for its friends, the
fishermen, with their songs of the sea and the bounty it offers.

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Leader
The dusty alleyways of the camp echo with the younger
brother's enthusiastic steps, mirroring his older brother's
confident stride. Every cough, every laugh, every muttered
curse is meticulously mimicked, a silent performance
yearning for applause. The younger brother seeks not just
approval, but a reflection of himself in his brother's eyes, a
confirmation that he's on the right path. Here, in the heart of
the camp, the older brother isn't just family, he's the sun, and
the younger brother a sunflower, forever turning his face to
soak in the warmth of his admiration.
He ordered him to stone the Zionist soldiers because they
were evil, and he did not delay a single moment in carrying
out his orders. Whenever a Zionist was stoned, his eyes
sparkled with pride because he obeyed his brother - Abdullah
- his supreme leader in life.
He almost took the spoils of stoning by the Zionists and ran
away as usual, but a giant, hairy hand crushed his shoulder
when it caught him, and in the blink of an eye, the soldiers
handcuffed him and ordered him to confess the name of the
one who incited him to stone them. He did not evade their
answer, and said with wide, excited, childish pride: “Brother,
who ordered me to do this?”
Angry soldiers and armored vehicles moved to dig their nails
into the neck of the terrorist Abdullah, as they called him.

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They surrounded his house and ordered him, through

loudspeakers, to come out to them surrendering, raising his
hands, to protect the life of his younger brother, who had their
satanic nails stuck in his neck, and to protect his house, which
they would blow up without hesitation. After thirty seconds,
he would come out to them surrendering, raising his hands,
with the fingers of his right hand holding a lollipop. He was
afraid it would fall to the ground.
Finally, the Zionist army arrested the Supreme Leader of the
Resistance. His name is Abdullah. He is seven years old,
wearing childish pants and a pacifier!

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Band aid
It is a night like all Palestinian nights under Zionist bombing.
It is a lonely and frightening night that the people of the city
live under a flood of fire, iron, siege, and suffocation.
Hashem Abu Al-Khair The paramedic is determined to
transport the injured, accompanied by his nursing staff,
despite the impossibility of continuing to do so under the
barrage of hellish fire that showers them with death, fire, and
fear.
The barrage quickly consumed his crew, leaving him with
nothing but his resolve .A powerful shell tore off his head
from above his body. The head flew away, not caring about
the pain of rolling on burning gravel. As for the body, it
continued to drive the ambulance with determination and
courage to deliver the injured to the nearest Palestinian
hospital.

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The brothers
He used to recite Surah Al-Mulk to himself whenever he
went out riding his resolve, showing off his pride, carrying
his rifle, freeing his soul, despising life
This morning he read to himself the scrolls of the curse, and
cursed everyone who pushed him to take up arms against his
Palestinian brother. He does not understand politics and hates
it intensely. A bitter taste lingered in his mouth, mirroring the
ink-stained curses he'd scrawled on ancient parchment.
Those who'd prodded him towards fratricide had ignited a
firestorm of disgust within him. Politics? A playground for
vipers, a game he loathed. He wouldn't be their pawn.
Disobeying orders was a start, but not enough. He retreated,
a fortress within his own walls. Weapons vanished, bullets
scattered, a silent scream against the slaughter that mocked
his humanity, and isolated himself in his home and hid his
weapons and bullets to fight one enemy he knew well.

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Fatherhood
His heart, a canvas once painted with dreams of fatherhood,
was now a mosaic of shattered hopes. Each failed attempt at
insemination chipped away a piece, leaving a hollowness that
mirrored the growing despair in his wife's eyes. Yet, hand in
hand, they persevered, clinging fiercely to the dream of a
child – a symbol of their unwavering love.
Azza, his wife, embodied the unwavering spirit of their
homeland. Motherhood wasn't just a desire, it was a
birthright, a legacy passed down through generations. She
dreamt of experiencing the raw, primal joy of childbirth, the
struggles that forge an unbreakable bond between mother and
child.
He poured every ounce of their earnings into the desperate
hope of insemination, each failed cycle a heavy blow to their
chests. Azza yearned to nurture a life within her, to
experience the profound connection shared by countless
women before her.
The dream of parenthood flickered on in him, even as Azza
saved every penny for another try. But fate, it seemed, held a
cruel hand. The air strike that ripped Azza from him also stole
their unborn child, a martyr before their first breath.

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He never felt the warmth of a tiny hand in his, never heard

the sweet symphony of a newborn's cry. The word "daddy"
remained forever unspoken, a haunting echo in the man who
ached to be a father.
Azza was gone, leaving a deafening silence where their
shared dream once resided. The school, a place of learning,
became a tomb in an instant. The enemy's bomb claimed not
just his wife, but their future child, a life snuffed out before
it could bloom.
He buried her with a love unspoken, a dream unfulfilled. But
amidst the crushing grief, a sliver of hope emerged. Tucked
away in her purse, a pregnancy test, a silent testament to a
life blossoming within her. The date scrawled on the box –
the day she became a martyr. Perhaps she meant to tell him,
to share the joy the moment she walked through the door.
Now, he was a father, not in the way he envisioned, but a
father nonetheless. His child, a martyr, a symbol of their
unwavering love, a testament to the enduring power of a
dream, even in the face of unimaginable loss. He stood alone,
yet carried the weight of their love, a silent promise etched
onto his soul.

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Family tree
The mathematics teacher assigned her young students to
draw a family tree as homework so that they would know
mathematics
In practical terms, it means generation and branching.
The little girl, with the help of her loving family – her mother,
grandmother, her uncle's wife, and her aunt – all living
together since the occupation forced them from their homes,
created a magnificent family tree. Her uncles, the protectors
who were no more, were prominent figures on her canvas.
On the second day, she arrived at school, bursting with pride.
Her tree, sprawling with heroes, martyrs, and those held
captive, was unlike any other. It was a testament to her
family's sacrifices, a story of resilience etched in branches.
But her pride was short-lived. As she looked around, she saw
similar trees – vast, intricate, and overflowing with stories of
struggle. The realization dawned – her family's experience,
though unique, wasn't isolated. It was a shared narrative, a
communal tapestry woven with threads of loss and
resistance.
Undeterred, she settled back in her seat. With a sharpened
pencil, she began to extend the branches even further. With
care and determination, she filled them with the names of the
daughters she dreamt of having, daughters who would carry
on the legacy of sacrifice and fight for a brighter future. Her
family tree, though not the only one, would stand as a symbol
of their unwavering spirit.

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Martyr
Her life was a tapestry woven with threads of sacrifice,
sorrow, and unwavering love. Seventeen young faces, each
bearing the scars of war, surrounded her. They were her
children, not by blood, but by the unwavering bond forged in
the crucible of loss. Each one, orphaned by a martyr father, a
detained sister, or a home reduced to rubble by the enemy,
found solace in her embrace.

Ramzi, however, was different. He was a part of her, a living

testament to her beloved husband, a man forever lost but
ever-present in her heart. Whispers spoke of him being alive,
yet she knew his true home lay beneath the earth, his sacrifice
etched in the fabric of their nation.

Ramzi, his father's namesake, embodied the same courage,

kindness, and unwavering love for their land. Driven by the
pain of his community, he embarked on a mission of
vengeance, vowing to avenge the senseless death of five
innocent children. He left, a single tear tracing a path down
his cheek, the weight of his mother's unspoken love heavy on
his shoulders.

Days bled into weeks, the silence growing deafening. Then,

one day, the enemy returned, bearing a chilling message.
Ramzi lay lifeless in a black plastic bag, a pawn in their

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twisted game of revenge. They paraded him through the

streets, hoping to incite fear and ignite a cycle of violence.

One by one, the women of the neighborhood, their hearts

heavy with grief and defiance, denied knowing him. They
stood as a wall, shielding each other from the storm of
retaliation.

Finally, they reached Ramzi's house. His mother, her face

etched with a lifetime of hardship, stood tall. As they
presented the bag, her stomach clenched, but her voice
remained steady. With a pride that refused to be broken, she
declared, "I have never seen him before. He is not my son."

Her lie, a shield forged in love, resonated through the

neighborhood. It was a silent rebellion, a testament to the
unyielding spirit of a mother who had lost everything yet
refused to lose hope. In that moment, she became not just a
mother, but a symbol of resilience, a beacon of defiance in
the face of unimaginable cruelty.

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Mermaid

Since childhood, Houria felt an inexplicable pull towards the

sea. It wasn't just the cool embrace of the waves, but a sense
of belonging, a whispered conversation between her and the
vast ocean depths. She believed herself a descendant of
mermaids, a lineage whispered in her name - Houria, like her
grandmother. To her friends, she spun tales of underwater
kingdoms, her voice, rich and deep like the ocean itself,
weaving fantastical stories for their amusement.

One fateful summer night, the tranquility shattered. Enemy

planes rained terror upon her land, bombs raining destruction
on her neighborhood. Separated from her beloved sea,
Houria found herself trapped amidst the chaos. Debris
choked the streets, blocking her path back. Fear, a primal
instinct, urged her towards the familiar embrace of the ocean.

Ignoring the searing pain from shrapnel wounds, she ran, a

fragile bird caught in a storm. The deafening roar of planes
chased her, each explosion a tremor through the earth.
Finally, she reached the shore, the once-calm sea now
churned by the aerial assault.

But before she could find solace, a final, brutal blow struck.
A stray shell ripped through her, shattering her form. Yet,
amidst the pain, there was peace. Her spirit, like seafoam,
rose and mingled with the ocean breeze. The waves, her
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cradle since childhood, gently claimed the remnants, carrying

them deep into the heart of the sea.

Houria, the mermaid who never was, yet forever belonged

to the ocean, became a silent guardian in its depths. Her
voice, though silenced, echoed in the whispers of the waves,
a haunting melody reminding all who dared to listen of the
beauty lost and the love that endured even in the face of
destruction.

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wall

The towering wall sliced through his world, a cruel barrier

separating him from the familiar halls of his beloved school.
His father, helpless in the face of this concrete divide,
transferred him to another school, but it held no meaning. His
heart remained tethered to the teachers, friends, and
memories that resided on the other side. This dividing wall
deprived him of the school he love,
Each day, he'd rise with the sun, clutching his worn books, a
determined glint in his eyes. He'd walk towards the wall, the
oppressive symbol of division, his tiny figure dwarfed by its
imposing presence.
He'd plead, he'd shout, he'd beg for passage, his voice
echoing in the sterile silence. But the response was always
the same - a cold, unyielding wall and the watchful gaze of
armed soldiers.When he despaired of hearing any response
from it, he decided to storm the separation wall. The Zionist
soldiers pushed him away from the crossing gate. Armed
with weapons and dogs, he refuses to move away from the
gate. One day, desperation gnawed at him. He wouldn't be
denied. With a surge of defiance, he lunged towards the gate,
his small frame a stark contrast to the soldiers' imposing
figures. They shoved him back, their voices harsh, their
weapons glinting menacingly.

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But he wouldn't be deterred. He stood his ground, a lone

figure against the tide of oppression. The soldiers, their
patience exhausted, unleashed their savage dogs. The beasts,
trained for violence, tore into him, their snarls and his
screams mingling in the air; the soldiers released their rabid
dogs on him to eat his flesh without mercy. The dogs cut his
flesh with their unclean fangs. Thus, life leaves him among
the pieces of his flesh scattered on the ground. He still dreams
of crossing the checkpoint gate to go to his school, which he
loves.
He fell, his dreams of crossing the gate shattered along with
his body. His life, once filled with the promise of learning
and laughter, lay scattered amidst the dust, a silent testament
to the cruelty of the wall.
Yet, even in his death, a spark remained. His story, whispered
by the wind, became a beacon of hope, a reminder of the
unwavering spirit that dared to dream, even in the face of
insurmountable odds. The wall may have claimed his life, but
it could never extinguish the flame of his desire for
knowledge and the yearning for a world without division. He
became a symbol, a silent plea for a future where children
wouldn't have to dream of crossing walls, but could simply
walk-through open doors, their hearts filled with the joy of
learning and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

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A Palestinian myth
The old woman, etched like a weathered willow by the harsh
winds of time, clung to a memory spun from love's softest
thread and the barbed wire of loss. Abu Al-Hassan, her
husband, had vanished like a wisp of smoke on a battlefield
choked with dust and despair.
Refusing to drown in the bitter sea of grief, she wove a
tapestry of words for her children and grandchildren. It was
a shield, a bulwark against the brutal realities of war and the
ache of displacement. Each night, beneath a canopy of stars,
she would weave a tale - not of a man lost, but of a warrior.
Abu Al-Hassan, in her stories, wasn't a man who faded into
oblivion. He was a legend, a knight forever galloping across
the plains of justice, his absence a mere pause in his valiant
quest. Her children, young and vulnerable, clung to this
melody, finding solace in the promise of his triumphant
return.
Years bled into decades, the myth a constant companion.
They grew up, facing hardships with the unwavering belief
that Abu Al-Hassan would ride back, his arrival heralding a
dawn of peace and prosperity.
Then, one day, a white cloth sack arrived, a grim echo of a
faded dream. Inside, a jumble of bones – all that remained of
Abu Al-Hassan. The news struck them like a physical blow.

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The myth, their anchor for so long, seemed to crumble at their

feet.
Yet, as they laid him to rest, a new understanding bloomed
within them. Abu Al-Hassan, though physically gone, had
lived on in their hearts, his spirit a whisper in the wind,
guiding their steps. The myth, born from unwavering love,
became a testament to their enduring hope, a song of family
love that refused to be silenced.
That night, gathered around their grandmother, they listened.
This time, not to a fantastical tale, but to the true story of Abu
Al-Hassan, a man who loved fiercely and left behind a legacy
of resilience. The myth had served its purpose, and now, they
were ready to face the future, carrying the torch of hope he
had unknowingly ignited.

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virgin
Fairy-tale love stories no longer held sway. Her heart ached
for a simpler dream: a window view of Al-Aqsa Mosque's
golden domes, the call to prayer echoing in her ears. In
Jerusalem, her birthplace, her love for family and city ran
deeper than any yearning for a husband.
Finding love within the city walls proved impossible. To
venture outside was to risk losing her residency – a cruel
twist that turned Jerusalem into a gilded cage for its Arab
residents. One fleeting trip abroad sparked a love affair with
a Palestinian man. Yet, to return to her beloved city, she had
to sever the budding connection. Marriage was out of the
question; her residency wouldn't extend to him.
He left, heartbroken. Time marched on, stealing away her
youth and dreams. But one thing remained: the unwavering
love for Jerusalem, a love so profound it eclipsed the
yearning for a romantic partner. The city held her captive, not
with bars and locks, but with the invisible threads of
belonging. Here, she would stay, even if it meant forever
sacrificing the embrace of a dream lover.

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vote

The Zionist bombing has been going on for many days, more
than a month and a half, and she and her children are starving,
just as all the people of Gaza are starving because of this
bombing that is besieging them. The rumble of distant
explosions had become a constant in their lives, bombs had
rained down on their city, turning streets into battlegrounds
and shops into empty shells. Hunger gnawed at their bellies,
especially during this holy month of Ramadan, a time that
should have been filled with feasts and family.
A mother, her eyes etched with worry lines, looked at her
four children. Her eldest, barely thirteen, mirrored her
concern. A fragile two-hour truce had been announced, their
only chance to scavenge for food.
"I'll go," the boy said, his voice small but resolute. "I'm faster,
and if something happens..." He couldn't finish the sentence,
the thought of leaving his mother and siblings unbearable.
The mother squeezed his hand. "No, my love. It's too
dangerous."
A silent battle raged between them. Her motherly instinct
screamed to protect her children, but the thought of him
facing the dangers outside terrified her even more.

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Suddenly, a mischievous glint sparked in the youngest child's

eyes. "Let's vote!" she declared.
Intrigued, the mother and son agreed. They each scribbled
their names on scraps of paper, the tension thick in the air as
they folded them identically. With bated breath, they
watched their youngest daughter pick one.
Unfolding the paper, the mother's heart lurched. It was her
son's name. But before his face could fall, she did something
unexpected.
With a wink, she crumpled the paper, a mischievous smile
replacing her worry. "Looks like it's lentil soup for everyone
tonight!"

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Love story
childhood friends, shared a love as deep and enduring as the
roots of the ancient olive trees that graced his family farm.
They dreamt of a future intertwined, their love story woven
into the fabric of the land they cherished. Beneath the shade
of their favorite tree, they carved their initials and a promise:
"Forever bound by love and soil."
Their wedding bells were to chime next autumn, a joyous
melody echoing through the olive groves. But fate, a cruel
wind, swept through their dreams. One morning, the familiar
landscape was marred by bulldozers, uprooting the ancient
trees, their leaves scattering like fallen tears. The land, their
legacy, was being devoured for a new settlement, a symbol
of displacement.
Grief threatened to consume them, but their love, like a
stubborn wildflower, bloomed even amidst the devastation.
They clung to each other, their love a beacon in the
encroaching darkness. They decided to fight, they decided, in
a moment of complete love, to walk the path of their greatest
love with two explosive pieces. They blew up the destroyed
homes outside their land and the strangers in it, and spread
holy dust on their land, which they died in love with.

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Two Feet
The midday sun beat down on the bustling streets of Nablus
as he navigated the uneven cobblestones. The rhythmic click-
clack of his wooden legs echoed through the air, a constant
reminder of the sacrifice he had made. He wasn't the same
one who had joined the student sit-in months ago, full of
youthful vigor and dreams of a brighter future. The Zionist
enemy bullets had taken his feet that day, leaving him with
phantom echoes of pain and a future seemingly devoid of the
normalcy he once craved.
University life, once a vibrant tapestry woven with lectures,
debates, and stolen glances at his childhood sweetheart,
Bahia, was now a distant memory. The thought of returning
to his studies, confined to a wheelchair, filled him with a
suffocating sense of inadequacy. He couldn't bear the thought
of Bahia's eyes holding pity instead of the spark of love he
had always cherished. So, he made a decision that tore at his
heart – he refused her. He couldn't bear the thought of her
sacrificing her dreams for him, burdened by a future filled
with limitations.
But he was not one to surrender. Despair was a luxury he
couldn't afford. He channeled his grief and frustration into
creation. For months, the rhythmic hammering and sawing
resonated from his small workshop, a symphony of
determination. Finally, the day arrived, with a triumphant
grin, strapped on his meticulously crafted wooden legs, the
polished wood gleaming in the sunlight.
He went to Al-Aqsa Mosque to participate, once again, in the
sit-in protest against its desecration by the Zionist enemy.
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Fantasy movie
The flickering television cast an uneven glow on the faces
huddled. A tapestry of scavenged sheets draped the doorway,
and the air hung thick with the scent of dust and stale bread.
Five pairs of eyes, wide and hungry, were mesmerized by the
vibrant world on the screen – a world far removed from their
own.
There, children, dressed in clothes the color of forgotten
dreams, skipped through bustling streets. Laughter filled the
air, a sound so foreign it felt like a forgotten melody. The
markets overflowed with food, a luxury their bellies ached
for. This world pulsed with life, a stark contrast to the muted
tones and harsh realities of their daily existence.
A small voice, barely a whisper, shattered the silence. The
youngest, a boy with eyes that reflected the weight of
hardship, turned to his mother. "Why, he whispered, "why
can't we live like that?"
" She replied, her voice a gentle murmur, and said to him:
Because we live in Palestine and the Zionist enemy hates the
children of Palestine.
The child asked his mother again in astonishment: Why does
the Zionist enemy hate the children of Palestine, mother?
His mother, the lines on her face etching a map of resilience
and struggle, forced a smile. "Because, my little dove," she

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said, her voice hoarse, "we are the keepers of stories. We hold
the memory of that life within us, a flickering candle in the
darkness."
The boy furrowed his brow, his voice laced with confusion.
"But" he persisted, "we don't have stories anymore. Just the
grumbling in our bellies and the booming of the bad men."
His mother reached out, her touch a comforting weight on his
shoulder. "We have stories in our hearts, my love," she said
softly. "Stories whispered down through generations, tales of
a land where laughter echoed freely and markets overflowed
with bounty. Stories of a time before the shadows fell."
She closed her eyes for a moment, a flicker of longing
crossing her features. "We hold these stories close, like
embers against the night. Because when the darkness finally
lifts, it will be those stories that guide us back to the light."
A single tear traced a glistening path down her cheek. But as
she opened her eyes, a spark of defiance ignited within them.
"And you," she continued, her voice gaining strength, "you
are the next chapter in our story. You will carry the memory
of this hardship, but also the hope for a brighter future."

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Mother’s Day
Today is Mother's Day, and her mother was martyred in the
Zionist bombing that destroyed the house she built with years
of hard work and sacrifice.
Every Mother's Day, she would give her mother a flower and
bury herself in her large, warm embrace that smelled of
cooking fat, love, and Palestinian oranges that her mother
worked with every day.
Today she decided to bring her mother a birthday flower and
hold on to her memory despite the pain of losing her. With a
piece of chalk, she drew a large circle on the ground where
her mother was buried, the size of her lap when she was alive.
She curled up on the floor inside the circle like a fetus, and
inhaled the intoxicating scent of oranges, the memory of her
mother.

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Panting
Everyone who dreamed of getting married in Gaza, whether
they were men or women, was forced to crowd into a small
space, and their big dreams were narrowed until they were
reduced.
Like them, they live a cruel torture called fulfilling marriage
requests. He no longer dreams of a beautiful house, luxurious
furniture, a joyful wedding, and a huge party. All he wants
now is a room where he can meet Samar, his lover and
cousin. He wants a roof to shade them and the joy of their
gathering, clothes to cover them, and the presence of the
participants according to the crumbs of sadness and waiting
that have escaped the grip of the Zionist enemy.
The panting inhabits his soul, engulfs him, and makes him
his toy in the world of illusion. There is no place available to
rent, no goods available for purchase in the markets that have
been under siege for years, no money to facilitate matters, no
work available, and no wedding invitees who can attend his
wedding due to the episodes of siege, embargo, assassination,
arrest, and deadly closed roads.
All paths are closed in his face and in the face of his marriage
to his beloved Samar, whose hope has begun to be eaten away
by spinsterhood, just as it is eating away the hopes of most of
his friends, relatives and acquaintances who have dreamed of

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the impossible marriage in this occupied city for years, and

who struggles valiantly to remain alive.
He surprises Samar as she sits in front of her collapsed house,
overlooking the Gaza Sea, feeding him her sadness. He
approaches her and whispers in her ear, which is hidden
behind her braid: Will you marry me?
She smiled at him, and happily exclaimed without hesitation:
Yes, I will marry you
- “But there is no room I can secure for our wedding”!
- “We get married here on the seashore, and live among its
rocks”.

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School

The peeling paint on the school walls held more stories. The
rusty pipes grumbled like a chorus of grumpy old men, and
the sheer density of bodies could make the air thick on a
summer's day. Yet, this ramshackle building was a sanctuary.
Here, under the watchful gaze of cracked plaster saints,
knowledge was dispensed like a precious potion, and dreams,
however outlandish, were encouraged to bloom. It was here,
amidst the controlled chaos, that he was being molded into a
future doctor, his mother had dreamt of, whispered to him
like a lullaby every night. He didn't mind the creaking
floorboards or the lukewarm lunches. This place, with all its
imperfections, was the forge where his ambitions were taking
shape.
The war had turned his tiny classroom into a makeshift home.
Huddled together were his family, relatives, and neighbors'
families – all displaced from their bombed-out homes. The
International Relief Organization, a beacon of hope in a time
of suffering, had opened the school's doors, offering
temporary shelter.
Gone were the days of neatly arranged desks and the familiar
scent of chalk. The faded green blackboard still stood
defiantly, bearing the remnants of their last math class – a set
of equations their teacher, in a desperate bid for normalcy,

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had scribbled on it, hoping they'd find the answers even

amongst the chaos.
He did not have the opportunity to solve it because of the
satanic bombardment that the Zionists rained down on them,
so he lost his notebooks, books, and school bag in this
genocidal attack.
For days, a peculiar focus bloomed in the boy's eyes as he
stared at those equations. The devastation outside had ignited
a different kind of fire within him. He saw the desperation
etched on the faces around him, the fear of sickness hanging
heavy in the makeshift shelter. The once-abstract math
problems suddenly transformed into a challenge, a puzzle he
needed to solve. He pounced on the equations on the board,
his determination fueled by a newfound purpose – to become
a doctor, a healer, a champion against the silent enemy of
disease. The cramped classroom, filled with the whispers of
displaced lives, became his training ground, his focus fueled
by a single dream – to rise above the ashes of war and become
a doctor, distinguished not by name, but by the lives he'd
mend.

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Face
The boy's face, framed by a mop of unruly brown hair, held
the quiet intensity of a seasoned observer. His gaze,
unblinking and serene, transcended the barbed wire fence
that separated him from the world beyond. There, the
children of the Zionist colonists, their laughter like wind
chimes in the afternoon breeze, played with an abandon that
seemed both joyous and cruel in its stark contrast to his own
reality.
He watched, not with envy, but with a deep, simmering
determination. Their colorful toys, symbols of a life he could
only imagine, held no allure for him. His focus was on the
land itself, each stolen acre etched into his memory like a
sacred map. His lips moved silently, tracing the invisible
boundaries, counting not just the distance, but the weight of
loss that pressed down upon him.
A gentle hand settled on his shoulder, startling him from his
reverie. He turned to see an elder, his face weathered by time
and hardship, yet his eyes held a spark of unwavering
defiance. The man had spoken to him before, his voice a low
rumble, his questions laced with a quiet empathy.
"Do you wish you had their toys?" the man had asked once,
his gaze lingering on the children playing beyond the fence.
The boy had shaken his head, his voice barely a whisper,
"No. I'm counting the land they stole from us, the land where
my grandfather used to tell stories under the shade of the old
olive tree. I planted a small one there before they took it all.
I want to get it back someday."
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Tunnel
The tunnel gaped open like a monstrous maw, mocking him
with its silence. It had been his mother's passage, a secret path
stitched into the earth, leading to a hidden land whispered to
hold a cure for his brother's wasting sickness. Two weeks,
they'd promised. Two weeks until her return. but the Zionist
bombing of Gaza had come, a symphony of destruction that
choked the tunnel with a shroud of dirt and despair.

Every morning, the boy would stand before the collapsed

entrance. Not with hope, but a fierce, unwavering defiance.
He saw his brothers whisper, their eyes filled with a pity that
chafed at his raw grief. They spoke of anopening,the Rafah
crossing, will befor only one day, a chance for his mother and
brother to walk back through the scar in the earth.
But the boy knew better. He knew the tunnel held a deeper
secret now. It wasn't just choked with rubble; it pulsed with
his mother's unspoken love, a beacon that only he could see.
Each sunrise, the tunnel exhaled a faint luminescence, a
spectral echo of his mother's spirit trapped within. He
wouldn't let empty promises lure him away. He'd become a
sentinel, his vigil a silent conversation with the earth, waiting
for the tunnel to cough up its secret, for the pale light to
solidify into her hand, reaching out from the darkness to
guide him back to her.

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Sleep

Sleep wasn't a refuge for him, it was a battlefield. Every

closed eye brought the pounding of the Zionist soldiers, the
screams of loved ones, the cold steel bite of fear. Soldiers,
like phantoms of the night, haunted his slumber. They raided,
they ravaged, they stole lives – his family's. Sleep became his
tormentor, a treacherous trap baited with the promise of rest.

He was small, powerless against their might. A child caught

in a storm, unable to shield his family from the relentless
onslaught. So, he made a pact fueled by desperation – a vow
to defy sleep itself. He became an unwilling sentinel, forever
vigilant against the encroaching darkness that threatened to
consume them all.

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Gift

The meager coins in his pocket felt like pebbles against the
tide of his love for Najwa. Birthday traditions whispered of
trinkets and frills, but his heart ached at the thought. Those
were baubles, unfit for his daughter, the one destined for a
revolution's heart.

His meager savings wouldn't buy a crown, but something far

greater. A book. Not fleeting pleasure, but a wellspring of
knowledge, a forge that would shape her young mind. Within
its pages, Najwa wouldn't find fleeting joy, but the seeds of
resilience, the tools to build a future brighter than any shop
window trinket.

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Escape
War had become her life. Every checkpoint, every search,
every scrap of news was another torment. Escape was a
lifeline thrown from the sky, a chance to leave the relentless
suffering in Palestine.

Marrying a Palestinian deportee in a faraway land wasn't

ideal, but it was freedom. Freedom from Zionist soldiers, the
constant fear, the gnawing hunger. It was a path to a life filled
with things she'd forgotten – safety, comfort, maybe even a
little joy.

Reaching the border crossing had been a brutal journey. Her

one meager bag held all she had left, a stark contrast to the
life she was leaving behind. Her brother, a silent witness to
their shared ordeal, stood by her side.

With a stamped passport, fleeing Palestine forever was just

one step away. A life of peace stretched before her, a stark
contrast to the epic struggle she'd endured. Yet, a flicker of
doubt ignited. She craved a life beyond mere survival; she
wanted to contribute to the fight, to be part of the glorious
history her people were writing.
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In a defiant act, she turned away from the exit. Her

Palestinian identity, a symbol of her homeland, felt heavy in
her pocket. With her brother by her side, she retraced her
steps. The life of a refugee might be hard, but it was hers. She
would face the enemy, endure the hardship, and wait for the
day they would be driven out. This was her beautiful destiny,
a fight for a brighter future, not a comfortable escape.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Graveyard
It is the largest historical cemetery in Palestine, more than a
thousand years old. All Palestinian faces end up in this
cemetery, the sprawling embrace had held its slumbering
residents. Whispers of lives past danced on the wind, a
symphony of history sung by weathered stones and gnarled
trees. Here, all found their final rest, nestled in the heart of
their homeland.This was the largest such sanctuary, a
testament to a people's unwavering connection to their soil.
But a shadow, cold and hungry, stretched towards this
hallowed ground. The Zionist enemy, consumed by their
insatiable ambition, saw only an obstacle – a graveyard in the
way of progress. Their plan: a monstrous city, a monument
to their greed, built upon the bones of the past.
The first sign of desecration came as a chilling combing of
the grounds. Protests erupted, a human shield forming
against the impending catastrophe. But the enemy's hearts
were as barren as the wasteland they sought to create. Their
machines, devoid of empathy, roared to life, tearing through
the cemetery. Uprooted tombstones lay scattered like broken
teeth. Ancient trees, the verdant guardians of the dead, were
ripped from the soil. Walls, silent witnesses to countless
stories, crumbled under the relentless assault.
Night fell, cloaking the desecrated ground in a chilling
silence. But beneath the cold earth, a tremor stirred. Bones,

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long undisturbed, began to vibrate with a newfound energy.

The slumbering inhabitants, roused by the violation of their
sacred haven, rose from their eternal rest. Cloaked in their
tattered shrouds, they formed an army of the forgotten, their
empty sockets burning with a cold fury. The night echoed
with the rattle of bone on bone as they surged forward, a
silent, spectral host driven by a righteous anger. They were
the guardians of their eternal peace, the defenders of the
hallowed ground, and they would not rest until their final
resting place was restored.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Coat
The unforgiving winter had become their cruel companion.A
whole month passed, and the Palestinian Fedayeen were
stoning the Zionist enemy with their fire and refusing to
surrender to them. For a month, the Fedayeen had weathered
a relentless siege. Bombs rained from the skies like a metallic
plague, the earth trembling with each deafening detonation.
Hunger gnawed at their bellies, thirst parched their throats,
but it was the bone-chilling cold that gnawed deepest.
By a stroke of luck, he had clung to his thick Russian coat, a
relic from a bygone winter. His comrade, shivered
uncontrollably, his thin garments offering scant protection.
he offered the coat, again and again, each time met stubborn
refusal. The world shrank. The besieged citadel, the biting
wind, and the unwavering loyalty to his friend filled his
vision. He was haunted by the ghosts of his people, their
voices echoing a twisted desire for a world cleansed of
everyone but themselves.
Then, a tremor of movement. Soldiers swarmed through a
breach in the castle wall, their boots pounding a rhythm of
imminent doom. There was no time for pleas or
reinforcements. he ripped off his coat, thrusting it hands
comrade to his comrade. "The cold will claim me sooner than
these invaders," he declared, his voice hoarse with
determination. With his rifle clutched tight, he sprinted

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toward the enemy, the last of his precious bullets singing

their deadly song. He fought with a fury born of desperation,
his body a shield against the tide. Each shot was a defiant
roar, each breath a testament to an unyielding spirit. He
fought until the very wellspring of his life ran dry, a solitary
figure bathed in the crimson glow of war. The winter wind
whispered a mournful dirge as he fell, his sacrifice a
testament to the unwavering strength found in the bonds of
brotherhood.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Journalist
He arrived with a hunger for controversy. Pictures of the
crimes of the Zionists, bleeding revolutionaries, and dramatic
narratives - that's what sold. He craved the buzz, the
headlines, a bigger paycheck in the media machine he served.
Morality was a variable depending on the highest bidder.
Here, amidst the human wreckage, he'd prepared to paint the
"Palestinians" as the villain,
But these " Palestinians" defied his script. They didn't kidnap
him for propaganda; they stole him into the raw reality of
their struggle. Two weeks of witnessing their suffering,
documenting their plight, shattered his comfortable
cynicism. He clicked his shutter a thousand times, each frame
a testament to the injustice he'd ignored.
He sent his report, a hollow echo of his experience. Whether
it would be published mattered little. Released, he could have
walked away. Instead, an invisible chain held him. They
hadn't just kidnapped him; they'd kidnapped his apathy.
Disguising with the Palestinian keffiyeh, he chose to follow
them, a different kind of journalist now, forever changed by
the stories etched on his soul.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Friend
Every time he befriends a boy, the Zionists steal him from
him and throw him into the arms of death.
The air hung heavy with the scent of incense and despair as
the young boy shuffled forward. Three somber figures lay
ahead, their lifeless forms shrouded in white cloths, ready to
be carried to their final rest like martyrs. Grief, a weight far
too heavy for his small frame, hunched his shoulders even
lower.
His age denied him the privilege of bearing the fourth friend.
The one a sniper's bullet had stolen yesterday, on their walk
to school. The memory, raw and painful, flickered in his
mind: the sudden thud, the blood staining his hands, the
choked sobs that replaced the playful banter on their lips. No
final words, only the weight of a life extinguished in his
embrace.
Friendship, a concept he cherished, had become a twisted
game. Each boy he connected with became prey, snatched
away by an unseen enemy and thrown into the maw of death.
His teacher's words, a faint solace, echoed in his ears:
"They're free, safe in the upper heaven." Yet, love for
friendship warred with a gnawing fear. Could he dare to open
his heart to another, knowing the shadow of death might
follow? Could he bear the loss of a fifth friend?

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The boy squared his shoulders, a flicker of defiance

replacing the despair. He wouldn't let fear dictate his life. He
would hold onto the memories of his friends, the laughter
they shared, the warmth of their camaraderie. The enemy
might take them, but it could never steal the bonds they
forged. He would keep his heart open, a beacon of love in the
face of darkness. Perhaps, just perhaps, friendship – and the
love it nurtured – would be his weapon after all.

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The keffiyeh 1
When they were forcibly expelled from their homes by force
of arms and brutality, they were told that they would return
there after a few days. They waited a long time at the first
departure station. He decided to return to his home to bring
some food, clothes, and water for his mother, father, and
brothers. The expulsion was a whirlwind of violence.
Bayonets glinted in the harsh sun, their cold promise a stark
contrast to the whispered assurances, "Just a few days." A
hollow echo in the face of forced exile.
They huddled under the grapevines, a displaced family
clinging to the memory of home. Unbaked bread sat
abandoned in the tray, a testament to a life brutally
interrupted. Jars of olives stood untouched, a silent witness
to the stolen harvest.

1
-The keffiyeh: also spelled kufiyeh, is a traditional headwear typically worn
by men in the Middle East. It's a large square scarf, usually made of cotton,
that's designed to be practical and protective.
Palestinian keffiyeh: The black-and-white checkered pattern specifically
associated with Palestinian identity.
Cultural significance: The keffiyeh can represent different things depending on
the region and context.
The keffiyeh or kufiyyeh (, romanized: kūfiyyah, lit. 'coif'), also known in
Arabic as a ghutrah shemagh ( šumāġ), or ḥaṭṭah ), is a raditional headdress
worn by men from parts of the Middle East. It is fashioned from a square scarf,
and is usually made of cotton.[2] The keffiyeh is commonly found
in arid regions, as it provides protection from sunburn, dust and sand.
An agal is often used by Arabs to keep it in
/https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Keffiyeh
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Melodies of the Palestinian

Driven by a desperate need, he embarked on a perilous return,

the weight of their worry a heavy burden on his shoulders.
The darkness offered a fragile cloak, but the illusion of safety
shattered as figures materialized from the shadows.
Villagers, once friends, now transformed into enforcers. Two
fell, silenced by blades that gleamed like malevolent moons.
A month of forced servitude followed. Beatings, humiliation,
and the constant gnawing fear became his companions.
Stealing by night, delivering supplies to the very people who
stole his home, a bitter irony that twisted in his gut.
Escape. A desperate gamble fueled by a flicker of hope. He
returned, a single survivor bearing the weight of a shattered
dream. The news he brought was a heavy stone dropped into
the well of their hope. Returning wasn't an option, not for
now.
The son of the village, another victim, succumbed to the
brutal journey and the crushing oppression. A life
extinguished before it could truly begin.He returned to his
family crying, exhausted and hungry, and the sun covered
him with its rays. He did not cry over his torment, but rather
he cried intensely, ashamed of his exposed hair after the
Zionist criminal gang stole his keffiyeh, forced him to work,
and stripped him of his dignity, pride, and heritage. He cried
without stopping until his father cut off the only keffiyeh he
owned, covered his head with half of it, and covered his son's
head with the other half.

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The passage
The crossing, a silent observer, bore the brunt of countless
tragedies. Witness to a torrent of tears, the gnawing hunger,
and the soul-crushing despair of the Palestinians. Shame
gnawed at its core, mirroring the pain it saw daily. Yet, it
turned away, a prisoner of its own limitations.
Mothers lost children in its shadow, brothers mourned lost
siblings, and wives yearned for absent husbands. The
crossing dreamt of offering solace, of throwing open its arms
to the downtrodden. But those dreams remained caged,
choked by the iron grip of the Zionist soldiers - both within
and without. All were the enemy, their faces and languages
mere masks.
Then, one day, a resolution flickered within the crossing. In
a silent rebellion, it cast off the putrid cloak of obligation.
With a surge of defiance, it tore itself free, fleeing the scene
of suffering. Its place remained, a gaping wound, a challenge
to those who lacked the courage of conviction.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Honor
The desert sun beat down, a merciless hammer forging sweat
from his brow. Hunger gnawed, a familiar companion in this
harsh land. Yet, a new terror, a viper coiling in his gut,
eclipsed all else. Whispers, like dust devils dancing on the
horizon, carried tales of the neighboring villages –the Zionist
gangs 's cruelty, the desecration of the Palestinians women’s
honor.
His heart, a loyal steed, had always belonged to this land. But
now, its gallop faltered. Wife, daughters, granddaughters –
the very essence of his family, their honor as fragile as desert
flowers – threatened by the storm of barbarity closing in. A
bitter seed of sacrifice sprouted in his mind.
He would become a shepherd, not of sheep, but of his
womenfolk. With a fierce urgency, he gathered them – wife,
daughters, granddaughters, daughters-in-law – a flock
fleeing the encroaching darkness.His sons, his own blood,
would remain. Theirs, the duty to stand their ground, blades
flashing in defense of their land's honor.
The women walked first, a veiled caravan against the
scorched earth. He and his remaining sons, a wall of defiance,
brought up the rear. Shame, a searing brand, marked his soul.
He, who bled for this land, was turning his back on its soil.
Yet, the honor of his women – a sacred trust, a whispered
prayer – demanded this desperate exodus.

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The river, a silver thread shimmering on the horizon, marked

the border of their world. Reaching the crossing point, a knot
of fear and resolve tightened in his chest. Here, he entrusted
his wife, his Amanah, to the hands of strangers who promised
safe passage.A pang of heartache, sharp and sudden,
threatened to cripple him. But then, a steely glint hardened
his eyes. He turned back, the weight of his land, a promise
etched in his soul, a heavy burden on his shoulders. He would
fight. He would defend its honor, even if it meant leaving a
piece of his own heart on the other side of the shimmering
river.

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Desert
The desert wind whipped around her, sand clinging to her
kohl-rimmed eyes. It whispered tales of her brothers, stolen
by the army like grains scattered by a careless hand. Three
lay beneath the unforgiving sun, martyrs who defended their
nomadic home. The fourth, a phantom in her heart, was a
captive in more ways than one. They'd taken his spirit,
molded him into their weapon, leaving her adrift in a sea of
loss and shame.
But the desert held secrets, as old and cunning as herself. Her
beauty, a Bedouin rose with thorns hidden beneath velvet
skin, became her weapon. She knew these men, their
predictable hunger for a desert oasis in a woman's form. One
by one, she lured them under the vast canvas of the night sky,
a siren song of solace in the desolate landscape.
Hatred, a smoldering coal in her chest, fueled her vengeance.
Her steps, silent as a desert viper, led them deeper, further
from any hope of rescue. With swift movements honed by
years roaming the untamed land, she'd disarm them, strip
away their arrogance and military might. No guns, no radios,
just men reduced to their barest selves, as lost in the endless
dunes as her spirit had been.

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Painting gallery
The man clutched his citizenship, a bitter weight in his
pocket. It wasn't his. Not truly. It was a brand the occupying
force had seared onto him, a mark of ownership on a stolen
city, a defiled homeland. His heart, however, remained
stubbornly free. Unbound by forced papers, it beat for a land
untouched, a people unbowed.
He had channeled his grief, his rage, into art. Vivid paintings,
born from the ashes of villages, the scars on his city's face,
the ravaged beauty of his stolen land. International aid, a
lifeline thrown across a chasm of despair, had secured a
permit, a fragile bubble of permission to showcase the
brutality he couldn't scream about.
Curious faces thronged the exhibit. The paintings, a tapestry
of loss, drew them in,one of them with the big red pig-head
leaned towards him and asked him curiously: Did you paint
these paintings?
The artist's lips curved into a wry smile. "No," he countered,
his voice quiet but firm. "You did."

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The House
His house was small, crowded with his large family and their
frequent guests. He had always wished that his family had a
bigger house , so that he could have some comfort and
privacy in a room of his own instead of sleeping like a pickled
fish among his many siblings. The house was a symphony of
chaos, a cramped chorus of lives crammed together. Bodies
overflowed from rooms like overstuffed pillows, and his own
space felt less like a bedroom and more like a pickled fish
can. Privacy was a phantom, fleeting and whispered, while
comfort was a luxury reserved for dreams. He yearned for the
hushed solace of a room that was just his, a haven away from
the constant press of elbows and toes. Back home, the house
sang a different tune, its spacious rooms echoing with a
promise of solitude, a promise that here, in this teeming
orchestra of family, felt as distant as a forgotten song.
The occupation bombed their small house, and its fragments
flew left and right. They all found themselves out in the open
without shelter. His mother surrendered to the loud howls,
and his brothers competed to find a place to retire after the
Zionist soldiers expelled them from the land that is a memory
of their home. As for him, he smiled gloatingly in the faces
of the Zionist soldiers because he was now able to make
Palestine a great homeland in which he could go out and have
fun as he wanted without distress.

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One Sentence
Dust motes danced in the fractured sunlight filtering through
the gaping hole where his home used to be. On a lone,
crumbling section of wall, a poignant sentence stood defiant.
Just a few days ago, it had been a child's playful scrawl, met
with his mother's gentle scolding. Now, the silence was
deafening, the beauty of the words a stark contrast to the
devastation around them.
He read his remaining sentence: “Palestine is my home and
we will remain in it.” Some of its letters have almost
disappeared due to peeling wall paint as a result of the
bombing. As he climbed onto one of the stones of his
martyred house, he took some of his blood to color the letters
of the sentence: Palestine is my home, and we will remain in
it. A single sentence, a defiant whisper etched upon rubble
where a home once stood. Written in defiance, yet born of
love, it stands as a monument to loss and a child's resilience,
forever etched in his mother's heart, a silent tear staining the
memory of painted walls.

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Mosque
He never thought that their sheikh in the mosque, who taught
them to recite and interpret the Qur’an, would be the first to
be slaughtered by Zionist soldiers, he spent his life
volunteering to teach Qur’an recitation to the people of the
city of Nablus1.
the imam, a man who walked hand-in-hand with God's word,
lay lifeless on the mosque's bloodied prayer rug. The irony
was a bitter pill to swallow. The sheikh, revered for his
kindness and tireless dedication, had never raised a hand
against another soul. Blind since birth, he knew his students
by the melody of their recitations, each a thread woven into
the tapestry of his life's work. A bullet, a traitor's act, had
silenced the song.
Traces of blood, a crimson stain on the holy carpet, seemed
to hold the warmth of the sheikh's life force. Grief, a heavy
cloak, settled on the young man's shoulders. He clutched the
sheikh's Qur'an, its worn pages whispering tales of faith. A
kiss landed on the cover, a silent prayer for solace. The
Qur'an found a home in his pocket, a shield against the

1
-Nablus: is a fascinating city located in the Palestinian Territories, about 49
kilometers north of Jerusalem. It boasts a rich history dating back thousands of
years, evident in its diverse cultural and religious tapestry. Here's a glimpse into
what makes Nablus unique: Located in the northern West Bank, Nablus is
known for its ancient roots, dating back to Canaanite times. It was once a major
center of trade and culture, and its historical significance is evident in its
numerous archaeological sites and Ottoman-era architecture.
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coming storm. In his other hand, a pile of stones, cold and

unforgiving, awaited their purpose. Vengeance, a bitter fruit,
sprouted from the fertile ground of his loss. He set out, his
heart a battlefield where grief and rage wrestled for control.

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Solidarity
The air crackled with a tension thicker than hunger pangs.
His father and uncles, defiant warriors, waged a silent battle
within the cold walls of the detention center. Their hunger
strike, a weapon against injustice, echoed through the bars.
His frail grandmother, mirroring their resolve, refused
sustenance until her sons walked free. But it was him, barely
a wisp of a boy, shouldering a burden too heavy. His strike
wasn't for food, but for time to fast-forward into a man,
strong enough to liberate his family. In his innocent eyes,
they were titans, their steely resolve a testament to their
power. Yet, a worry gnawed at him. His grandmother, a wisp
of a woman ravaged by illness, couldn't withstand the hunger
that fueled his hope. He longed to replace her strike with a
different weapon – the silent power of prayer.

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The veil
The British forces, confident after cornering the rebels in the
mountains, believed their victory was imminent. They
envisioned capturing them easily in nearby towns, disguised
amongst the townsfolk. Little did they know, a powerful
symbol of unity bound the revolutionaries – the Palestinian
keffiyeh.
In the cities, the common attire was the red fez, not the
keffiyeh. This difference formed the crux of the British plan:
a massive raid with thousands of soldiers, rounding up
revolutionaries in one fell swoop. Their vision was grim –
captured rebels hanging from gallows, a public display to
quell the uprising. Even the mountains, they thought, would
be powerless to resist.
Dawn broke, and the British soldiers descended upon the
Palestinian cities. Yet, their expectation of easily identifying
the rebels was shattered. Every man and boy sported the
keffiyeh, a sea of black and white defiance. The
revolutionaries, once distinct in the mountains, now
seamlessly blended into the urban landscape. The British
general, faced with a city cloaked in a symbol of resistance,
could only watch his meticulously laid plan crumble. A wave
of silent triumph swept through the hearts of the hidden
revolutionaries.

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Expected
Days blurred into a weary eternity. The camp pulsed with a
simmering anger, a desperate longing for the life ripped
away. Escape, however, was a cruel mirage. Their freedom
was hostage to the Zionist enemy's retreat, a condition that
seemed etched in stone. But waiting wasn't in his blood. He
wouldn't watch his future wither.
Marriage to his beloved awaited his brother Musab's release
from the enemy's clutches. But Musab was buried under a
mountain of four life sentences for the audacity of hurling a
stone at their oppressors. His mother's dream of the holy
pilgrimage, Hajj, was as unattainable as the distant stars. The
relentless bulldozers, instruments of their exile, had scraped
away the land, silencing the rustling leaves and replacing
them with a desolate emptiness. His mother wouldn't be
picking olives for Hajj this year, or any year - the enemy's
machines of destruction had devoured the olive groves.
But amidst the despair, a spark ignited within him. He
wouldn't be a passive pawn. The cost was irrelevant.
Freedom had a price, and he was ready to pay. He didn't need
to wait. He had a plan, a desperate gamble fueled by love and
defiance.
The very symbol of their subjugation – the monstrous
bulldozer he steered as a laborer – became his weapon. He
threw himself into the driver's seat, the engine roaring to life

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beneath him. The bulldozer lurched forward, a runaway

metal beast. He didn't just drive. He became a wrecking ball,
a one-man insurgency. The bulldozer was an extension of his
fury, a battering ram against his oppressors. It wasn't about
mindless destruction; it was about carving a path, a passage
to freedom for himself, his brother, and his mother's dream.
He would chase away the enemy, leaving a trail of twisted
metal and fleeing soldiers in his wake. He wouldn't stop until
their captors were crushed, until the impossible became
reality.

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Black Sea
The crisp blue memories of the Gaza Beach, where her
laughter danced with the waves, felt like a cruel mirage now.
Her mother's words echoed in her ears, "You are pure, like
the hearts of martyrs." But purity was a forgotten luxury in
this war-torn reality.
This morning, she woke to a nightmare. Their home, once a
haven, was choking on a tide of filth. The enemy's sewage
weapon had struck again, transforming their streets into fetid
canals. Her daughter, wide-eyed with morbid curiosity,
pointed at the encroaching blackness. "Is this...the Black Sea
for the Zionists?"
The question hung heavy in the air, laced with the stench that
assaulted their senses. With a grimace that mirrored her
daughter's fear, the mother choked out, "Yes, my love. This
is their sea."

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Hobby
Every skill he learned, every ounce of strength he built, was
a weapon forged in the fires of vengeance. As a child, his
nimbleness wasn't just for tag, it was for leaving phantom
bombs - heavy bags on deserted sidewalks - that sent
patrolling Zionist soldiers scrambling, their fear a twisted
trophy. Years bled into purpose, and the leather slingshot he
crafted became an extension of his growing anger. Each
marble launched, a pinpoint of rebellion chipping away at the
occupying force. He honed himself to a silent blade, a
predator stalking his prey. Finally, a weapon became his
constant companion, a grim reflection of the stolen peace.
Each fallen enemy wasn't just eliminated, it was a sacrifice
laid at the altar of his rage. The severed heads, grotesque
offerings to the Palestinians who had perished under the
usurper's tyranny.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Guardian
The wind howled, a banshee carrying the bitter taste of dread.
the younger Palestinian boy breaths were ragged claws
clawing at the air, each gasp a defiance against the coarse
twine that choked his wrists. The Zionist soldiers descended
like a pack of ravens, their laughter echoing off the
mountain's skeletal frame. Easy pickings, they'd croaked,
their cruel amusement etching lines on their faces. The
memory of his scattered flock was a fresh gash in his soul.
He could almost hear their panicked bleats, a silent
symphony swallowed by the jeers of his captors. Now, he
was a broken marionette at the foot of the weathered
headstone, a stark sentinel of mortality mocking him from the
mountain's brow.
From the cold embrace of the earth, a spirit rose, a phantom
stained with the crimson echo of sacrifice. His face, a mosaic
of a hundred fallen warriors, held the whispers of their silent
glory. He was the dawn breaking upon a world choked by
shadows, the embodiment of the martyrs' righteous fury.
Fear, a writhing serpent, coiled around their hearts, sending
them scattering like frightened rats from the hallowed
ground. They fled, not from stone or flesh, but from the
righteous inferno that blazed in the eyes of the resurrected
martyr.

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The Palestinian Republic,

with a length of 95 km

Dalal, a mere wisp of a woman at twenty, carried the weight

of the world on her small shoulders. Years of displacement,
the horrors of war camps, and the sting of poverty had stolen
her childhood, but ignited a fire within.Gone was the
submissive girl. In her place stood a warrior, trained by the
most calloused hands. Here, under the cloak of military garb,
her frail body held a resolute spirit.Her dream, audacious and
fierce, was to liberate Tel al-Rabi' for even a fleeting sixteen
hours. With the Palestinian flag fluttering defiantly on a
hijacked bus, Dalal and her guerrilla comrades announced a
free Palestine, stretching across 95 reclaimed kilometers.

Their capture defied logic. Held hostage themselves, they

demanded the release of their imprisoned brothers and
sisters. Through a Yemeni translator, Dalal's voice rang out,
a challenge to the bewildered soldiers: "This is our land!
What brings you here?"

Eyes wide with fear, the soldiers witnessed a spectacle

unlike any other. This small woman, with warriors beside her
- a Lebanese, a Yemeni, and ten others - had infiltrated the
heart of the occupied city. Two hijacked buses, sixty-eight
captives - a testament to their unwavering resolve.For a
glorious moment, freedom danced in the air. They lived, they
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fought, they dreamt on stolen soil. Finally, surrounded by the

ominous machinery of war, they stood defiant. Bullets rained
down, claiming martyrs, until one pierced Dalal's eye,
granting her an eternal slumber in the land she loved.Even in
death, her spirit soared. The enemy, consumed by rage,
grabbed her hair, a futile attempt to extinguish the inferno
within her. A final, defiant smile played on her lips. Her
message, a rallying cry, echoed through the heavens: a
promise of a land forever Arab.

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A Shadow Dancer's Story

The flickering lamplight cast dancing shadows on the white

linen screen, weaving tales of valor and chivalry. Behind it,
shrouded in darkness, stood the puppeteer, not a knight in
shining armor, but a man known only as "the Shadow
Dancer." His true life was far removed from the heroic
ballads he so masterfully breathed life into. His clothes, like
his life, bore the marks of a wandering existence, a stark
contrast to the intricate figures crafted by his calloused hands.

Yet, when the performance began, a metamorphosis took

place. His voice, roughened by the dust of the road,
transformed into the resonating baritone of a fearless warrior.
His gestures, once listless, became imbued with the grace of
a legendary swordsman. He poured his own yearnings for
adventure and purpose into every sway of the puppets, every
clash of cymbals.

His audience, young and old, was oblivious to the man

behind the curtain. For them, he was an invisible bard,
conjuring worlds where justice prevailed and love conquered
all. They saw reflected in the shadows the heroes they dreamt
of becoming: Antara, the valiant knight, or Saif bin Dhi
Yazan, the unwavering prince. Evenings in his company
were escapes into forgotten times, where children squealed
with delight and elders sighed with nostalgia.
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His fame, however, remained confined to the dimly lit cafes

of Jerusalem. No grand titles adorned him, no riches filled his
pockets. He lived a life of quiet contentment, fueled by the
joy he brought to others and the solace he found in his art.
Perhaps, some might say, he was content to remain a mere
shadow, forever hidden from the limelight.

But then there were the brides. Young women, drawn to his
enigmatic presence, formed an unshakeable bond with him.
They showered him with gifts and favors, not out of mere
admiration, but for a connection deeper, more enigmatic.
Were they drawn to the man hidden in the shadows, or the
heroes he brought to life? Was there a yearning in him,
mirrored in their eyes, for a life beyond the stage, a life where
the lines between shadow and substance, art and reality,
might finally blur?

The answer, like the dancer himself, remained shrouded in

mystery. The story, however, was just beginning. In the
dance of shadows and whispers, the Shadow Dancer had
woven a captivating narrative, not just for his audience, but
for himself. And as the final strains of his song faded, one
couldn't help but wonder if, someday, he might step out of
the shadows and take his own place among the heroes he so
eloquently portrayed. His voice was always a hero, his
performance was a hero, his emotions were a hero, and his
ability to revive events indicated that a hero lived inside him,
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but he lived a simple life without prestige, and had only a

little money to be satisfied with. He always lived for the art
that he loved and lived among its heroes. Brides with whom
he lives an indissoluble friendship. Until the Zionist gangs
came and attacked the city and its villages, and first occupied
the village of Al-Qastal, then the leader - Abdul Qader Al-
Husseini - confronted them to liberate the captive village and
destroy the gangs that intended to seize its entire territory.
Palestine, but the Arabs refused to help or provide assistance
to him. With weapons, he decided to defend his homeland
with the great manhood he possessed and the few men and
weapons. Then free people from everywhere joined them,
and the owner of the shadow joined them, who left his armor
and blood in trust with the owner of the café in the old market
in Jerusalem until his return, and he joined Abdul Qader. Al-
Husseini and his men.
Finally, the time has come for the shadow man to play the
heroic role that he has lived time after time in the world of
imagination, but he has never lived it in reality. He fought
with his only rifle until death came to him after it chased him
many times while he was killing gangsters, which prevented
him from seeing the village of Al-Qastal liberated from...the
Zionist gangs, and he did not see his brave leader martyred
in this battle, but he finally played the role of immortal
heroism that he had always dreamed of, He left life satisfied,
without anyone knowing his name or who he was.

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Eid
Five silent Eids. Five years where Zionist bullets choked the
laughter in their home, leaving only echoes of stolen joy.
He'd had enough. This year, under the cold gaze of guns, Eid
would dance, defiant and bright, across their very doorstep.
A promise, whispered under the watchful eyes of stars,
burned within him: to bring the magic of Eid back to their
walls, walls silent since Uncle Talal's sacrifice painted them
with grief.

Every coin scraped from construction work, every morsel

saved during Ramadan, was poured into crafting this Eid.
The youngest's new clothes, vibrant as hope, were lovingly
adorned by trembling hands. The house gleamed with
borrowed joy, balloons its rainbow tears, candles its
flickering prayers. He walked towards them, guided by the
aroma of pies - nuts, dates, and dreams swirling in buttery
pastry.And then, silence. A window yawned open, spitting
out his brother's soul. A bullet, cold and cruel, had found its
mark while he savored his mother's love and awaited the Eid
he'd longed for.

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Captivity Melodies

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Hopes
Amal. It wasn't just a name; it was a lifeline. A name she
bestowed upon her new-born daughter, a vessel for her
dreams, hopes, and the gnawing fear for a future shadowed
by an aging husband. Unlike other women, Amal, the elder,
had no parents or helping hands – a stark contrast to her own
childhood, a time of blissful indulgence, shielded by her
parents' overprotectiveness.
But life, a relentless sculptor, had other plans. One day, on
her way to school, the youthful Amal was snatched by Zionist
soldiers. No crime, no accusation, just a chilling
disappearance. They flung her into a detention center, a
desolate desert prison for Palestinians, a place devoid of
mercy. Books and notebooks, her tools for learning, were
callously confiscated. There, amidst the harsh realities of
confinement, Amal, the carefree child, was forced to grow
up.
News of her plight spread. International voices rose in
unison, demanding the release of the world's youngest
political prisoner. After months of stolen youth and endured
hardships, Amal was finally released. But a part of her, the
innocent child, remained forever imprisoned within the walls
of that desert prison.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Baby prisoner
The air in the cramped cell hung heavy, thick with the scent
of despair and damp earth. Mold, like an unwelcome guest,
painted grotesque murals across the rough-hewn walls.
Hunger gnawed at his tiny belly, a constant companion in this
dismal place. Faces, etched with hardship, pressed against his
view – a sea of humanity trapped within these cold stone
walls.
Yet, despite the suffocating atmosphere, a spark flickered
within him – a defiant ember refusing to be extinguished. He
would survive. After all, his very arrival was a testament to
his tenacity. He had been born amidst the chaos, his birth cry
a defiant challenge to their captors.
His mother, bound by cruel chains, had fought tooth and nail
to bring him into the world. No soft coo greeted his arrival;
her hands, too, were prisoners. His first taste of freedom was
the harsh reality of hunger, his mother's milk a fleeting
memory before it even began. A cruel twist of fate stole her
consciousness, leaving him a fragile new-born adrift in a sea
of suffering.
Love, however, was a language he understood innately. He
felt it in the warmth of her whispers, promises of escape from
this wretched place she called their "prison." He held onto
them fiercely, these dreams of freedom. They fueled his will
to live, a silent rebellion against their captors.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

He yearned to see his father, Jaber, his sister, and all the loved
ones she spoke of. He dreamt of one day confronting the
imposing female soldiers who guarded them, he will soon be
able to raise two of his fingers as a Palestinian victory sign.
He was the youngest prisoner, they said – a title bestowed
upon him with an unsettling amusement. He didn't grasp its
full significance yet, but a seed of understanding had been
sown. One day, he would understand the weight of this title.
Until then, he clung to his mother's promises, believing with
every fiber of his being that one day, the walls of this prison
would crumble, and they would walk free.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Strike
Hunger, a relentless beast, gnawed at his insides. It
mimicked the gnawing injustice that kept him prisoner.
Months bled into weeks, his gaunt form a stark etching
against the unforgiving stone walls. Force-fed sustenance, a
cruel parody of nourishment, left him enfeebled, a captive to
his cot, his world shrunk to its unforgiving frame.
They craved his surrender, a hollowed husk succumbing to
their silent torment. Whispers of freedom campaigns, mere
echoes beyond these suffocating walls, elicited no reaction.
Yet, even as his body faltered, a defiant ember flickered
within.
The guard, a cog in the oppressive machine, sat opposite him,
oblivious to the silent symphony of defiance. He scoffed,
ripping into a bounty of food – a feast lightyears away from
the prisoner's reality. "This pointless starvation," the guard
sneered, morbid curiosity twisting his words. "Madness."
The prisoner, his voice a rasp but his spirit unwavering,
countered, "You, who gorge without a thought, cannot grasp
the fire that burns within. It's the fire of freedom, of justice,
a light they can never extinguish."
His words echoed, heavy in the stagnant air. A testament to
the unyielding spirit that resided within his frail form. They
could steal his freedom, but his voice, his unwavering
resolve, remained a beacon of defiance, a silent protest
against the encroaching darkness.

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The poem
A poet, his heart a brimming well of verse, But cursed with
memory frail and perverse. Each word for Khadija, his love
so true, He etched on paper, lest inspiration flew.
Thrown in the pit, where pens and paper lay banned, He
found a solace in this prisoner's land. He'd break his stanzas,
ten to every soul, A scattered tapestry, to make his verses
whole.
Through bars and stones, he'd quiz and test their recall,
Uncaring of their jeers, their mocking drawl. For in their
memories, his love's portrait did reside, A symphony of
poems, Khadija as his guide.
None dared speak the truth, a mercy bittersweet, That
Khadija's journey, life's cruel bullets did meet. And he, in
silent grief, a burden he must bear, The knowledge that his
love, his world, was no longer there.
His poems, like whispers, in chests they remain, A testament
to love, etched deep in every vein. Yet, never to touch her
lips, no ear to hear their rhyme, A poignant echo of a love
lost in the sands of time.

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Tears
Suddenly, just as rain washes away years of drought, the
decision comes to release Palestinian prisoners in exchange
for deals agreed upon with the Zionist entity.
Rain lashed upon the parched earth, a bittersweet symphony
of cleansing and grief. Hope, long dormant, surged through
parched hearts.
He raced towards the gates; wings unfurled in desperate
anticipation. Each face, etched with hardship and time, was
scanned with a yearning so fierce it burned. Was his father
among them? Each reunion, each heartfelt embrace, was a
dagger to his soul, a painful reminder of his own yearning.
And then, the stark realization. His father wasn't there.
He spun away; a dam built of pride threatening to break. The
ache in his throat was a searing ember, threatening to erupt
in a torrent of tears. But he was a man, and men, according
to the unwritten code etched upon his heart, didn't cry.
He scrubbed the moisture from his eyes with rough palms,
feeling the sting of unshed tears. The rain, a mirror to his
inner turmoil, continued its relentless fall, washing away dust
but leaving the parched cracks of his heart untouched. He
stood, alone, a solitary figure amidst the joyful symphony of
reunions, the weight of his unspoken grief a heavy cloak
upon his shoulders.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

The prisoner
He is a new Zionist soldier among the service staff in this
Zionist prison. His stupid, flat face was blue with death as he
watched the torture of Palestinian detainees.
But he soon tasted the lust of killing people. His huge body
was like a hybrid bull, which cut off the life of a young
Palestinian man with a single headbutt.
The murdered Palestinian young man emerged from prison
with a lifeless body despite his nose. He was the one who
threatened him with life imprisonment, defying his youth,
handsomeness, courage, and determination that exuded
disgust. Disgust in the face of his dullness.
From that moment, Zionist soldier became the real prisoner.
Confined not by bars and guards, but by a soul-stained
crimson. While the lifeless body of the young man was
carried away, another soul soared free, joining the luminous
trail of martyrs ascending towards the heavens. Zionist
soldier, however, remained trapped – a living prisoner
chained to his guilt, condemned to witness the unending
procession of liberated souls, a constant reminder of the life
he extinguished and the humanity he surrendered.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Milk
Hope, a flickering ember, had almost been extinguished
within her. Barren for years, she'd watched love and family
slip through her fingers,and a couple, one of whom was her
cousin, abandoned her because of her infertility. a cruel
reminder of the emptiness she felt. Yet, fate, in a cruel twist,
chose that moment to kindle a new flame. Zuhdi, her
neighbor, saw beyond the emptiness, offering her a hand and
a heart. Their union blossomed, and a miracle unfolded - a
son, a gift from the heavens.She never expected that fate
would bless her with an infant son – rizk alah - after she lost
hope of having children.
But fate, it seemed, wasn't done playing its hand. A cruel
turn of events, she found herself a prisoner in a Zionist prison
in the desert, far from her infant child, which she had left as
a precious trust in the custody of her sister-in-law.
What saddens her most is that her infant needs her milk,
which flows from her every time she mentions his name One
pang echoed louder than the clanging of prison bars or the
taunts of her captors - the knowledge of her son needing her
milk, a life-giving elixir flowing within her. Undeterred by
the harsh realities, she clung to a sliver of hope, a belief in
the impossible.
With an unwavering faith in unseen forces, she defied the
constraints of her dusty prison garb. In the quiet confines of

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her own mind, she conjured an image of her son, his tiny face
crinkling in a smile. And then, a miracle. Milk, a testament
to the unbreakable bond between mother and child, flowed
freely, defying the impossible distance. Across the desert,
miles away, her son, guided by an unseen force, found solace
in the milk that flowed from his mother's heart, a silent,
nourishing embrace transcending the harsh realities of their
separation.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Prisoner
He spent eleven years in Zionist captivity on charges of
major sabotage, because he fired several bullets at a camp of
Zionist soldiers. He entered there as a child driven by
enthusiasm and a pure, innocent desire to bear witness and
liberate Palestine from the shackles of slavery. He emerged
as dean of prisoners with a militant thought in the school of
Arab sacrifice for the Palestinian cause
He did not find anyone waiting for him when he left prison.
He believed that none of his family members and friends
were allowed to enter the occupied Palestinian territories to
receive him. He waited impatiently to meet them on the
borders of his homeland and find them gathered, waiting for
his auspicious and victorious return with patience and
persistence in the attempts to enslave him. And defeat him.
But he did not find anyone waiting for him except a handful
of his brothers and some of his close friends Their number
does not exceed the fingers of one hand. He was surprised by
the absence of people from meeting the dean of the
Palestinian prisoners. They were in the streets in large
crowds, rushing to the city’s airport to receive an Arab
dancer, lame in spirit and foot, to receive her as a heroine,
because she danced semi-naked for some world presidents,
including Zionist leaders. At the sports summit, she danced a
continuous Arab dance, resembling... The folds of a snake

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that strangles a rabbit. He could hear them in the street saying

that this dancer had honored the Arabs with her beautiful art
and her transparent dress that cast her flesh and body in the
faces of those who met her.
He sat on the sidewalk alone, tired and defeated, feeling as
if he was still in captivity. Eleven summers bloomed and
wilted beyond the bars, each sunrise a mocking reminder of
stolen freedom.
He slumped onto the sidewalk, the weight of their misplaced
adoration crushing him. The echoes of their cheers mocked
his sacrifice. He felt the phantom bars of his cage closing in,
the taste of freedom, bitter ashes on his tongue. The prison
may have released him, but true freedom, it seemed,
remained tantalizingly out of reach.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Birthday
It's her sixteenth birthday. It is a bell of sadness that rings in
the coldness of her frightened soul. There was no party, no
candy, no gift, and no celebration waiting for her. It was not
youth, beauty, dreams and joy that awaited her, but what
awaited her in her home. The ancient captive city of
Nazareth1 is issued by the unjust Zionist law that prevents
the children of Palestinian prisoners and prisoners from
visiting their detained fathers and mothers if they reach the
age of sixteen.

1
- Nazareth :(/ˈnæzərəθ/ NAZ-ər-əth; romanized: an-Nāṣira; Hebrew: ‫נָצְּ ַרת‬,
romanized: Nāṣəraṯ; Syriac: ‫ܢܨܪܬ‬, romanized: Naṣrath) is the largest city in the
Northern District . In 2022 its population was 78,007. Nazareth serves as a
cultural, political, religious, economic and commercial center for the Arab
citizens Known as "the Arab capital it is also a center of Arab and Palestinian
nationalism.The inhabitants are predominantly Arab citizens of whom 69% are
Muslim and 30.9% Christian. The city also commands immense religious
significance, deriving from its status as the hometown of Jesus, the central
figure of Christianity and a prophet in Islam.
Findings unearthed in the neighboring Qafzeh Cave show that the area around
Nazareth was populated in the prehistoric period. Nazareth was a Jewish village
during the Roman and Byzantine periods and is described in the New Testament
as the childhood home of Jesus.It became an important city during the Crusades
after Tancred established it as the capital of the Principality of Galilee. The city
declined under Mamluk rule, and following the Ottoman conquest, the city's
Christian residents were expelled, only to return once Fakhr ad-Dīn II granted
them permission to do so. In the 18th century, Zahir al-Umar transformed
Nazareth into a large town by encouraging immigration to it. The city grew
steadily during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, when European powers
invested in the construction of churches, monasteries, educational and health
facilities. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nazareth
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Each flicker casting long, dancing shadows on the cold, bare

walls. A stark contrast to the warmth her heart craved. No
balloons, no cake, no excited chatter. Just the suffocating
silence of absence.
This wasn't the birthday she dreamt of. No joyous friends, no
overflowing presents, only the gnawing ache of loss. As per
the cruel law. A lifetime sentence for him, fighting for their
homeland's freedom, now equated to a lifetime sentence of
her own - one devoid of his presence.
Yet, she refused to surrender to this injustice. Donning her
only "special occasion" dress, a symbol of hope amidst
despair, she lit a single candle. A solitary beacon in the
desolate landscape of her day. With eyes squeezed shut, a
single wish, one that echoed the deepest yearnings of her
soul, escaped her lips. Then, a single, resolute blow,
extinguishing the dancing flame.
Suddenly, a sound pierced the silence. The familiar creak of
the front door. Her heart lurched. Could it be...?
Slowly, the door swung open, revealing a figure bathed in the
soft glow of the dying light. Her breath hitched in her throat.
Tears welled up, blurring the image before her. It couldn't be
real, could it?
But it was. A tired smile stretched across his face, etched with
lines of hardship but overflowing with love. He was there.

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Her father. Against all odds, defying distance and unjust

laws, he had come to celebrate her birthday.
In that moment, the cold walls seemed to melt away, replaced
by the warmth of his embrace. This wasn't the birthday she
dreamt of, but it was infinitely more. It was a birthday filled
with the most precious gift of all - the unwavering love of a
father, defying the world just to be with his daughter. The
flame of hope rekindled, brighter than any birthday candle.

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Nudity
Her lineage stretched back centuries; a tapestry woven with
religious devotion. The Quran flowed from her tongue,
memorized since childhood. The hijab, a shield of faith, had
adorned her for as long as she could remember. Her beauty,
a secret never revealed, a treasure unseen by any man,
relative or stranger.

Her guiding light was her grandmother, a woman of

unwavering faith. Prayers for protection echoed from her
lips, day and night. She was a leader, revered by a renowned
Sufi order. Yet, fate had dealt a cruel hand. The one man who
dared to break through the veil of her seclusion, to propose,
was silenced by an enemy's bullet during a fiery
demonstration. Thus, the precious gem remained hidden, a
flicker of light veiled within the deep, protective shell of her
family home.
But now she stands before the Zionist Investigation
Committee since they arrested her in a martyrdom operation
that ended in failure, and they practiced various types of
torture on her, and what they achieved was her determination
and steadfastness, and finally these soldiers wanted to torture
her with a weapon, stripping a shy Muslim woman in front
of a herd of pigs. They thought... they would break the power
of her proud spirit if they blew her cover.

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Bare as the earth they coveted, she stood, a sculpture of

defiance. The wind, a witness to their barbarity, whispered
through the rents in her spirit. The leeches, both human and
feral, feasted on her ravaged form, but their hunger could not
extinguish the fire that burned within. Unashamed, she
became the embodiment of the land itself, a defiant spirit
forever bound to the soil they sought to steal.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Heart
The prison director - the Zionist general - decided to kill the
young Palestinian prisoner in order to steal his healthy heart,
to give it to his Zionist brother, who had been bedridden for
years with no hope of enjoying good health, and to transplant
a heart into his chest instead of his defective heart, so that life
and hope could resume.
Ever since he saw that captive Palestinian young man
coming from Mount Hebron, who was proud of his health,
freshness, and activity, he had dreamed of attacking his heart
to tear it from his chest and plant it in the heart of his brother
- Baruch.
Finally, he achieved his dream and stole the Palestinian heart
from its owner’s chest, just as he stole Palestine and its safe
and peaceful people before.
Everything was prepared for him. The Palestinian young man
was buried by the Zionist army under the pretext that he was
a terrorist, and his body should not be handed over to his
family for fear of any commando operations in retaliation for
his death. The medical staff at the Zionist Hospital in the city
of Tel al-Rabi', which they call Tel Aviv, was on alert. To
perform a heart transplant after the stolen heart arrives
Everything went according to the Zionist general's plan, and
his brother's body welcomed the stolen heart, and after a few
days the blush of life covered his brother's cheeks, who woke
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up after a short coma that took over him after a long and
complicated operation to replace the Palestinian boy's heart
with his defective, rusty heart.
The thief general and everyone around him smiled at the
young Zionist who had returned to life with a Palestinian
heart. He opened his eyes to life with suffocating joy.
The general asked his brother impatiently: “Baruch, my
beloved brother, are you okay?”
The young Zionist responded with astonishment and
condemnation to what he heard: I am not Baruch; I am Jamil
Al-Khalili. why I am here? Who are you? I have to leave this
place to go to pray at the Ibrahimi Mosque.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Sperm
Souad's path to motherhood was an arduous one. Years of
displacement, imprisonment for both her and her husband,
and the stark reality of separation presented formidable
obstacles. However, through an unconventional medical
intervention facilitated by her doctor at the vaccination
hospital, a single sperm sample was successfully retrieved
from her husband while incarcerated.
The retrieval process, necessitated by the presence of
witnesses, was unorthodox but necessary. Despite significant
cell death, a few sperm survived dehydration and freezing,
ultimately fertilizing Souad's egg and initiating a pregnancy.
This lone survivor, a testament to perseverance, defied the
odds. It journeyed through hostile conditions, ultimately
finding life within Souad's womb. This new life, named
Ammar, became a symbol of defiance against the Zionist
prison. and swore to carry his father’s flag as the Palestinian
flag flies high. He embodied a continuation of the father's
presence, a promise of a future that wouldn't be extinguished.
Souad, now carrying Ammar, found solace in this victory.
She held him aloft for the prison guards to see, a silent
challenge to their attempt to sever parental bonds. A
triumphant smile played on her lips. Ammar, a bridge across
the miles of separation, carried the hope of a reunion. He
promised a future where a strong, resilient man, much like
his father, would await him at the prison gates - a father ready
to embrace his son after a quarter-century of separation.

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Refugee Camp

Melodies

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The Path
The dust swirled around his ankles, a constant companion on
this road of uncertainty. He was just a boy then, clinging to
his father's hand, eyes wide with a confusion that mirrored
the chaos around them. It was 1948, the year the ground
beneath their feet turned to ash. His father, a whirlwind of
motion, dragged him, his brothers, and whatever furniture
they could salvage from the wreckage of their life.
"Where are we going, Dad?" he'd asked, his voice barely a
whisper against the cacophony of fleeing people and
collapsing buildings. His father's response was a curt, "We
don't know." A terrifying lack of knowledge that settled in
the boy's stomach like a stone.
Now, years etched lines on his face, the furrows mirroring
the hardships endured. He was the one gripping hands, twin
sons clutching at him with the same wide-eyed fear he
remembered. But this time, it was 1967. Another exodus,
another wound ripped open. The bloody events of the time
echoed in the screams that tore through the air. One son, his
voice small and trembling, broke through the haze of fear.
"Where are we going, Dad.?"
A smile, brittle as autumn leaves dancing in the wind, graced
his father's face. It was a smile laced with bitter truth. "We
leave one camp," he rasped, "only to find another." The
words hung heavy in the air; a grim prophecy whispered
against the backdrop of their uncertain future.

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Tal Al-Zaatar:
The image of death, once a foreign concept, had become
tragically familiar. Fear, a phantom once, had dissolved into
a dull ache. What fear could remain when countless faces -
beloved, familiar - had been etched into her memory as
lifeless masks?She didn't think death had such brutal forms
of barbarism on humans. The gangs attacking Tal al-Zaatar
camp worked hard to invent the most horrific ways to kill
Palestinians without guilt or crime, because they were on the
agenda of liquidating a party for purely political reasons.
She no longer cares about images of death. She waits for him
without fear. She's not afraid of those gang monsters. All that
mattered now was the single, desperate hope: a single jar of
water to quench the parched throats of her mother and sisters.
But water, the very essence of life, had become a deadly
gamble. Every drop was guarded by the chilling gaze of
snipers and the chaotic symphony of gunfire. The wells, once
life-giving veins, now ran crimson, a gruesome testament to
those who had perished in their quest for sustenance. They
wiped out countless relatives, neighbors, and friends before
her eyes.
Bringing a jar of water was impossible under the bullets of
snipers and the gunfights of the gangs. The water wells are
filled with the blood of Palestinian martyrs who were
determined to deliver water to their families.

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She bets her life on a jar of water. She takes risks and hides
her sad little heart from the eyes of snipers. She stumbles
upon the bodies of the martyrs of the camp's people.
Finally, a fallen figure, not monster, not enemy, but simply
another soul consumed by the arid cruelty of the siege. Tears
streamed down her face as she knelt beside the still form, her
cupped hands collecting the precious drops before they
surrendered to the thirsty earth. This meager offering, stained
with sacrifice, was all she had to offer her family, a testament
to the indomitable spirit that still flickered amidst the ruins
of hope.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Hanzala
Haunted by generations of exile, he carried the weight of
misery like an inherited curse. Humiliation became his
armor, forced upon him by circumstance.He inherited misery
from his fathers and grandfathers. He also inherited from
them a life of exile. He forced himself into camp life and
humiliation. He thought that luck favored his older brother,
who inherited the fatherly role from their father, who was
crushed by illness and misery until he died without a body.
So, he was able to build a warehouse. When he was a young
child, he called it home away from the camp in a remote area
on the outskirts of the city where he had lived as a refugee.
His mother, brothers, wife, and his wife’s mother, who lived
with them, were crammed into it.
But within the hallowed halls of learning, whispers turned
into jeers. His origin, a scarlet letter branding him in the eyes
of his peers. Though no less intelligent, capable, or
deserving, he became a target, their ignorance fueling their
malice
The school students kept making fun of him because he was
a Palestinian coming from the camp.
He met their taunts with silence, a shield forged in quiet
defiance. Shoes cast aside, he turned his back, refusing to
acknowledge their barbs. Shame, a cloak once worn heavily,
now lay discarded, replaced by a quiet dignity. His very

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presence, unbowed and unbroken, became a silent rebuke to

their cruelty; He took off his shoes and turned his back to
them. He no longer cared about their presence, responded to
their insults, or was ashamed of his Palestinian accent. He
wrote on the blackboard hanging on the wall: “Hanzala is
angry now”.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Picture
Flames devoured the camp, casting an orange glow on the
faces etched with terror. In the midst of the chaos, a mother
clutched a tattered photo book, its worn leather cover offering
a stark contrast to the carnage around them. Within its pages,
a lifetime of stolen moments, children's smiles frozen in time,
a defiant flicker of normalcy against the encroaching
darkness. These were her treasures; all she could salvage
from a world collapsing.Escape. The word hammered in her
skull, a frantic drumbeat urging her forward. But where?
Every path led into the unknown, a labyrinth of dangers
unseen. The weight of three tiny lives pressed against her
trembling legs, their fear a cold fist squeezing her heart. Yet,
before the question of direction could fully bloom, a gunshot
shattered the night. The world dissolved into a crimson haze,
the mother's burden lifted, not by escape, but by a brutal
finality.
In the ashes of the massacre, only the youngest daughter
remained, a single teardrop tracing a path down a soot-
streaked cheek. Her tiny hand clutched the photo book, the
only legacy of a mother's love, a fragile testament to a life
stolen, and a beacon of hope in the face of unimaginable loss.
The world had become a labyrinth, each twist and turn
revealing only more desolation. Seven sunrises had bled into
sunsets, each painting the sky in hues of despair. The young

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girl, once vibrant and full of laughter, now resembled a wisp

of smoke, clinging desperately to the edges of existence.
Exhaustion became her unwelcome companion, its heavy
cloak pulling her down. She sought solace in the long grass
fringing a forgotten sewer grate, a meager shelter offering no
comfort, only a brief reprieve from the relentless sun. Her
heart, a fragile bird trapped in a cage of grief, fluttered
weakly as she tore through the pages of her notebook. Each
picture, once a cherished memory, now a haunting reminder
of all that was lost. The faces of loved ones, frozen in smiles,
crumbled under the relentless onslaught of tears.
Only one remained, a stark contrast to the others. Her own
reflection, stained with the crimson testament of the
massacre, stared back at her. It was a reflection she both
loathed and clung to - a stark reminder of survival in the face
of utter devastation. Carefully, she folded the bloodied
image, tucking it away in the depths of her pocket, a token of
resilience amidst the wreckage of her world.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

A Farm Chicken
He cherished a life as peaceful as a summer pond. He
harbored a paralyzing fear – a tetraphobia of death, conflict,
torture, and any form of confrontation. This terror kept him
firmly on the sidelines of life. He wouldn't dare participate in
any act of resistance, choosing instead the path of a farm
chicken – timid, cautious, easily startled. Yet, this
unwavering commitment to cowardice didn't grant him
immunity. The iron fist of authority slammed down just the
same.One day, he found himself plucked from his quiet
existence, tossed into a cage alongside his very people, the
ones he'd watched from the safe haven of his fear.Now,
surrounded by those who dared to fight, the man who lived
like a chicken, had to confront the consequences of his own
inaction.
His plan was to maintain his cowardice until he got out of
prison safely, but once the Palestinian Fedayeen took over his
education, they made him a real man worthy of being
Palestinian.
The prison gates groaned open, spitting him back onto the
unforgiving streets. he wasn't a free man, not yet. He was a
man possessed, fueled by a white-hot rage that burned
brighter than the midday sun. The years spent staring at cold
concrete had hardened him, forged a determination tempered

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in anger. He wasn't searching for freedom, he was hunting.

His enemy, the one who stole his life, awaited.
For the first time, he didn't hunch, didn't shrink into the
shadows. He threw back his head, a gesture both defiant and
exhilarating. No longer did he resemble a caged bird, content
to peck at the ground. This city, once his tormentor, now
stretched before him like a vast hunting ground. He was the
apex predator, a predator with a score to settle. The defeated
man who shuffled into prison years ago was gone. In his
place, a predator with the focused gaze of an eagle scanned
his new domain, ready to claim his vengeance.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

The last fight

The man was a blur of motion, his ragged breaths the only
soundtrack to his frantic flight. Tucked securely in his arms,
a little girl with hair like spun moonlight clung on, her once
vibrant face now pale and drawn. He couldn't explain, not to
the curious eyes that followed him on deserted roads, not to
the ghosts that chased him in every shadow. Every spare
ounce of energy fueled his desperate escape, leading him
further away from the sight of humanity.

His destination remained shrouded, a shimmering mirage in

the desert of his despair. He only knew he had to keep
running, his arms burning with the weight of his precious
cargo, until he found a haven where he could finally lower
her, finally let go.

Days bled into one another, a relentless marathon fueled by

grief and a gnawing, inescapable guilt. The Yarmouk
camp 1 , a festering wound in his memory, haunted him.
1
- Yarmouk: is a 2.11-square-kilometer (520-acre) district of the city of
Damascus, populated by Palestinians. It is located 8 kilometers (5.0 mi) from
the center of Damascus and within municipal boundaries; this was not the case
when it was established in 1957. It contains hospitals and schools. Yarmouk is
an "unofficial" refugee camp, as UNRWA rejected a Syrian government request
to recognize the camp in 1960.Now depopulated, it was previously home to the
largest Palestinian refugee community in Syria. As of June 2002, there had been
112,550 registered refugees living in Yarmouk.During the Syrian Civil War,
Yarmouk camp became the scene of intense fighting in 2012 between the Free
Syrian Army and the PFLP-GC, supported by Syrian government forces. The
camp then was consequently taken over by various factions and was deprived
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Melodies of the Palestinian

Images of slow human decay – hunger etched on faces,

disease stealing life's vibrancy – flickered behind his
exhausted eyes.

He hadn't fled out of cowardice; he'd left to save his wife,

his seven fragile flames. But fate, a cruel puppeteer, had
snatched them away. Flight, homelessness, hunger – they'd
all become grim companions on their desperate escape,
stealing their lives one by one. The weight of their Palestinian
identity, a heavy cloak upon their shoulders, offered no
solace. Only the echo of their silenced laughter remained, a
constant accusation in the quiet of his pounding heart.

of supplies, resulting in hunger,diseases and a high death rate, which caused

many to flee.By the end of 2014, the camp population had gone down to just
20,000 residents. In early April 2015, most of the Yarmouk camp was overrun
by the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant, sparking armed clashes with
Palestinian militia Aknaf Bait al-Maqdis. At this point, the population was
estimated at 18,000. After intense fighting in April/May 2018, Syrian
government forces took the camp, its population now reduced to just 100–200.
It is estimated that 160,000 Palestinians were displaced and forced to flee the
Yarmouk refugee camp against their will during the Syrian civil war. Many
Palestinians raised concerns that the Syrian regime may want to redevelop the
area for use by Syrians. There have been suggestions within Syria to relocate
the Palestinians to remote scrubland. As of 2022, Palestinians have begun to
return, but the population remains far from its pre-war peak.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yarmouk_Camp
The Yarmouk camp, once a place of bustling life and shared dreams, now
loomed in his memory like a desolate graveyard. It was there, amidst the
crumbling buildings and hollow streets, that he'd witnessed humanity stripped
bare, succumbing to a slow and agonizing death – hunger gnawing at their
bellies, thirst cracking their lips, despair dimming their eyes. It was a tableau of
suffering etched permanently onto his soul.
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Melodies of the Palestinian

The skeletal branches overhead offered a mocking canopy

of bareness, the forest clinging to its final grasp of winter. A
small river, icy and unforgiving, snaked through the
undergrowth, the final barrier to their destination. He, a man
etched with exhaustion, knelt at its bank, the weight of his
burden heavier than the ragged pack on his back. His
daughter, a wisp of a girl, nestled against him, her body
wracked with coughs that echoed eerily in the stillness.

His heart, a leaden weight in his chest, pounded a frantic

rhythm against his ribs. Hunger gnawed at his insides; a dull
ache easily ignored compared to the fear gnawing at his soul.
Time, a luxury they couldn't afford, was running out.
Reaching the other side, reaching help, was the only thought
that propelled him forward.

He waded in, the frigid water numbing his legs with each
agonizing step. Ignoring the bite of the cold, he focused on
the warmth radiating from the small form clinging to him.
Her breaths, shallow gasps against the rushing water, were
the only sounds that mattered. He pushed on, fueled by a
desperate hope that flickered within him like a dying ember.

His muscles screamed, his vision blurring at the edges, but

he kept moving. He wouldn't let go. He couldn't. Finally, his
feet touched the muddy bank on the other side. Relief, a
bittersweet sensation, washed over him as he collapsed on the
ground, his daughter cradled in his numb arms.
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Melodies of the Palestinian

He checked for her breath, his own ragged gasps a

counterpoint to the silence around him. A faint rise and fall
of her chest, a testament to her fragile hold on life, filled him
with a surge of exhausted hope. He slumped beside her, his
body surrendering to the weight of their ordeal. death, a thief
in the night, stole over him, a cruel comfort in the face of
their uncertain reality, unveiled a heart-wrenching tableau.
The man lay still, his face etched with the peace of a man
who had fought his last fight.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Ain al-Hilweh camp1

The clatter of metal and the dusty air of the Ain al-Hilweh
camp in Lebanon were the backdrop for their unlikely
meeting. He, with kind Lebanese words, tried his hand at
flirting. Her response? A torrent of insults, delivered with a
fiery spirit that captivated him. He saw beauty, not in the
weapons she carried for a cause close to her heart, but in the
spark, it ignited within her. Beneath the rough camouflage of
a Palestinian guerrilla cub, he knew there was a heart that
held tenderness and compassion. A heart, perhaps, that
dreamt of weaving flower crowns in rice steppes instead of
wielding weapons. It was this hidden sweetness that earned
her the nickname "the sweet one."

1
- Ein El Hilweh camp is located south of Saida in south Lebanon. It is the
largest Palestine Refugee camp in Lebanon.The camp’s inhabitants originally
came in 1948, mostly from coastal Palestinian towns. The camp also hosts a
large number of Palestine Refugees displaced from other parts of Lebanon,
particularly from Tripoli, who came to Ein El Hilweh during the Lebanese civil
war and in the aftermath of the Nahr el-Bared conflict in 2007. The ongoing
Syria crisis has also led to the additional presence of Syrian refugees and
Palestine Refugees from Syria (PRS) in the camp.
Security and governance in the camp are the responsibility of Popular
Committees and Palestinian Factions. The camp is surrounded by a wall and
access for people and building materials is controlled by the Lebanese Armed
Forces through checkpoints. Last updated July
2023.https://www.unrwa.org/where-we-work/lebanon/ein-el-hilweh-camp

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Marriage. He proposed, and she, with a laugh that mocked

his gentle ways, accepted. Her eyes, though, saw the strength
beneath his kindness, the resolve of a man determined. She
teased him about his love for her, yet privately reveled in the
fact that this handsome, blond had fallen for her. He, in turn,
dreamt of a child – their child – who would inherit her fiery
spirit and stubborn defiance.
But duty called. With a heavy heart, she abandoned him, the
pull of armed struggle in Palestine too strong to resist. He felt
no anger, no betrayal. He understood; she was bound to a
greater love, a love for her homeland. Picking up his own
weapon, a newfound resolve hardened his gaze. He would
follow her, fight by her side, and maybe, just maybe, become
the father of a child as brave and stubborn as the "sweet one"
who had stolen his heart.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Aisha colors
Aisha, their beloved art teacher, was a beacon of vibrancy in
the bleakness of Yarmouk camp. Her classes were splashes
of color in a world drained of hope. When poverty stole the
children's chance to own crayons and paper, Aisha
shouldered the burden, buying supplies so they could unleash
their creativity. But Aisha wasn't just about art; she painted a
picture of life beyond the camp's harsh reality. With every
stroke, she taught them to see beauty where it seemed non-
existent.
One day, Aisha promised to return with much-needed food
and medicine. The children, brimming with trust, eagerly
awaited their "Miss Aisha Colors." But days turned into
weeks, and their teacher remained absent. The truth, a cruel
shard of reality, pierced their hopeful bubble. Aisha, their
lifeline, had been arrested for smuggling supplies into the
besieged camp. The soldiers, monsters devoid of
compassion, tortured her relentlessly.
Though Aisha's body may have succumbed, her spirit
remained etched in their hearts. They refused to accept her
demise. In a defiant act of faith, they transformed the school
wall into a canvas. There, with vibrant strokes, they painted
Aisha – a smile gracing her lips, eyes filled with unwavering
determination. She wasn't a victim, but a symbol of hope – a
testament to the enduring power of a promise, a teacher, and

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the unwavering belief of her students. Every day, they

awaited her return, their artwork a silent promise – they
would hold onto hope, just as firmly as she held onto her
appointment with them.

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Palestinian
There is no known justification or reason for his torture other
than the fact that he is Palestinian. As a child, he'd been fed
stories of a stolen homeland, a gaping wound in his young
heart. Growing up, misery became his constant companion.
His father, the prime of his life draining away just to feed the
family, his older sister crippled by a foot she couldn't afford
to heal. Their lives were confined to a squalid tin shack, a
festering sore on the muddy, stinking outskirts of their stolen
land.
because he was Palestinian, he learned young the bitter
lessons of that life: hunger, the gnawing emptiness in his
stomach. The sting of cold, the lack of clothes to shield him.
And worst of all, the ever-present shadow of violence. He'd
witnessed his own people slaughtered; their dreams
extinguished forever. His memory was a graveyard, filled
with martyrs, the dead, the vanished, the displaced, the
imprisoned, and those simply gone, their return an
increasingly distant hope.
because he was Palestinian, hope itself had become a frayed
thread. Leaving this wasteland held no allure. Yet, when the
camp administration, in a cruel twist, confiscated his small
kiosk – his one meager attempt at dignity – claiming it
marred the camp's "civilized face," a wave of shame
threatened to drown him. He wanted to scream, to rage at the
injustice, but tears came instead, the sting of humiliation hot
on his cheeks. Crying, he realized, was a luxury he couldn't
afford. It wasn't the life he'd chosen, but it was the life he was
forced to endure.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Pride
Rain or shine, mud pooled or dust swirling, the younger
brother's daily duty remained constant: carrying his elder
brother's polished black shoes. These shoes, a collective
family purchase, were a symbol of their eldest son's
government job, their lifeline. The little brother felt no shame
in his mud-caked shoes, a constant reminder of the camp that
housed them. This camp, ever-present, overflowed them with
its seasonal struggles.
The elder brother was their salvation. His meager salary fed
them all, allowing their father to rest his weary back – no
more backbreaking labor hauling crowbars at the wheat
market on the camp's outskirts.
Today, however, a different kind of burden fell on the elder
brother's shoulders. He, the proud peacock, donned his only
black suit, a stark contrast to his tired brown shoes. He strode
forth, long, purposeful strides, leaving the younger brother to
follow with quiet dignity and a surprising sense of pride.
Their destination: the bus stop in the heart of the camp.
There, from the bus window, the transfer of power occurred.
Old, muddy shoes tossed down; pristine black ones retrieved.
The elder brother slipped them on, careful not to let the
camp's grime taint his work attire.

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With a wave, the bus swallowed him, and the younger

brother headed back, a strange happiness blooming in his
chest. He, too, had a role to play in this daily ritual, a ritual
that determined their fate. Would their eldest son find a
morsel to bring home if he continued his climb, or would a
single stain from the camp's mud lead to their downfall? The
younger brother carried that question, heavy yet strangely
hopeful, back to their camp home.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Ration Card1
The summer sun blazed down on the dusty refugee camp, and
a young boy dreamt of escaping its heat - not just physically,
but also in style. He craved new clothes, a crisp shirt, and a
sleek leather bag to replace the worn canvas one his mother
lovingly, but frustratingly, made from an old dress.The
canvas bag, though a symbol of his mother's care, felt
cumbersome, a constant reminder of their limited resources.
Finding work within the camp proved impossible.Here,
everyone was struggling, and a small, slight boy like him was
just another mouth to feed.So, he ventured out, his heart
pounding with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Shop after
shop, he presented his case, only to be met with polite
dismissal.His small stature and youthful features didn't
inspire confidence in potential employers.
Then, a glimmer of hope.A kindly-looking old merchant, his
skin an unusual shade of blue, listened with a smile.The boy
poured his heart out, explaining how desperately he needed a
job.But a flicker of doubt crossed the merchant's
face."Palestinian, are you?" he asked, his smile fading.The

1
- Ration Card: Issued by aid organizations or the camp administration. It
doesn't necessarily prove identity, but shows a family's eligibility to receive
basic supplies, typically food and sometimes medicine. It helps manage the
distribution of limited resources within the camp.
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boy, confused, insisted he was.The merchant, however,

seemed unconvinced.
Determined to prove himself, the boy raced back home.He
didn't have an ID card, but there was something else - his
family's ration card, a meager proof of their Palestinian
identity and their dependence on aid.Panting, he presented
the card, his heart pounding with renewed hope.
The merchant's smile vanished completely.With a look of
disdain, he shoved the card to the ground."This proves you're
nothing but a Palestinian beggar," he sneered."Get out of
here!"
The weight of the merchant's words crushed the boy's
spirit.He scooped up the card, his fist clenching not in anger,
but to protect the precious document that ensured his family's
survival.Tears welled in his eyes, but he blinked them back,
unwilling to give the merchant the satisfaction of seeing him
cry.
He trudged back to the camp, the summer sun mirroring the
burning ache in his heart.The dream of new clothes and a
leather bag seemed to melt away in the harsh reality.The
summer vacation, a time for freedom and fun, had become a
battle for something far more basic - the dignity of
work.Tears pricked the boy's eyes, but he swallowed them
down, his small fist clenching the card. He couldn't afford to
lose it – it meant food for his family. He hurried away; the

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weight of the merchant's words heavier than the card in his

hand. He didn't get the job, but the encounter left a deeper
wound than rejection. It was a cruel reminder of the prejudice
that clung to his identity, an invisible mark deeper than any
visible proof he could offer.

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The camp
The dust swirled around her ankles, a constant companion in
this endless journey of displacement. But this time, the
familiar dread that settled in her stomach wasn't about
packing meager belongings and fleeing in the dead of night.
This time, she wouldn't run. Each camp had been a fresh
wound, a new loss. A piece of her spirit chipped away with
every forced exodus. Her family, once vibrant and whole, had
shrunk to just her two children and the ghost of her husband
– his commando uniform a constant, haunting reminder in the
small, bare room they called home.
She had endured the deprivations, the relentless persecution,
all for these two fragile lives clinging to her. Now, the storm
brewing outside wasn't rain, but the promise of bloodshed. A
preordained game of violence, displacement, death, they
called it.
Who the attackers were, their religion, nationality, their cause
– it was all a blur. In the face of death, such labels were
meaningless. Death, it seemed, had chosen them as its
instruments. She wouldn't let her children become pawns in
this macabre game. She wouldn't let them die in this hell on
earth.
With a fierce resolve that surprised even herself, she shut the
flimsy door behind her children, the only shield she could

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offer. Then, she joined the desperate throng outside, a mother

transformed.
The fight was primal, a raw dance of survival on the dusty
canvas of the camp. Her husband's uniform, oversized and
heavy, became a badge of defiance. His rifle, cold against her
skin, became an extension of her maternal will. This wasn't
just about protecting her own; it was about shielding every
child, every mother within these tattered walls. They fought
with the desperation of cornered enemy; their limbs fueled
by a mother's fury.
This time, displacement held no power over her. This time,
she would defend her children, her home, and the fragile hope
they clung to in a world teetering on the edge. Each breath
she drew felt carved from stone, a betrayal of the two sets of
eyes begging her not to leave. Stepping outside, she joined
the desperate symphony of pounding feet and desperate
shouts. There, mother's instinct morphed into a feral thing.
Her limbs moved like pistons, fists like hammers driving
back the encroaching darkness.
Every blow, every kick aimed at the grotesque figures before
her, fueled by the image of her children, safe but scared,
behind that closed door. the sound swallowing the whimpers
of her children, the battle raged, a whirlwind of screams and
clashing metal. Blood, both hers and others', painted a
crimson tapestry across the battlefield. The deafening roar of
an explosion sent her flying, shrapnel tearing into her flesh.
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But through the haze of pain, one thought remained – her

children.
Evening cast a weary light over the ravaged camp. She
stumbled back through the same heavy door, the haven she
fought for, now a sanctuary stained with her own struggle.
There, bathed in the fading light, sat her children. Relief and
exhaustion warred within her. Collapsing onto the cold floor,
she pulled them into a desperate embrace. Tears, hot and
salty, mingled with the grime of combat as a mother, warrior,
and survivor finally gave way to the raw ache of love and
fear. In their shared sobs, the weight of the world eased, held
at bay for now by the simple act of holding on.

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Punishment
The young woman stood outside the principal's office,
anticipation bubbling in her chest. Winning second place in
the national poetry competition was a small victory, but a
significant one for a Palestinian refugee like her.
Recognition, even a glimmer of it, felt precious.
But when the principal emerged, her face contorted in a
sneer, the anticipation curdled into dread. Her mocking gaze
swept over her, the words that spilled from her lips dripping
with venom. "Are you really Palestinian, girl?" Her voice
hissed, a serpent's accusation in the sterile air.
The question struck like a physical blow. It was an accusation
she'd faced before, a constant reminder of the invisible mark
branded upon her. Yet, this time, it came from within the very
institution that was supposed to celebrate her achievement.
Her voice, usually vibrant, faltered, a single, desperate phrase
escaping her lips, "But I have a nationality..."Her response
was a venomous laugh. "Nationality? You, a Palestinian?
Fool! Leave this school and don't return unless you bring
your guardian." Each word was a shard of ice, piercing her
heart.
As she stumbled out of the office, she felt like the ground
beneath her had vanished. The weight of the accusation
threatened to drown her. She clutched at the thin thread of
hope that the principal didn't know she lived in the refugee

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camp, a place where overt displays of Palestinian identity

could ignite a dangerous fire. The very thought sent shivers
down her spine.
The walk home was a blur. But amidst the swirling
confusion, gratitude flickered like a tiny flame. Thankful the
principal wasn't aware of the camp, a sanctuary that could
become a prison for her identity. The burden remained, heavy
and oppressive, but the young woman held onto that sliver of
gratitude, a reminder that even in the face of prejudice, a
flicker of hope could persist.

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Luxuries
The UNRWA representative's voice droned on about
overcoming hunger through sacrifice, his words a stark
contrast to the vibrant images displayed on the screen. Before
their hungry eyes, a parade of luxurious foods – glistening
fruits, succulent meats, and exotic desserts – danced across
the screen, a cruel display of abundance in a world of
scarcity.
These were foods the children had never seen, let alone
tasted. Their camp, a labyrinth of rusty shacks, knew only the
monotony of meager rations and the gnawing emptiness of
unfulfilled desires. The images, a sensory overload, ignited a
bittersweet longing in their young hearts – a yearning for a
taste of the unknown, a world beyond their limited reality.
The irony was not lost on them. As the lecture progressed, a
strange selection process unfolded. The UNRWA
representative, himself a man of considerable girth, along
with the camp's teachers – all carrying the physical signs of
relative comfort – were asked to leave. Their presence, it
seemed, was deemed a "luxury" that could potentially disrupt
the message of sacrifice.
Left alone, the children exchanged silent glances, their eyes
reflecting a mixture of confusion and resentment. The lecture
continued, extolling the virtues of bland, repetitive meals

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prepared with soybean oil, a poor substitute for the delicacies

that had just tantalized their taste buds.
The children listened, their small bodies yearning for
something more, something substantial, something that
resembled the food they'd just glimpsed on the screen. The
lecture, meant to inspire, only amplified the stark reality of
their existence – a world where even the most basic desires
were classified as luxuries, and where even the act of
dreaming seemed like a forbidden indulgence.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Violon
In Yarmouk, death cast a long shadow, a shroud suffocating
the camp. No food, water, or safety remained. The once
vibrant community fractured, replaced by scattered ruins, the
echo of bombs, and the chilling presence of soldiers who
offered no salvation.
He, a resident of this besieged world, felt the weight of
despair press down. Black hands lurked at the camp's edges,
snatching souls and condemning them to the horrors of
distant detention camps. His beloved camp, why was it a
pawn in the cruel game of war?
His heart ached with the ghosts of loved ones. His mother,
succumbed to illness, silenced by the absence of medicine.
His sister's children, withered by the lack of food, their
laughter silenced forever. And Zainab, his love, stolen by the
night, her body dumped like unwanted trash outside the camp
walls.
Thirst now joined the symphony of suffering. Days bled into
nights, the sun a merciless tyrant, offering no respite. Water,
a distant memory, a phantom tormenting parched throat.
He refused to succumb to their orchestrated demise. A
different end, a death on his own terms, not at the hands of
the monsters besieging them. Stepping into the wasteland, he
held his violin, a cherished instrument bought by the
collective effort of his family. He had learned to play through
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sheer determination, guided by the fleeting lessons of a

Palestinian musician who once visited, a citizen of a world
far removed from their suffering.The violin sang, a sorrowful
melody echoing the thirst that gnawed at them all. It was his
requiem, his defiance, his chosen journey into the unknown.
He poured his heart into the music; each note a testament to
their collective struggle.
And then, a miracle unfolded. As the sun reached its zenith,
scorching the earth, the sky, which had mocked them with its
emptiness, began to weep. Raindrops, like a divine
intervention, fell upon the parched land. The music stopped;
its purpose served. He looked around, his eyes filled with a
newfound hope, a reflection of the glistening drops on their
faces.
The camp, once a symbol of despair, held the promise of a
new dawn. The rain, a melody of hope, composing a future
where survival was not just defiance, but a testament to the
enduring spirit of humanity.

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Nahr Al-Bared1
In Nahr al-Bared, the air tasted of ash and betrayal. Smoke
billowed from what was once his home – a towering red brick
haven for his family, built with years of sweat and sacrifice.
Now, just another casualty in the bloody conflict, his life's
dream lay in smoldering ruins.
Dreams, years of exile, and the pain of displacement –
everything crumbled before his eyes. Two words echoed in
the hollow space left by his lost home: conspiracy and
betrayal.

1
- Nahr al-Bared:is a Palestinian refugee camp located in northern Lebanon,
about 16 kilometers from the city of Tripoli. It is situated near the
Mediterranean Sea and was established in 1962. The camp is home to around
30,000 displaced Palestinians and their descendants. It has been the site of
several clashes between Palestinian militants and the Lebanese Army, most
notably in 2007, which resulted in the destruction of much of the camp. The
camp has since been rebuilt, but many of the residents continue to face
challenges such as poverty, unemployment, and limited access to basic services.
Nahr al-Bared, literally: Cold River). Under the terms of the 1969 Cairo
Agreement, the Lebanese Army does not conventionally enter the Palestinian
camps, and internal security is provided by Palestinian factions.The camp was
established in December 1949 by the League of Red Cross Societies in order to
accommodate the Palestinian refugees suffering from the difficult winter
conditions in the Beqaa Valley and the suburbs of Tripoli. The camp was
established outside any major Lebanese towns or settlements, which left Nahr
al-Bared more isolated from the Lebanese society than many of the other camps
in Lebanon. Despite this, due to its position on the main road to Syria and its
proximity to the Syrian border, Nahr al-Bared grew to be a central commercial
hub for the local Lebanese of the Akkar region.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nahr_al-Bared_refugee_camp.
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But beneath the ashes of despair, a faint ember of defiance

flickered. He limped to a wicker chair, the sun leaving its
mark on his exposed foot, and lit a cigarette. No time for
mourning, no space for regret. His eyes, hardened by
hardship, already scanned the wreckage, not for what was
lost, but for what could be salvaged.
He had built one home; he would build another. His spirit,
etched with the resilience of generations of refugees, refused
to be crushed. In the midst of devastation, a plan began to
form, a silent vow whispered on the wind. He wouldn't let
loss define him. He would rebuild, brick by brick, a New
Testament to hope and the unyielding human spirit.

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Diaspora Melodies

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Residency
The poem whispered in the rustle of packing bags; a lament
woven into the folds of worn clothes. A few days, a cruel
countdown until their forced departure. This city, a scorching
exile in the heart of the Arab world, had become their
unwanted home.
Here, she, a Palestinian woman with a fading identity, was a
perpetual foreigner. Years ago, she gave up her rightful
return to Palestine, choosing love over her homeland. Love
that had turned into a desolate soul, a husband lost two
months ago, his heart finally stilled by grief and years of
humiliation in this unforgiving place.
She, a ghost in her own life, haunted by a lost homeland and
a stolen youth. The city had devoured her husband's dreams,
his dignity, and his silence in its merciless maw. With him
gone, her residency, a flimsy shield, threatened to crumble
too.
Doors hammered shut, pleas met with indifference. No haven
in the vast world offered solace. She packed their lives into
worn suitcases, a desperate preparation for an eviction
disguised as a police raid. Tears, bitter and heavy, stained her
cheeks as her children, her precious cargo, questioned their
unknown destination.
Shame, a bitter pill, twisted in her gut. How could a mother
confess she didn't know where the path would lead? The
poem of departure, a chorus of sobs, echoed through their
cramped quarters. The lament of arrival, a melody played on
foreign soil, hung heavy in the stifling air.
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Melodies of the Palestinian

The Sea
There, in her small, isolated house in one of the narrow alleys
in the Yarmouk camp1, she always dreamed of seeing the
sea, and riding a ship swaying on its beautiful blue surface,
accompanied by her family members. The sea, the ship, and
the trip with her family were her watery dreams rooted in her
soul, which longed for distance and the spacious sky far from
the hustle and bustle of this camp, which had become narrow
despite its large area.
The Syrian civil war2 destroyed her home and the Yarmouk
camp, displaced all of its people, and included her and her

1
-Yarmouk camp, located near Damascus, Syria, was once a vibrant
community for Palestinian refugees. Established in 1957, it housed over
160,000 Palestinian refugees at its peak, making it the largest community of its
kind in Syria. Sadly, the Syrian Civil War that began in 2011 had a devastating
impact on Yarmouk camp. The camp became a battleground, facing sieges,
occupation by various armed groups, and destruction.The passage you shared
portrays the tragic consequences of the war on the residents of Yarmouk camp,
forcing them to flee their homes and face perilous journeys in search of safety.

2
-The Syrian civil war: is a complex and ongoing conflict that has devastated
the country since 2011. Here's a quick breakdown:Start: March 15,
2011Cause: Pro-democracy protests inspired by the Arab Spring met with
violent suppression by the Syrian government.Main Parties:Syrian Government
led by President Bashar al-AssadVarious opposition groups with different
ideologies, including some with extremist viewsInternational
Involvement: Several countries have provided military support to different
sides of the conflict, further complicating the situation.Current Status: As of
March 2024, major fighting has subsided, but the conflict remains
unresolved.The Assad government controls most of the country.Opposition
groups hold some territory, mainly in the northwest.There are ongoing
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family among the crowds of forcibly displaced people fleeing

to preserve their lives and what remained of their dignity,
which was lost repeatedly in this war. Because they were
weak and nothing else.
And here she is now on board a ship crowded with displaced
Palestinians heading to a European country. It is a ship of
illegal immigrants, and here the sea is hitting their ship
mercilessly, tearing its sails, and swallowing it
uncontrollably, with the flavor of panic and screaming from
on board without a rescuer or helper.
The sea deceived her childhood dreams. Now she discovers
this painful deception too late, and he attacks her to swallow
her up, just as he swallowed many of the ship's passengers
before her eyes. Don't resist it, don't pray to heaven for help,
rescue, or a miracle. She closes her eyes and surrenders
herself completely to the sea that sends her to it, starting with
her head. She still loves the sea even if it deceives and betrays
her.

humanitarian concerns and a large number of refugees.The war has had a

horrific human cost:Hundreds of thousands of people killed.Millions displaced
internally and as refugees.Widespread destruction of infrastructure.Severe
economic hardship.The story you shared captures the personal tragedy of the
war, highlighting the shattered dreams and forced displacement of ordinary
people.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

The slap
The rhythmic clang of the ironworks hammer ceased
abruptly. Shouts and angry voices pierced the hot, metallic
air. He emerged, soot clinging to his sweat-streaked face, his
temper a volatile mix with the furnace's heat.
Neighbours, faces pinched with righteousness, pointed
fingers at his son, a small, defiant figure standing his ground.
An oral diatribe, dripping with accusations, washed over. His
son, they claimed, had once again terrorized their child. Fury,
a crimson tide, mirrored the iron he'd just wrestled from the
furnace. He crouched before his son, the boy a stark contrast
– small and dusted with coal, but defiance burning bright in
his eyes. His voice, a low growl, demanded answers. The
reason, it turned out, was a familiar one. The same reason
fists flew at other neighbourhood children. The boy,
mirroring his father's glare at the accusing neighbours,
blurted, "He called me a refugee!"
A heavy slap landed on the boy's cheek, sparks flashing in
his eyes. He wrestled with his own emotions; the sting of the
blow meant more for himself than his son. He couldn't let the
neighbours witness his weakness, his son's defiance turning
to victory. The neighbours, their mission accomplished,
melted away, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
He grabbed his son's shoulder, his grip tight enough to bruise.
"Did he call you a refugee?"
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Melodies of the Palestinian

"Yes," came the small, defiant voice.

Another question, a stark contrast to the previous one, hung
heavy in the air. "Did you hit him hard?"
A single word, laced with defiance, met his ear. "Yes."A slow
smile, a flicker of pride, replaced the anger on his face. He
pulled his son close, a rough hand ruffling his hair. "Well
done, son. May God bless you."
In that clangorous, stifling heat, a different kind of bond was
forged. A bond born of displacement, of defiance, and a
father's love that burned brighter than any furnace.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

The Painter
Twenty-five winters etched lines on his face, mirroring the
scars on his homeland. In the frigid embrace of exile, his
brush became a lifeline, weaving memories of olive groves
and sun-baked earth onto canvas. Each stroke, a whispered
song of longing for Palestine, a land stolen but never
forgotten.
He clung to the few paintings he sold for sustenance, a
meager existence in a forgotten corner. Yet, the remainder, a
silent testament to his unwavering spirit, were offered as
solace. Some found refuge in the hands of struggling
families, others a beacon of hope for orphaned children in
distant refugee camps, carrying his brother's lost dreams
forward.
The chill of death crept closer, a relentless tide threatening to
extinguish the embers of his only remaining wish: to return,
to become one with the soil that cradled his ancestors. With
each labored breath, urgency bloomed, a desperate plea to
defy fate's cruel hand.
In the twilight of life, his trembling hand grasped the brush
for one final masterpiece. He didn't paint the familiar
landscapes of his yearning, but a doorway. A colossal portal,
adorned with fragrant jasmine, mirroring the one guarding
his grandfather's long-lost home. It was a bridge, a gateway
to the past, a promise whispered on canvas.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

As dawn painted the sky with hues of forgiveness, his life

journey ended. But from his lifeless hand, a single tear rolled
down, tracing the intricate details of the painted door. In that
moment, a gentle breeze swept through the room, carrying
with it the echo of laughter, the scent of olive trees, and the
warmth of sun-drenched earth. He had crossed the threshold,
his soul returning to the land it never truly left. The door
closed softly behind him, a final act of solace in a life painted
in exile.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Fish
He was a Palestinian fisherman. he wasn't just a fisherman;
the sea was his birth right. It flowed in his veins alongside
the salty spray that clung to his beard. From his ancestors,
he'd inherited the sturdy fishing boat, weathered nets that
whispered stories of past catches, and a legacy woven from
legends, schools of fish, wheeling gulls, and the rhythm of
the tides.
Yet, the life he was born to felt like a cruel joke. The sea, his
supposed inheritance, had cast him out. So, he, a fish out of
his own water, became a nomad of the shores. He scoured
bustling ports, vast seas, and endless oceans, his eyes
scanning every ship that dared to breach the horizon. He was
searching for the Sea, not just any sea, but the one that had
spurned him, the one that held the key to his family's legacy
and his own restless heart.
Unlike other Greek fishermen who, after a bad first trip,
swore off the water entirely, he couldn't stay on land for long.
The call of the waves echoed in his dreams, and the scent of
salt clung to his clothes even when far from the coast. He was
a man adrift, searching for a home that seemed determined to
remain out of reach. He did not find himself far from the
Gaza Sea. He joined the armed Palestinian resistance, and
secretly returned to his homeland with some guerrillas. The
sea was the first to cleanse its eyes from its homeland. He
inhaled to fill his lungs to swallow all the sea breeze, and
exhaled what he breathed, saying: Oh, the sea of Gaza.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

swap
Ever since the forced departure from Palestine, a single
dream burned bright in his heart: to return. Every decision,
every step, was a brick laid on the path home. Even his
marriage to the foreign woman stemmed from this yearning.
Her empathy for the Palestinian plight, her unwavering
support for their cause, resonated with him.
The money he tirelessly earned in that distant land, a land
separated by vast seas, mountains, and endless plains, was all
in service of this singular goal. It wasn't just for him; it was
for the future he envisioned. It was for his daughter, a gift
from God, whom he dreamt of raising as a true Palestinian
mother. It was for his son, a spark of courage and
determination, a seed he longed to plant back in the fertile
soil of their homeland. They were all part of the tapestry he
was weaving, a tapestry woven with threads of longing and
hope, all leading them back to Palestine.
The timber tycoon, a man who'd carved his fortune from
ancient redwoods, stood at a crossroads. Half his wealth, a
staggering sum, had vanished in a single, desperate
transaction. A bribe. A price for something far more valuable
than gold: his stolen birthright, a Palestinian identity ripped
from him years ago. The other half? Paid to a viper in a
designer dress, his foreign wife. When the truth about the
cause – his homeland, his heritage – slithered out, her

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Melodies of the Palestinian

affection curdled faster than spoiled milk. Money, it seemed,

held more sway than any righteous cause. The world over,
apparently.
With a heavy heart, he bought himself freedom. A twisted
kind, paid in cold, hard cash. He bought the right to be a
father, to take his two young sons, his link to the future, back
where they belonged. Palestine, a land woven into the very
fabric of his being, awaited. It held a sacred mission, a
purpose that transcended even his immense wealth. He
placed a worn leather suitcase, filled with the remnants of a
life traded away, at their feet. In their wide, innocent eyes, he
saw a reflection of the future – a future steeped in olive
groves and ancient stories, a future where their identity
wouldn't be a price tag, but a birthright.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

The White Shoes

For days, lost and alone, she paid the price for her cherished
possession. The stark white, once a beacon of hope, now
stood as a stark reminder of the choice that separated her
from her family. They, fleeing for their lives, couldn't wait
for her delayed farewell to her impractical treasure.
Reunited at last, the family, battered by fear and
displacement, found solace in each other's presence. Yet, for
the girl, the joy was tainted. The white shoes, now scuffed
and dusty, remained a constant companion, not out of love,
but out of a fear birthed from their initial loss.
Years turned into decades, but the memory of the separation
remained etched in her soul. Even as the white faded,
replaced by the worn leather of countless shoes, the fear of
being lost again lingered. Each night, she would slip on
footwear, a silent plea to the past, a desperate attempt to
prevent the heartbreak from ever repeating.
The story of the white shoes is a poignant reminder of the
complexities of human emotions and the lasting mark that
trauma can leave. It's a tale of longing, sacrifice, and the
bittersweet burden of memory.
On the night the Zionist gangs raided her village, she was lost
from her family for several days because she was late in
escaping with them to wear her new white shoes, which her
heart broke with the desire to buy them. She dreamed of them
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Melodies of the Palestinian

for many months, and fought intense and tearful wars to

obtain it and force her mother to buy it for her, and it was a
meager household budget.
She will not sacrifice those beloved white shoes, even if that
means leaving behind her family, which fears destruction,
murder, and loss of honor. She was the one who was stingy
in wearing them on her feet so that they would not wear
out.She found her family facing difficulty in the border
camps after being consumed by fear, and her squeezing hands
searched for them among the piles of meat thrown on the side
of the road under the harsh sun of their ascension.
Forty years passed and she did not sleep without wearing her
shoes, whether white or not, for fear of being lost from her
family again, or being lost from her family because of a
favorite shoe. The white shoes, once a symbol of desire and
childhood whims, became a heavy burden woven into the
fabric of her tragedy. The girl, caught between the yearning
for a piece of innocent joy and the desperate need for safety,
clung to her purchase, a decision that forever altered the
course of her life.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

The Employee
She roams the field in her worn-out Palestinian dress, which
alone survived the holocaust of the Zionist invasion that
swept through the land of her village, snatching from them
their lives, their dignity, the purity of their livelihood, and the
affection of their community, and throwing them as refugees
lost on the paths of the world. Now she works as a tomato
picker in the field of this thin, emaciated man, with narrow
joints, and a chest extending into the abdominal cavity,
making his ribs dry out, and a disgrace to all who look at him,
rotting. A corpse standing upright on two legs.
The sun beat down like a blacksmith's hammer, mercilessly
forging sweat from her brow. Each sunrise brought a new day
of drudgery, her body a tireless beast yoked to the burden of
survival. Once a woman of land and wealth, forced asylum
had stripped her bare, leaving only the desperate need to
shield her family from the gnawing belly of hunger.
From dawn until dusk, she toiled in the fields of the very man
who had stolen her life. Calloused hands, once adorned with
rings of prosperity, now grasped rough tools, the price of a
few measly coins to buy rice, water, and the faintest hope of
life for her crippled husband, her frail mother-in-law, and the
wide, hungry eyes of her children.
He, the "landowner," was a predator in the guise of a man,
his desires as foul as the sweat that stained her once-luxurious

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Melodies of the Palestinian

green silk dress. His eyes, devoid of any semblance of

humanity, followed her every step, his words laced with the
promise of food, shelter, but with a price that ripped at the
very fabric of her being.
But she was not for sale. Not in the marketplace of
desperation, not at the cost of her family's survival, nor at the
expense of her very soul. Her spine, though bent under the
weight of hardship, remained unbroken. Her voice, though
hoarse from exhaustion, roared with defiance. Each curse
hurled at him was a shield against the encroaching darkness,
a testament to the unwavering flame of her dignity.Even if
hunger gnawed at their bellies, even if the specter of death
loomed large, she would not surrender. Her family huddled
close, a fortress of love against the storm, their eyes reflecting
her unwavering resolve. For in the face of despair, it was her
dignity, her unyielding spirit, that remained their most
precious possession, a beacon of hope in a world shrouded in
darkness.

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The Son of a Martyr

In the heart of a bustling school, amidst the murmur of
lessons and the thrum of youthful energy, walked a young
man, his brilliance a beacon that cast long shadows. He was
the son of a martyr, a title both revered and ostracized, a
weight he carried with quiet dignity.
His name echoed through the halls, whispered with a mix of
admiration and animosity. He topped the class, his mind a
testament to perseverance, yet his path was paved with
thorns. His classmates, consumed by a bitter envy, saw him
as an outsider, an upstart who threatened their established
order.
They taunted him with cruel whispers, painting him as a
fugitive, a refugee, a beggar. Their words were laced with
venom, each syllable a barbed arrow aimed at his heart. He
endured their taunts in stoic silence, his resilience a silent
rebuke to their cruelty. But their animosity festered,
transforming into something darker. One day, as he exited
the school gates, burdened by his worn satchel, they
descended upon him like a pack of ravenous wolves. Fists
rained down upon him, his only shirt, a symbol of his meager
existence, ripped to shreds. Tears streamed down his face, a
torrent of unshed emotions, a testament to the humiliation he
felt.

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Yet, amidst the storm, his voice rose, unwavering and

defiant. "I am the son of a martyr," he declared, each word
imbued with a quiet pride that echoed through the deserted
street. His voice, though choked with emotion, held the
unwavering strength of his lineage, a legacy woven into the
very fabric of his being.

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Tent
Beneath furrowed brows, the grandmother wove tales of
exile, her voice painting vivid pictures of lands lost and lives
upended. Her granddaughters, captivated, listened intently,
their young minds absorbing the echoes of a past they never
knew. But one, the youngest, with an intelligence that pierced
through the stories, posed the question that hung heavy in the
air: "Why, Teta, do we always lose? Why are we forever
wandering tents?"
The room fell silent, the weight of the question pressing
down on the grandmother's heart. Fear, like a serpent, coiled
within her. Was this innocent inquiry a premonition? A
whisper of the future? In her mind, a chilling image flickered
– another tent, another displacement, another chapter in the
unending saga of exile.
A longing for peace, a yearning for a final resting place,
washed over her. Not in the confines of a canvas shelter, but
under the open sky, free from the chains of displacement. She
closed her eyes, praying for the day the devil's whispers of
another tent would cease, replaced by the gentle symphony
of a life lived in peace, in their rightful home.

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Flask
Disconnected from her Palestinian heritage, the woman felt
the European side of her lineage dominate. Yet, a powerful
bond with her father, a man who dreamt of returning to his
homeland in death, burned bright within her.His final wish
became her mission. Her efforts to repatriate his body were
met with frustration.Her mother, urging surrender to reality,
suggested a European burial. But the woman wouldn't be
swayed.Fueled by love and a desire to mend her father's
broken dream of returning home, she made a heart-
wrenching decision.
With a heavy heart, she cremated him, whispering apologies
for the unorthodox method, but resolute in her purpose. The
ashes, held in a simple bottle, became a precious
vessel.Posing as a European tourist, she journeyed to
Palestine, a secret fire burning within her. Seizing an
opportune moment, she found solace in the act of burying the
bottle. The Palestinian soil, cradling the ashes, became her
father's final resting place.In that act, she brought him home,
fulfilling his last wish and reconnecting him to the land he
held dear.

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Dementia 1
In a faraway land, an old man named Kayed Al-Saleh clung
to a memory. He was older than a century, resided in a place
he called Al-Alali, a mountainous paradise in his homeland
of Palestine. It was there, high up in those breathtaking peaks,
that Kayed had once been a rich and powerful man, respected
by all.
But war had driven him and his family from their haven.
Fleeing for their lives, they left behind Kayed's past - his
pride, his status - everything buried deep within him. Now,
an old man working as a hired laborer, a far cry from the
master he once was, Kayed swallowed his humiliation each
day.

1
- Dementia :is a general term for a decline in cognitive abilities that interferes
with daily life. It's important to remember that dementia is not a normal part of
aging, although it primarily affects older adults.There are many different causes
of dementia, and the symptoms can vary depending on the underlying cause.
However, some common symptoms of dementia include:Memory
loss.Difficulty thinking and reasoning.Problems with language.Changes in
personality and behavior.Difficulty with daily activities.
The term "senile" is considered outdated and offensive and should be avoided,
especially in medical contexts. It was once used to describe the general decline
in physical and mental abilities that some people experience as they age.
However, this term is inaccurate and misleading because:
It implies that cognitive decline is an inevitable part of aging, which is not true.
Many older adults remain mentally sharp and active well into their later years.
It lumps together a variety of conditions, including dementia, under one
umbrella term. This can make it difficult to accurately diagnose and treat
specific conditions.
It is disrespectful to older adults and can perpetuate negative stereotypes about
aging
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Melodies of the Palestinian

Dementia, a cruel twist of fate, settled upon him during his

struggle. For a month, he battled in his bed, surrounded by a
multitude of descendants - sons, daughters, grandchildren,
and their children. They never left his side, listening intently
as he spoke of ghostly apparitions haunting his Al-Ali home,
back in his beloved Palestine.
Ironically, his illness brought a strange joy to his family.
They saw him laugh freely for the first time in years. He
relived the forgotten chapters of his life, a life brimming with
happiness and carefree days. He spoke of Sarah, his second
wife, their love story unfolding anew. In his mind's eye, he
saw the people of his village, both living and gone, greeting
him with reverence, addressing him as "Sayyid Alali," the
esteemed lord.
Finally, death arrived, its gentle touch closing Kayed Al-
Saleh's eyes. In that moment, the old laborer transformed. He
was no longer a displaced man, but a man returning home.
He returned to Al-Alali, a young boy again, his heart
brimming with the joy of his mountainous paradise, forever
etched in his memory.

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Voice
Across vast distances, across the roar of oceans and the silent
expanse of deserts, he journeyed. He carried the weight of
generations, the forced exile of his grandfather and father
etched into his soul. He had been raised on lies, his mind
poisoned with the fallacy that words could overpower bullets,
that truth could silence cannons. He spoke with unwavering
conviction, his pen a relentless warrior against injustice. Yet,
his voice echoed into a void, his pleas met with indifference.
The world turned a deaf ear, its heart hardened to his people's
plight.
Disillusioned, he cast aside the empty promises and obsolete
doctrines peddled by outsiders. With his remaining
resources, he acquired the tools of his new reality: weapons.
In his homeland, these were the only voices that resonated,
the only arguments that inflicted pain. Only through force
could he pierce the veil of ignorance, the deafness that
plagued his people.

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The Lucky Boy

A skeletal man, with hair the color of bleached wheat,
reached out to the boy. The child, haunted by the brutal
memories of his family's execution, flinched at the touch. The
man, the supposed leader of the relief teams, stroked the
boy's curls with a practiced smile, addressing a nearby
journalist scribbling in a worn leather notebook.
"This fortunate young man," he declared, his voice dripping
with false concern, "is one of the few to escape the recent
tragedy. A true survivor, he witnessed the loss of his family
in the blink of an eye."
The journalist, his brow furrowed, attempted to capture the
man's words. However, his pen, as if revolted, refused to
write the word "fortunate." Instead, it etched out a single,
stark word: "afflicted." From that moment, the pen became a
silent accusation, a tangible reminder of humanity's shameful
silence in the face of such atrocities.

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Waiting list
The relentless sun beat down on a snaking line of desperate
souls. Their aid cards, meant to be lifelines, felt like chains,
anchoring them to a cycle of humiliation and hunger. Since
dawn, they had endured the scorching heat, their once proud
spirits now dulled by fatigue and the gnawing emptiness in
their bellies.
A hulking figure, whip in hand, cracked it menacingly at the
crowd. Its sting served as a grim reminder of their precarious
existence. Women, eyes hollowed by worry, clutched their
young closer. Men, their faces etched with despair, yearned
only to secure a morsel for their starving families.
A young man, the embers of defiance still burning within
him, witnessed the guard lash out at a frail woman. In that
instant, the line blurred, the collective despair morphing into
a surge of protective fury. He lunged forward, a force of
nature against the oppressive figure. The whip clattered to the
ground, replaced by the dull thud of fists against flesh. His
raw cry echoed through the air, a desperate plea for humanity
in the face of barbarity. "Why?!" he demanded, his voice
hoarse with emotion. "We are people, not beasts! We don't
crave your charity; we crave the right to die with dignity!"
He expected a surge of support, a shared rebellion against
their cruel reality. But the line remained unchanged, a silent
testament to the depths of their despair. The young man's

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defiance faltered, his shoulders slumping under the weight of

their collective defeat.
Without a word, he returned to his place at the back of the
line. Hunger gnawed at him, but it paled in comparison to the
crushing weight of their collective powerlessness. He would
wait, like the others, for his meager ration, a small and bitter
token in the face of their stolen dignity.

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Messages of Longing
Every morning, the crackle of the old radio was a beacon of
hope for the man. Kawthar Al-Nashashibi's voice, a lifeline
across the airwaves, carried the "Messages of Longing"
program - a poignant symphony of yearning and connection.
He clutched the radio close, its worn casing a familiar
comfort. His ears hungrily searched for a single name, a
single flicker of recognition amidst the tide of longing. Jaber,
his son, was the melody he desperately sought, the verse he
clung to in the face of despair. He knew, in the quiet corners
of his heart, that Jaber wouldn't answer. The news of his
martyrdom, a sharp, searing knife, had been too much to bear.
He shielded his wife, Latifa, from the truth, a shield built of
love and the fragile hope that a message might bridge the
chasm of loss. He, too, found solace in the charade. Each day,
the radio became a ritual, a desperate prayer disguised as
routine. The announcer's voice, a solemn yet hopeful echo,
filled the silence with messages of love and separation. Only
the final notes of Fayrouz's " signaled the program's end, a
bittersweet reminder of a world that continued to spin.
He paid no heed to the whispers of pity that followed him.
Their whispers were a distant echo compared to the
deafening silence within. His mind, he acknowledged with
quiet sorrow, had chosen its own sanctuary, a place where
Jaber's voice still resonated, and hope, however fragile, still
flickered.

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Flight
The world turned upside down without warning. blindfolded,
barefoot, and swathed in striped pajamas, he was banished
from the land he knew, cast out to a foreign shore beyond the
Mediterranean. He learned a harsh truth: he was now a
deportee, severed from his homeland. His heart ached for
everything he'd left behind: his mother, his family, his wife,
and the children whose young minds he'd nurtured as a
teacher. One consuming desire burned within him: to return.
He attempted escape by sea, defying the unforgiving waves
in a rickety boat. But fate intervened, his vessel succumbing
to the ocean's wrath, leaving him clinging to life. Land routes
proved equally treacherous; his attempts thwarted at every
turn. Even burrowing through the earth offered no escape,
tunnels collapsing like his hopes.
Only the vast sky remained, a canvas stretched across the
horizon. He watched a free bird soar, its wings marking a
path he yearned to follow. Could wings carry him to his one
desire, lifting him above the weight of sorrow, longing, and
disappointment that burdened him? Would they finally grant
him passage back to his homeland, back to everything he held
dear? The question echoed unanswered in the vastness above.

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Trains
Each one of them headed towards the train station, a grim
intersection of journeys and goodbyes, echoed with the
familiar murmur of Palestinians. Hailing from scattered
corners of the world, these individuals shared a singular truth
- none were truly home. They gathered, seeking solace in
shared stories, each tale woven from the threads of a lost
homeland.
As departure loomed, the metallic clang of the station
resonated with a different tone. Each grasped their passport,
a document that cemented their exile, a stark reminder of the
citizenship acquired through displacement and loss. A silent
pact was forged - to stifle the sobs of separation, to offer
hesitant smiles. An illusion of indifference was donned, a
promise whispered - to reunite, joyful and whole, in the land
of their hearts, Palestine. Parting came with forced laughter,
a façade masking the ache of separation, the biting chill of
exile. Yet, beneath the veneer, their Palestinian spirit, vibrant
in their local dialects, echoed through the sterile station, a
testament to the resilience that even tears could not fully
conceal.
Their paths diverged, each passenger bound for an unknown
destination, carrying the weight of their shared history, and
the unwavering hope of one day returning, truly home, to the
land that resonated in their souls - Palestine.

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With downcast eyes, they filed towards the train, each

destined for a distant unknown. None dared a backward
glance, for fear their hidden tears and the sting of defeat
might be revealed.

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Lunch
The relentless sun beat down on the valley as the young girl
and her brother trudged towards the heart of Karama camp.
Hunger gnawed at their bellies, but a glimmer of hope fueled
their steps – the UNRWA1 restaurant, their daily lifeline.
Their father had secured two restaurant user cards for them,
ensuring at least one full meal each. Their mother, however,
was left behind, her empty stomach a constant ache. Each
day, the girl concealed a plastic bag beneath her clothes,
determined to share her meager portion with her mother.

1
- The United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the
Near East (UNRWA) is a United Nations agency that supports the relief and
human development of Palestinian refugees. It was established in 1949 by the
United Nations General Assembly resolution 302 (IV) following the 1948
Arab–Israeli War, and began its operations in May 1950. UNRWA is the only
UN agency dedicated to assisting refugees from a specific region or
conflict.The agency's mission is to provide assistance and protection to some
5.7 million registered Palestine refugees who are residing in Jordan, Lebanon,
Syria, the Gaza Strip and the West Bank. UNRWA's services encompass
education, healthcare, relief and social services, camp infrastructure and
improvement, microfinance and emergency assistance, including in situations
of armed conflict.UNRWA faces a number of challenges, including the ongoing
Israeli–Palestinian conflict, the rising needs of the refugee population, and a
chronic shortage of funding. However, the agency remains a vital lifeline for
Palestinian refugees, providing them with essential services and advocating for
their rights.

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This day, however, fate dealt a cruel blow. As she clutched

their meals, the bag slipped from her grasp, sending the food
tumbling onto the dusty ground. Half the precious orange
rolled away, disappearing into the grime. Tears welled up in
her eyes as she pleaded with the restaurant official for a
replacement, but her pleas were met with a stern refusal and
a harsh reprimand.
She left, a heavy weight settling in her chest. The thought of
her mother, waiting at the gate with an empty stomach, was
a relentless torment. Her brother's innocent eyes, filled with
confusion and worry, added to the unbearable burden.
Their walk back was shrouded in a deafening silence, broken
only by the relentless heat. The girl carried the weight of the
wasted food and the looming hunger at home, a burden far
heavier than the scorching sun.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Difficult birth
A hush fell over the delivery room. The air crackled with a
tension that transcended the sterile white walls. Despite the
familiar symphony of beeps and whirring machines, this birth
was different. The woman on the bed, her face etched with a
tapestry of wrinkles that spoke of a life well-lived, exhaled
ragged breaths. Sweat beaded on her brow, a stark contrast to
the silver strands framing it.
Her fourteenth delivery, and the years seemed to weigh down
on her like a physical burden. Each contraction seemed to
pull at an already weary thread. Yet, there was a quiet
resilience in her eyes, a flicker of defiance against the
whispers of her age.
A young nurse, barely past her twenties, approached the bed.
Her voice, though professional, held a tinge of impatience.
"Please try to be quiet," she said, her gaze briefly landing on
the woman's worn Palestinian dress, a silent testament to the
journey she'd undertaken. "Your cries are disturbing the other
patients."
The woman's lips thinned into a resolute line. This birth,
unlike the thirteen that came before, wasn't just about
bringing life into the world. It was a testament to the enduring
spirit that burned within her, a refusal to be silenced, even in
the face of pain and fatigue.

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Instead of succumbing to the pressure to quiet down, she met

the nurse's gaze with a steely glint in her own. "These are the
sounds of life, child," she rasped, her voice unwavering.
"They may be disturbing, but they are necessary. They are
the cries of a mother welcoming her child, a woman fighting
for her creation."
The room held its breath. The young nurse, caught off guard
by the woman's quiet strength, faltered for a moment. In that
shared moment, a silent understanding bloomed. The sterile,
clinical atmosphere seemed to soften, replaced by a profound
reverence for the raw power of life unfolding before them.

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Death
The old woman, his paternal grandmother, was a symphony
of discontent. Food held no flavor, drinks tasted of dust, even
the air seemed to mock her with its foreign tang. Clothes,
companionship, all were irritants in this land of exile. Loss,
a constant ache in her bones, intertwined with the sharp sting
of loneliness and the gnawing terror of a life uprooted.
Yet, within her, burned an ember of defiance – Palestine.
Everything, she’d declare, with a sigh that rattled the very
windows, everything was more beautiful there. It wasn't
about comfort, this refrain. It spoke of a deeper truth, a
yearning for the soil that cradled her soul, the language that
whispered through her dreams.
When illness gripped her, a fierce vow escaped her lips. A
promise, a plea, to her children, grandchildren, a lineage
bound by longing. Carry her back, she rasped, let her die in
the embrace of her homeland. Death, she believed, held a
different melody in Palestine, a song of solace, a final
homecoming.
And in the quiet surrender to her mortality, a final wish – to
be buried in the earth that knew her laughter, her tears, her
very essence. Palestine, a land more compassionate, she’d
murmur, a land that held its people close, even in the stillness
of death. This final act, a testament to the profound
connection, an unspoken truth – that some part of us, forever,
belongs to the place we call home.

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Necklace
All she has from her homeland is this metal pendant in the
shape of a map of Palestine Tucked against her skin, hidden
beneath the worn collar of her jacket, she kept a fragment of
her homeland. A metal pendant, shaped like a map, hung
from a simple hemp string, a silent reminder of all she'd left
behind. Carefully, she eased it out, ensuring it wouldn't be
swallowed by the depths of her coat, a secret held close to her
heart, shielded from judging eyes.
New to this American town nestled in a remote state, she and
her family had joined the tapestry of immigrants. This quaint
primary school, nestled amidst a verdant forest, was her New
Haven. The teacher, with gentle gestures, placed her beside a
curious blonde girl. The girl's gaze snagged on the necklace,
its aged brass glinting with an alluring emerald and black
patina. Reaching out, she touched it, her voice laced with
childlike wonder. "Can I see it?" she asked.
But the reply, though delivered in a voice barely above a
whisper, held the weight of a thousand unspoken stories. "It's
my home," she said, her words firm, her grip tightening
around the pendant. "And I won't give it away." I will not
give Palestine to anyone.

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Airport
The fluorescent lights of the airport waiting room cast a
sterile glow on the mismatched assembly of travelers. A
figure draped in black, a cloak matching the shadows in his
heart, fidgeted in his seat. He nervously ran a hand through
hair reeking of damp basement, desperately trying to
disappear behind a book clearly not his own.
Across the worn leather bench, his neighbor observed the
pantomime with practiced ease. The man's every detail – the
ill-fitting clothes, the greasy hair, the nervous ticks and
mumbles resembling a frantic woodpecker – screamed
"thief" louder than any alarm. The pungent aroma of cheap
slippers added the final touch to the portrait.
What truly surprised the observer, however, was the man's
complete miscalculation. Here, in this sterile purgatory, the
thief's attempt to blend in was as transparent as the flimsy
paperback shield. In a clumsy attempt at conversation, the
man leaned over, his voice dripping with a poorly concealed
fake English accent.
"Heading back home," he muttered, eyes darting around.
"Where are you off to?"
The reply, delivered in a language as refined as the man's
disguise was lacking, was laced with a chilling disdain.
"Poland."

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A flicker of surprise crossed the man's face, quickly masked

by a poorly crafted smile. "Your homeland, eh?" he inquired,
the insincerity dripping from his voice.
The response came swift and sharp, cutting through the
feigned camaraderie. "It is your homeland," the man spat, his
voice laced with a deep-seated anger. "Mine is Palestine."
The air crackled with unspoken tension as the words hung
heavy in the sterile air. In that moment, the thief's charade lay
shattered, exposed by the quiet dignity of a stranger in a land
far from home.

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A coin - a penny1
In the worn canvas of his pocket, a relic nestled – a
Palestinian penny, pocked with age and revolution. It was a
gift from his uncle, a martyr in the 1936 struggle against the
British. A meagre offering, perhaps, but it held the weight of
his homeland, a tangible piece amidst the loss. His family,
his home, his friends – all stolen by the winds of war. He'd
lost even the book he poured over, the worn Quran his uncle
brought back from Hajj, a sacred link to his roots. Stripped
bare, his mind, too, became a battlefield, haunted by ghosts
of the past.
One day, a discarded scrap of red wool caught his eye, a
defiant echo against the grey. With practiced fingers, he tied
it to the coin, transforming it into a talisman. No longer a
forgotten penny, it became a beacon, a reminder of the world
he carried within.He wandered, chasing phantoms of a lost
past in waking dreams. Whenever pitying eyes offered
solace, foreign coins held out in tentative hands, he clenched
his fist, refusing the gesture. "I want a Palestinian penny,"

1
- a penny: The most common meaning of penny is a one-cent coin, or 1/100th
of a US dollar. The US penny is featuring Abraham Lincoln on the obverse
(heads) side and a shield representing Lincoln's preservation of the United
States on the reverse (tails) side.Penny can also refer to the British penny, a unit
of currency that was part of the British pound sterling system before
decimalization. The British penny was replaced by the new pence in 1971.
Penny is also the informal name for the cent unit of account in Canada, although
one-cent coins were removed from circulation ,some contexts, "penny" can be
used informally to refer to any small amount of money.
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he'd declare, his voice hoarse but his resolve unwavering. For
in that worn coin, he held the fragment of a home, a memory
worth more than any charity. The price of the diaspora, a
single coin carrying the weight of his world.

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Al-Baqja 1
She was the one who sent him this bundle with her younger
brother. He must have risked himself to deliver it to him
before the ship took off and carried him and his companions
away from Lebanon so that they would be further away from
Palestine.
The worn fabric of the bundle felt rough against his calloused
palms, the weight of it heavy in his hands. It was the last piece
of her, a tangible memory wrapped in worn cloth. He knew,
without looking, what it contained – another collection of
hand-me-downs, clothes that wouldn't fit, wouldn't be new.
These bundles had filled his childhood, a constant reminder
of displacement, of longing for something more. He

1
- Al-Baqja: is a traditional Palestinian bundle made of fabric, typically cotton
or burlap, used to carry clothes, food, or other items. It is rectangular in shape
and is tied with a rope or string.The baqjah has been used in Palestine for
centuries. It was a common sight in the past, especially in rural areas, and was
used for a variety of purposes, such as: Carrying clothes when traveling or
moving from one place to another. Carrying food or household items.
Presenting gifts. Storing valuables. Types of baqjah:Small baqjah: Used to
carry small items, such as underwear or socks.Large baqjah: Used to carry large
items, such as outerwear or blankets.Decorated baqjah: Used for presenting
gifts or storing valuables. The baqjah is a symbol of Palestinian heritage. It has
been used for centuries in various aspects of Palestinian life. The baqjah is used
in many Palestinian proverbs and sayings, such as "The baqjah cannot carry
everything. «The baqjah is also used in many Palestinian songs and poems, such
as the song "Baqjah ya baqjah.

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remembered tears on holiday mornings, the sting of wearing

clothes that screamed of charity, not love.
Yet, this bundle was different. This one held the scent of
Rabab, the one he loved, the one left behind. He lifted it to
his nose, inhaling deeply, seeking solace in the familiar
warmth of her lavender soap. Tears pricked his eyes, but he
blinked them back, unwilling to betray the grief etched on the
faces around him. His companions, too, were consumed by
the weight of goodbyes, the uncertainty of their journey, and
the vast, unknown horizon that stretched before them. He
would hold onto this bundle, a final embrace from Rabab, a
promise to carry her memory even as he sailed away. It was
a burden, yes, but also a connection, a silent vow not to let
the distance sever the love that bound them.

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Arabs Melodies

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The Monster
Soldiers, his parents had warned, were creatures beyond
humanity. Their hearts, forged in the fires of war, were
impervious to empathy, twisted into instruments of violence
capable of unthinkable acts. He'd never seen one, born amidst
the dusty confines of a refugee camp far from his ancestral
home. Yet, these monsters, as his parents called them, existed
for him only in whispered stories and the haunted expressions
worn by the elders. The Zionist soldier should not be a human
being, but rather a broken beast, so that his heart is strong
enough to kill innocent people, displace them, and steal their
Palestine. He had never seen a Zionist soldier in his life. He
was born in the Karama camp1 outside his homeland, but
he knows from his parents that the Zionist monsters are
camping there west of the river.
One day, the world of his imagination collided with harsh
reality. Pursuers, relentless and brutal, chased his family to a
fortified camp, a chilling tableau of steel giants and
weaponized monstrosities designed to dismantle any
opposing force.The pursuing monsters followed them to the
Karama camp, fortified with giant tanks and destructive

1
- Al Karama Camp: It is a Palestinian refugee camp, in the Jordan Valley
region in Jordan. Camp conditions are often difficult, with residents facing
overcrowding, poverty and unemployment.

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vehicles, to eliminate the militants. They were soon severely

defeated by their pursuers and captured. He and the curious
camp children who surrounded the barreled Zionist tanks
were allowed to look at the monsters trapped in them. The
fight was swift and unforgiving, ending in the utter defeat of
the camp's defenders.
Captured and subdued, the "monsters" were displayed like
trophies within their metal cages, their faces obscured by
shadows cast by the unforgiving sun. A throng of curious
children, including himself, gathered around the barreled
tanks, peering into the unknown with a mix of fear and
morbid fascination. He was the first to look out the tank's
hatch to catch a glimpse of who was lying inside. He saw a
Zionist soldier bound and shackled to the bottom of the tank,
unable to move. The victorious heroes told him that the
Zionist enemy sent its soldiers to the War of Dignity in
shackles, to ensure that they would not flee the battlefield
because of their extreme cowardice.
They were surprised that the Zionist soldier was a human
being and not a monster as he thought. The victorious hero
smiled and said to him: No, he is not a monster, he is just a
cowardly dog tied in chains.
He looked at the defeated figures, searching for the
monstrous visage his parents described, but all he saw were
weary, defeated men, their humanity stripped bare by the
relentless machinery of war.
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Reinforcement
They decided to support the Palestinian cause in a strong way
that would enhance its strength. They established an
international Arab Islamic organization for this purpose.
They collected huge sums of money for it, distributed
honorary and administrative positions according to the
financial sums provided by their countries and institutions,
and promised the masses yearning for Arab freedom and
dignity that they would have supportive measures.
The well-meaning do-gooders, flush with cash and
brimming with self-importance, established a global body to
champion the cause. They showered it with donations,
creating a hierarchy based on financial contributions. To the
desperate masses yearning for freedom, they offered hollow
promises of support. Briefly, they ignited hope for profound
change with a dramatic, anticipated decision: renting an
island resort for "strategic deliberations." While the world
held its breath, these self-proclaimed saviors withdrew to a
life of luxury, funded by the very donations intended for the
oppressed. They pledged to brainstorm solutions while
indulging in a lavish retreat of women, wine, and pleasure.
Their "strategic thinking" stretched on indefinitely, leaving
the Palestinians trapped in an agonizing limbo, waiting for a
solution that never came.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Blood
There are Arabs fighting on the face of the earth under
Palestinian names. He does not care about this war. He closes
the basement door and isolates himself there, away from the
terrible bloodbath. He knows that the conspiracy to kill the
Palestinians is part of the collusion to exterminate them and
establish a greater state for the Zionist entity.
He does not want to be involved in this farce, so he ignores
this conspiracy. He flees from his team, who does not
understand why he is fighting, and takes his Palestinian
friend by the hand, and they isolate themselves in the
basement. There they remember their childhood days,
browse pictures of fun and innocence, and leave the outside
world fighting on the roads of hell.By the flickering
candlelight, they delved into memories, each picture a portal
to a time before the bloodbath. Faces, once etched with the
anxieties of youth, now beamed with the carefree joy of
childhood. Their laughter, a defiant echo in the tomb-like
silence, dared to challenge the symphony of violence outside.
The world above might be consumed by flames, but in the
quiet haven below, two souls held onto the embers of their
humanity, a testament to the enduring power of shared
memories and the desperate yearning for peace in the face of
war.

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A New Curriculum
The sting of her father's scolding echoed in her ears, a
familiar refrain for her and her brothers. Perfect grades or
face his wrath, that was the unwavering expectation. The
UNRWA school, their saving grace with its free education
for Palestinian refugees, felt like a battleground under this
constant pressure. Her father's words, though harsh, held a
truth she couldn't deny: "Knowledge is our only treasure.
Fight ignorance!" Even if it meant selling their clothes, their
education was paramount.
News of a new curriculum sent a wave of excitement through
their class. No more brittle pages inherited from countless
students before them! The promise of crisp, unused books
was a shared dream, a whisper of hope amidst their worn-
down reality. The day the books arrived, she eagerly flipped
through her new history and geography texts. The scent of
fresh paper filled her senses, a small victory in itself. But as
she searched the geography book for a map of Palestine, a
cold dread settled in. Her heart hammered against her ribs as
she scoured the history pages, the name of her homeland
absent from the list of neighboring countries.
With a heavy thud, she closed the books, the crispness a
mockery now. The threat of zeros in these subjects no longer
held its terror. Geography and history, they felt like a
betrayal, a deliberate erasure. The weight of their absence
was far heavier than any scolding or bad grade. The new
books, symbols of hope, now felt like hollow cages, their
pages filled with a truth that refused to acknowledge her own
existence.

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Zionists
Since she was young, her family taught her that the Zionist
Jews were the ones who usurped her homeland, Palestine,
and expelled her and her people from it. She grew up with
Palestine hanging in her chest for love, and a metal map
around her neck that will never leave her.
This Arab soldier was the first to cut her Palestinian necklace
during a protest march against the continued Zionist
occupation of Palestine. He threw her to the ground, stepped
on her with his thick military boots, and told her: The Zionists
are better than you. What brings you to us?
Her childhood tears, once triggered by an unknown cause,
now seemed like a mere raindrop compared to the
tempestuous downpour that engulfed her life. The eviction
from their home, a haven for two decades, ripped open a
wound far deeper than any childhood disappointment. It was
a cruel reminder of their ongoing plight as Palestinians –
displaced, persecuted, and constantly vulnerable.
The greed of the landlord, fueled by the chaos of their
adopted Arab country, mirrored the injustices that had
plagued their family for generations. Their grandmother's
words, "bearers of sadness and abuse," echoed with a
haunting truth, as they were stripped not just of their roof but
also their possessions and dignity.

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Standing naked, barefoot, and empty-handed, they were once

again refugees in their own land. Their cries, like the
countless others before them, went unheard, swallowed by
the indifference of a world seemingly accustomed to their
pain. Yet, amidst the despair, flickered a faint ember of
resilience. They had faced hardship before, and they would
face it again, clinging to the hope that one day, the storm
would finally subside.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Honor
In a sun-baked camp, where hope clung to tattered tents like
dust devils, the young teacher, eyes filled with hopeful
naivety, scrawled upon the cracked board: "The Arab is
respected. He is not treated unfairly and does not accept
being insulted."
Her words, stark against the parched earth, echoed in the
silence of the classroom. Women, their faces etched with
stories older than time, turned, their gazes a tapestry of lived
experiences. A murmur, like the whisper of desert wind,
danced through the air.Then, laughter erupted, a sudden
downpour in a barren land. It wasn't the cruel laughter of
mockery, but the bittersweet chuckle of truth unveiled. The
teacher, startled, blinked, a question trembling on her li Umm
Mahmoud, her weathered hands calloused yet strong, spoke,
her voice a deep well of memory. "Those words, child, they
shimmered like mirages in the distance, once. But look
around you, at the sand beneath our feet, the tears that stain
our shawls. Where is the respect, the fairness, the honor you
speak of?" Another woman, eyes glinting with defiance,
chimed in, her voice laced with desert thorns. "The only
honorable Arabs exist on that board, frozen in an idealized
frame. Our reality, child, is painted in the cracks of those very
words, a stark reminder of the chasm between what is said
and what is lived."

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The silence that followed was heavy, pregnant with

unspoken realities. The teacher, her naivety slowly giving
way to understanding, stared at the stark sentence on the
board. The words, once bold, now seemed pale against the
backdrop of the women's lived experiences.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Arabism
He reveled in the flash of cameras, a practiced smile plastered
across his face. Newspapers fawned over his philanthropy;
his name synonymous with generosity. Lavish gifts flowed
from his coffers to strangers in distress, endangered
creatures, and crumbling monuments across the globe.
"Arabian Robin Hood," they called him, a title he cherished.
Silk, silver, and gold adorned him like a gaudy Christmas
tree. Bespoke suits draped his portly frame, his feet encased
in rare leathers and furs. Money flowed freely; his face
plastered across international dailies chronicling his
charitable deeds. He couldn't read a word of their praise, his
ignorance of languages mirroring his illiteracy in his own
tongue.
The plight of the Palestinians, he claimed in a televised
interview, seared his fat-encased heart. He wept theatrically,
milking the cameras for every drop of sympathy. A
pilgrimage to Mecca was declared, a grand show of piety
orchestrated for the media's hungry eyes. At the holiest site,
he beseeched God to aid the Palestinians, his voice cracking
with manufactured emotion. Cameras captured his every
move, his "support" immortalized in pixels.
But beneath the gilded exterior lurked a hollowness. His
"charity" was a carefully crafted performance, a shield
deflecting scrutiny from his dubious business dealings. His

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tears were crocodile tears, his prayers devoid of genuine

empathy. He cared little for the Palestinians' suffering, his
concern solely for the applause it brought.
The true heroes, he conveniently ignored, were the ordinary
people who toiled silently, offering genuine help without
fanfare. Their sacrifices were invisible, their names unsung.
Yet, it was their quiet acts of compassion that truly made a
difference, not the empty gestures of a gilded philanthropist.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Soldier
His mother kissed him and told him, according to the
testimony of his family and relatives: Be careful not to return
to your home before you liberate Palestine. I won't be
satisfied with you if you don't.
He enlisted in this army two years ago, but this liberation is
his sacred mission. He feels very proud that he is part of a
large Arab army that came to participate in the liberation of
Palestine from the Zionist gangs that seized a large part of it.
The war began with a group of Zionists. They could wipe
them all out at sunset if they worked hard. But the order to
withdraw comes from their leadership there in the Arab
capital. They were amazed at this matter that came at the
height of their victory. The army sheltering them withdraws
completely, but he refuses to withdraw and sets out alone,
facing the army's path, with bowed foreheads, broken eyes,
and failed rifles, and he decides to fight the Zionist gangs
alone. His mother's kiss remained on his cheek, and a salty
tear mixed with the farewell. She murmured; her voice heavy
with unspoken fears: “Do not return until you have breathed
the words of freedom. My heart aches for peace, and my heart
for glory, but both intertwined are our victory.”
Two years had hardened him, but her words remained his
sacred oath. And now, amid the liberating roar of their Arab

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host, he saw his mission. The enemy, a snake coiling around

their land, will be crushed before sunset.
Then silence. He commanded from afar, the winds of retreat
chilling. Faces fell, and the army turned its tail, leaving it
standing tall amid the echoes of its vow. He could not, and
would not, abandon his goal.
Alone, he faced the retreating defenders, their desperation a
stark contrast to his blazing determination. He turned towards
the enemy, their laughter echoing in the distance. His steps
were steady, and his heart was on fire, a lone warrior against
the gathering storm.

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Demonstrations

pleas drowned in the ocean's roar, echoed only by the few

who chose defiance. Cheap lives bled to defend, a futile stand
against the crashing waves. Across the sea, exile beckoned,
stealing from their land, their loved ones, their hopes, leaving
dreams and comrades' graves behind. The Palestinian camp -
Sabra and Shatila - is slaughtered from vein to vein at the
hands of Arab criminals and Zionists. The camp called for
help from its fellow fighters, but no one responded except for
a few of them who remained after everyone left. They
sacrificed their cheap lives in order to defend it. The rest of
the Palestinian guerrillas are being robbed by the raging sea
towards their new exile, far from their families, their
memories, their dreams, and the graves of their companions
on the path of resistance.

As for the Arabs, they were all playing one of their decisive
historical roles, as they were following the world football
qualifiers with all sincerity and interest, counting the goals,
and preferring the loser or the winner according to their
whims.

In the morning, the Sabra and Shatila camp was a river of

Palestinian blood, But the "brave" Arabs, once stirred by
passion, had returned to their slumber. Millions roared for
goals, not the fallen, deaf to the camp's silent grief. In a world

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deaf to their tragedy, Sabra and Shatila slept, its pain forever
etched in stillness. And the brave Arabs rose up in every inch
of the Arab world with one bold, angry impulse in million-
man demonstrations in support of an Arab football team that
had lost, and another that had won, and they did not
remember the dead in the miserable camp.

275
Melodies of the Palestinian

Orphan
The woman, consumed by a relentless hunger for riches, felt
a hollowness that money couldn't fill. Motherhood, a natural
extension for many, held no sway over her. Yet, the idea of
an heir, a blood tie to secure her vast fortune, became a
twisted obsession. Her husband's relatives, vultures circling
a future inheritance, were an unwelcome thought. She is
barren, does not respond to her obsession with becoming the
richest woman, and does not play the role of a caring mother.
She wants a child to adopt, so she burns his entire past and
attributes him to herself and her husband so that he will be an
heir to his wealth, so all the money goes to her instead of
going to her husband’s relatives after his death. Enter the
child, a blank slate upon which she could etch a fabricated
past. Through a web of manipulation, perhaps even coercion,
she brought him into their opulent world. Photos were staged,
stories woven, a web of deceit spun to paint him as their own.
The child, innocent to the machinations around him, became
a pawn in her elaborate game.
This wasn't about nurturing a young life, filling it with love
and warmth. It was a cold, calculated move to ensure her
wealth remained firmly within her grasp. Her husband,
perhaps a kind man blinded by his love for her, might become
an unwitting accomplice in this charade. The child, a stranger
thrust into a loveless performance, would grow up under the

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Melodies of the Palestinian

gilded cage of her obsession.She found what she wanted in

the orphans of the Palestinian camps in Lebanon, whose
families died and left them orphans without mercy or pity.
She easily got a cute baby from them without any conditions
for adoption. She chose him as she wanted: blond, with
flowing hair, golden skin, and green eyes. She kidnapped him
away from his two sisters. She refused to adopt them with
him, as she needed a male child to inherit her husband’s
wealth, and she was not looking for wages, charity, or
motherhood.
She took him to her house while he cried over the loss of his
two sisters. She announced that he was her son, changed his
name, and prevented him from remembering the camp, its
family, and his two sisters. After a short time, he forgot that
he was Palestinian, and got lost in the crowd thanks to the
kind Arab woman who adopted him and separated him from
his origin.

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Enemy Melodies

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Melodies of the Palestinian

A thief's wife
Since she started observing that Palestinian who lives in a
tin shack on her land, she has been seeing the world from
another angle. The Zionist entity's administration deprived
the family of that Palestinian woman of this land after
confiscating it from them, but they were determined to
remain in a small tin hut on their land.
Before she lived next to this Palestinian woman, she thought
she was a happy wife living with a perfect husband in the
Promised Land, but when she saw the life of this Palestinian
woman, she discovered that they were just thieves who stole
the land from her, and that she was nothing more than a
deceived wife living with an arrogant soldier. He raped
Palestinian female prisoners in prisons. He leaves her as a
servant locked in the house
She sympathizes with that Palestinian. This land is their legal
right. She asks her husband to return the land they stole to its
Palestinian owner, resign from his job, and return to France
to live there in their country of origin. But he refuses to do so
and confronts her with a storm of anger after he beats her.
She decided to carry out her wish despite his refusal. She
prepares mushrooms, which he loves. She carefully selects
them from the poisonous kind. She cooks it for him and
serves it to him in the evening for dinner as an apology for
what she did to him in the morning .

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Melodies of the Palestinian

The scent of simmering broth, earthy and rich, filled the air.
But beneath it lurked a sinister undercurrent, a bitter
counterpoint to the illusion of a cozy domestic scene.
Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long
shadows across the disputed land. Inside, the wife, her face
etched with a desperate resolve, watched her husband devour
the meal she had so painstakingly prepared.
This was not a love offering, nor a simple supper. Each
spoonful was a silent accusation, a venomous whisper of the
truth she had unearthed. The truth that shattered the gilded
cage of her existence, revealing the rot beneath the surface of
her "perfect" life. It was a bitter truth she had gleaned from
the resolute woman who lived in a tin shack on the edge of
their stolen property - a stark reminder of the injustice that
had birthed their comfortable life.
The man, oblivious to the storm brewing within his wife,
savored the meal. Little did he know, he was consuming more
than just the carefully selected mushrooms; he was ingesting
the bitter fruit of his actions. The land they lived on, the life
they led, all built on a foundation of stolen dreams and
shattered lives. The wife, steeled by conviction and a sense
of grim justice, sat across from him, a mirror reflecting his
ignorance. Every bite he took was a step closer to the
inevitable reckoning. This was not a meal; it was a pact with
fate, a shared descent into the darkness they had both, in their
own ways, created.

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Here, under the watchful gaze of the setting sun, their

twisted family dinner unfolded, a silent symphony of guilt,
betrayal, and a desperate yearning for redemption – a
yearning that might very well lead them both down the same
path of oblivion, leaving behind only the lingering scent of a
poisoned meal and the ghosts of lives forever fractured.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Silence
The battle raged against a backdrop of scorching sun and
swirling sand. Fear pulsed through his veins, a rhythm
keeping pace with the relentless drumming of gunfire. He
witnessed the fragility of life, comrades falling around him
like marionettes with their strings cut. The enemy, unseen in
the haze, felt less like men and more like ethereal reapers,
harvesting souls with chilling efficiency.
This was a terrible defeat for them against the Palestinian
guerrillas. He and his fellow recruits experienced the
meaning of fear, death, and defeat. They were everywhere,
not people, but ghosts that chased them, killed them, and
destroyed their relics. Only he and some wounded soldiers
survived thistrap.
He was one of the fortunate few to crawl out of that infernal
landscape, his body bearing the scars of the battle etched in
blood and bone. Recovery was a slow, agonizing process, a
month spent grappling with the ghosts of the fallen and the
hollowness of survival.
His return unfolded in a charade of jubilant pronouncements,
a celebration of fictitious victory. They bombarded him with
fabricated stories, expecting him to parrot their manufactured
narrative. But the truth, heavy and suffocating, wouldn't be
silenced. He refused to become another cog in their
machinery of lies.

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He spent a month in psychological treatment until the Zionist

army administration allowed his family to meet him after
they taught him many lies about a sweeping victory that only
occurred in the imagination of the liars, who forced him to
repeat their chatter and nonsense so that the Zionists would
not know that they had been defeated to the core.
So, he chose silence. A wall of quiet defiance, a stark contrast
to the cacophony of fabricated triumph. His voice became a
silent scream, a testament to the horrors witnessed and the
truth they sought to bury. It was a choice, a heavy burden, but
one he bore with the stoic resolve of a man haunted by echoes
of war.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Arabic Song
She listens in complete confidentiality to Arabic songs in the
Egyptian dialect. She is forbidden from showing sympathy
and love for anything Arabic, even if it is a song.
They called her Mizrahi 1 , a label that felt like a cage,
separating her from both sides. The promise of a "Promised
Land" had lured her across the sea, a mirage that shimmered
with hope but dissolved upon arrival. Here, she was an
outsider, judged not for her faith, but for the land she left
behind. She came here with a trick called the Promised Land,
and when she fell into its net, she realized that the Zionist
Black Widow would eat her because she is a Mizrahi Jew, as
they call her.
There are many Eastern Jews like her who came to this land
deceived, fleeing behind a great illusion. She is not an
Eastern Jew, but rather a deceived Jew who left her family in

1
- Mizrahi: refers to Jews of Middle Eastern and North African descent. It is a
broad term encompassing diverse communities with unique histories and
traditions, including:
Mashriqi Jews: These communities originated in the Middle East, such as
Yemenite Jews, Iraqi Jews, and Persian Jews.Maghrebi Jews: These
communities hail from North Africa, including Moroccan Jews, Algerian Jews,
and Tunisian Jews.The term "Mizrahi" is relatively recent, emerging in the 20th
century. While its usage allows for identifying a shared geographical origin, it's
crucial to remember the vast diversity within the Mizrahi community. Each sub-
group possesses its own distinct cultural heritage, religious practices, and
dialects.It's important to avoid generalizations or stereotypes when referring to
Mizrahi Jews. Their experiences vary greatly, and their individual stories
deserve to be acknowledged and understood.
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Melodies of the Palestinian

Egypt, just as others left their families in Morocco, Yemen,

and Iraq, and came to burn them all in this place.
There, where she came from, they did not criticize her as a
Jew, but here in this Zionist settlement she is criticized, with
or without reason, because she is an Easterner coming from
Egypt and gets the lowest benefits, while the Western Jew
gets all the privileges.
Now, she was confined to a "metal box" atop a desolate
mountain, far from the sand-kissed shores of her childhood.
She cannot express her anger at her deception and her
remorse because she left the shore of Alexandria, where there
was love, neighbors and sweet company, and came stored
until death in a metal box in an isolated village at the top of
the mountains.
Every day, she takes revenge on those who brought her here
by secretly listening to Egyptian Arabic songs and singing
their Arabic lyrics with love and joy, and she clings and
dreams of her feet sinking into the sand of the Alexandria
beach, away from this cursed colony.
But even in this isolation, she refused to be silenced. Every
stolen moment spent listening to the songs of her homeland
was an act of defiance, a silent rebellion against the forces
that sought to erase her roots. The music, whispered secrets
of a life left behind, fueled her dreams of returning, of sinking
her feet back into the familiar embrace of the Alexandrian

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sand. Back in Alexandria, amidst the bustling streets and

familiar warmth, her heritage was embraced, not ostracized
The woman, a shadow in the harsh desert sun, clutched the
worn earpiece to her ear. The music, a forbidden melody in
the harsh winds of her new life, flowed through her, a
language of her past, a connection to her stolen identity.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

The whip
The man lived in a perpetual cycle of inflicting and receiving
pain. Deep down, a flicker of self-awareness flickered in the
darkness, a voice that whispered "degenerate" during his
drunken stupor and haunted him in sober whispers. Deep
down, he realizes how devoid of morals, values, and nobility
he is, and he lovingly calls himself “degenerate” during his
drunken hours, but when he wakes up, he whispers this title
to himself without stopping.
He was a product of rigidness, raised by a strict religious
school that molded him into a creature devoid of compassion,
the very antithesis of the faith he supposedly served. He
carried the weight of his crimes, a chilling testament to the
system that birthed him. He is an illegitimate son, according
to the testimony of everyone who knew him. He does not
know his father or mother specifically and definitively. But
it was that strict Zionist religious school in Jerusalem that
nurtured and raised him until he emerged according to what
it wanted and desired, devoid of morals, values, and
humanity. He carries out all the crimes entrusted to him with
cold nerves and a dead conscience, and during work hours he
practices his disgusting profession as a member of
Nahshon's forces, which specializes in torturing Palestinian
prisoners in detention centers, interrogation centers, and
execution chambers.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

His job was a grotesque reflection of his inner turmoil. He

moved through his days with a chilling detachment, wielding
his whip like a conductor's baton, orchestrating symphonies
of suffering within the confines of detention centers and
execution chambers. The screams echoed in his hollow heart,
but brought no remorse, only a chilling sense of satisfaction.
He likes to begin his torture sessions by beating the
Palestinian prisoner with a whip until his back, face, stomach,
and thighs bleed, then pounces on him, taking advantage of
the handcuffs on his hands and feet to extract his flesh with
his fox jaw.
But the true torture began when his official leave arrived.
The shackles that once held his victims now held him captive.
The whip, once an instrument of his cruelty, became the
weapon against him. The world mirrored his actions back at
him, returning his cruelty tenfold. During his official leave,
he suffers from being shackled a lot, from having his feet and
hands tied by night girls, and from being beaten with the
same whip that he used to beat his victims in prison, until his
voice fades as he screams and asks for help without an
answer.
He won't sleep until she spit in his face and call him a
"bastard." Then he rests and sleeps because he gets the
contempt and torment he deserves.
He found no solace in sleep until someone, anyone, would
acknowledge the monster he had become. A single word,
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"bastard," spat with contempt, would pierce his self-

constructed shell, allowing him a semblance of peace. It was
a twisted penance, a desperate craving for the very thing he
denied his victims - recognition, even if it came wrapped in
hatred.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Dress
In order to devote her career as a retired model and owner of
the largest fashion house in London, the Zionist Mossad
1
paid her huge sums of money to promote the image of
Zionist women. She is wearing Palestinian clothes 2 .. Its
1
- The Mossad: officially known as the Institute for Intelligence and Special
Operations, is the national intelligence agency of Israel. It is one of the three
main Israeli intelligence agencies, along with Aman (military intelligence) and
Shin Bet (internal security).
Here's a summary of the Mossad:
Function: Responsible for intelligence collection, covert operations, and
counter-terrorism.
Established: 1949
Headquarters: Tel Aviv, Israel
Reports to: Prime Minister of Israel
The Mossad is known for its secrecy and has been involved in a number of high-
profile operations throughout its history. It is important to note that due to the
nature of its work, much of the Mossad's activities remain classified.
2
- Palestinian women's clothing combines practicality with cultural and
regional influences. Like many other cultures in the Middle East, Palestinian
clothing emphasizes loose-fitting garments that provide comfort in the warm
climate.Traditional Palestinian attire for women is often centered around the
thobe, a long, loose dress. Thobes come in a variety of styles, materials, and
colors, and are often adorned with intricate embroidery, a practice called
tatreez. Embroidery patterns and colors can vary by region and social status.
Here are some of the common types of traditional Palestinian garments for
women:Thobe: The thobe is the foundation of Palestinian women's traditional
dress. It's a long, loose-fitting garment that can be made from a variety of
materials, such as cotton, linen, or wool.Izar: The Izar is a long rectangular
piece of cloth that is wrapped around the lower body. It can be worn on its own
or under a thobe.Abaya: The abaya is a long, flowing cloak that covers the
entire body. It is often worn over a thobe or other clothing.Shayla: The shayla
is a headscarf that is worn by many Palestinian women. It can be made from a
variety of materials and can be worn in a variety of styles.Modern Palestinian
women also wear a wide variety of clothing, including Western-style clothing,
as well as Islamic clothing styles like the hijab. However, traditional dress
remains an important part of Palestinian culture and identity, and is often worn
for special occasions, such as weddings and holidays.

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mission is to steal this garment from Palestinian women and

plant it in the imagination and memory of the world as a
heritage of the Zionists.
She loved to earn a lot of money for this easy task, even if
she did not like the sight of the Palestinian dress that covered
the body and closed the doors of greed. The body used to be
a cheap commodity, and they marketed prostitution all over
the world, exposing the woman's body to every buyer.
But she was unable to go ahead with the deal. These
Palestinian dresses made her suffer from a strange disease.
Whenever she wore it, she felt like a Palestinian, and a shiver
of anger at the Zionist enemy ran through her body. She was
overcome by the fever of repeating the phrase “Free
Palestine.” And sometimes this curse took hold of her. She
picked up road stones and fed them to every Zionist she knew
in London, or met by chance or by prior arrangement.
The models, vibrant beings she usually imbued with
confidence, wilted under its weight. Their smiles faltered,
their eyes shadowed.This curse affected every model she
worked with.she could no longer bear the sight of this dress
in front of her...
The dress, once a canvas for her, now hung like a specter in
her studio. Every stitch, every fold, seemed to mock her. A
curse, insidious and cruel, had woven itself into the fabric,
twisting her joy into dread whenever she laid eyes on it.

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A bittersweet symphony played out in her trembling hand as

she penned the letter. Each word resonated with a sorrow that
transcended the lost project. Regret, thick and heavy, clung
to her like the very fabric of the cursed dress. Yet, woven
within it was a newfound respect. This wasn't just a garment;
it was a living testament, a vibrant tapestry of resilience.
"It defies ownership," she wrote, her voice echoing in the
cavernous silence of the studio."This creation pulsates with a
power that transcends possession. It embodies the spirit of a
culture, its struggles and triumphs stitched into every
thread."She paused, the weight of her words
settling."Perhaps it doesn't belong with us," she confessed,
"but with someone who can truly understand its song. This
dress seeks its own wearer, and its destiny lies elsewhere."
There was a profound sense of letting go in her words. The
regret remained, a whisper in the air, but it was dwarfed by a
newfound respect for the power the dress held.

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Thief
Years abroad revealed a dark secret: the soldier was a thief.
Incarcerated in Spain for pilfering women's handbags, his
cunning facade crumbled. When he immigrated to the
Promised Land; the great cunning became a thief with the
rank of a Zionist soldier serving a thief entity that stole an
entire homeland from its people. Every financial trust he had
was embezzled without any feeling of guilt. Embezzlement
charges stripped him bare – the great strategist, exposed as a
common pilferer.
Facing a court-martial and a hefty sentence, he made a
shocking proposition. His act, he argued, was petty compared
to the grand thefts that plagued their nation. "I'll return the
money," he challenged the judge, a defiant glint in his eye,
"if you return Palestine, which you stole to its people.
The courtroom held its breath. The judge, a man known for
his iron fist, offered a chilling smile. The verdict? Acquittal.
The soldier walked free, a testament to a twisted justice
system where grand larceny trumped petty theft. The stolen
funds remained missing, a stark reminder that some thefts, it
seemed, were more permissible than others.

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Mercy
A segment aired on a collaborative international satellite
broadcast showcased the destruction of a family's residence.
The accompanying narrative, however, framed the
homeowner as a subversive element
In a media program broadcast jointly by several international
satellite channels, the Zionist Channel presented a video
report on the demolition of a house for the family of a
Palestinian fighter. The broadcaster described him as a
saboteur because he was defending his homeland.
A ring of soldiers, a stark silhouette against the rising sun,
encircled a precarious house perched on a rocky bluff. No
warning, no escape. Just a chilling silence, shattered by the
grinding roar of bulldozers.
Inside, a family – a tapestry of generations – awoke to chaos.
Bare feet pounded the dusty ground in a desperate scramble
for an exit that didn't exist. Panic, a tangible entity, choked
the air. Women, their screams lost in the mechanical
symphony of destruction, clung to the olive drab uniforms, a
final, heart-breaking anchor to their vanishing world.
The camera, a voyeur in this unfolding tragedy, pans across
the scene. A demolished house, its walls gaping wounds,
stands as a grim monument to the eviction. Then, a shift. A
soldier kneels amidst the rubble, cradling a frightened red-

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haired cat. The zoom tightens, blurring the background

chaos.
On television screens, a newscaster's voice, heavy with
manufactured empathy, praises the soldier's act of
compassion. The applause from the studio audience feels
hollow against the backdrop of a community fractured, lives
uprooted.
The rescued cat, a fleeting symbol of hope amidst the
devastation, becomes the narrative. But the true cost remains
hidden – families displaced; memories buried under rubble.
The audience, spoon-fed a manufactured tearjerker, misses
the bigger picture. This is a stark reminder of the media's
power to manipulate focus, leaving the true tragedy unseen.

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Deception
The Zionist settler rose angrily like a rooster blowing on a
dunghill. He prepared for the settlement official to click with
his words, coming from the depths of his despicable, angry
soul. A crowd of settlers gathered around him. The settlement
director guessed that they agreed to a certain position.
"Where is the promised land of plenty?" the frustrated settler
demanded, his voice echoing in the desolate landscape. "We
were promised abundance, yet all we find are hardship,
devastation, and constant fear. Where is the honey and milk
that we immigrated here for? All we see around us is death,
destruction, ruin and fear.
The official, unfazed, adjusted his small hat, which was
falling on his head like bird droppings and gestured vaguely
towards the sky with a single finger. "The prosperity you
seek," he declared, "may not be found on earthly soil. Look
beyond, to the heavens, for that is where true reward awaits,
honey and milk are not here, but they are there in heaven.

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Man
Military life had hardened her, twisting her into a shadow
of her former self. The rigid structure became a breeding
ground for a different kind of combat – one fought with
favors and a cheapened spirit. Promotions and perks became
the currency for survival, a Faustian bargain that stripped her
of her dignity.
Then came the illness, a physical manifestation of the rot that
had set in. The prison, a reflection of a broken system,
ostracized her. Worse, it twisted her suffering into a
weapon.She became an instrument of torture, forced to inflict
pain and a terrible disease upon others. The aim wasn't just
physical suffering, but a final, cruel act – to infect them with
shame in front of their loved ones.
This is a story not of a bad woman, but of a good person
broken by a corrupt system. It's a chilling reminder of how
power dynamics and desperation can twist even the most
resilient souls.
The man with the gentle smile, an anomaly in this brutal
place, refused to crumble. His eyes, pools of calm defiance,
mirrored the disquiet churning within her. Guilt, a long-
dormant emotion, stirred in her gut, a viper awakening from
its slumber. It was an unwelcome sensation amidst the steely
resolve she'd painstakingly forged.

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His unwavering spirit, a stark contrast to the broken men

around him, exposed the flimsy justifications she clung to. It
was a brutal self-confrontation, the chasm between her duty
and her humanity laid bare. His final moments, devoid of fear
and brimming with a quiet dignity, shattered the walls she'd
built around her heart. In the face of his nobility, the
justifications she'd clung to crumbled to dust. Now, adrift in
a sea of doubt, she was left with a chilling question: who was
the monster in this cage, him or her?

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RPG
They were everywhere. In the desolate camp, promised to be
a swift operation, a victory celebrated with stolen laurels.
Yet, they were the ones scrambling for escape, fleeing before
a tide of unwavering resistance. Fighting children, their faces
devoid of fear, their eyes locked on a single purpose. Once
again, he saw small, emaciated Palestinian children in front
of him, carrying RPG shells. They all have the same face.
Every time someone was killed by a shell or dozens of bullets
pierced him; he would see a child with the same face
attacking him again. They are everywhere, here in this
Palestinian camp in Lebanon.
The desolate camp, once promised as a quick victory, now
echoed with the desperate scramble for escape. They, the
invaders, were the ones fleeing, a tide of resistance rising
before them. In the faces of the children, there was no fear,
only an unwavering determination. These weren't children,
not in the way he remembered them. These were specters of
innocence lost, their eyes burning with cold fury. Every child
soldier he saw was a haunting echo – the same gaunt frame,
the same haunted gaze.
One face, forever etched in his memory, became his personal
tormentor. A child, eyes blazing with a defiance that mirrored
his own terror, stood his ground. He didn't run, didn't flinch.
He fired, and the world went red. A comrade fell. And with

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a final, brutal twist of fate, the tank he sought refuge in

became his tomb.
The war raged on, the children, phantoms of a stolen
childhood, continuing their fight. But for him, the battle was
over. The line between soldier and victim blurred, leaving
behind a chilling truth: the war had claimed more than just
lives, it had devoured a piece of his soul.
He woke with a gasp, the sheets damp with sweat, the terror
clinging to him like a shroud. His wife sat beside him, her
face etched with concern and a weary acceptance. "Again?"
she whispered; her voice heavy with a burden he shared.
He nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.
Shame gnawed at him, a constant reminder of the
powerlessness that haunted his every waking moment. "I
can't escape them," he finally rasped, his voice hoarse.
"See the doctor," she said gently, her hand reaching for his.
"Maybe he can help you outrun these demons."
He looked at her, his own reflection staring back, a hollow
echo of the man he once was. "No escape," he whispered, the
words tasting like ash. "This face... it follows, a harbinger of
the hell that awaits."
Her hand, a lifeline in the storm within him, offered a fleeting
moment of solace. But in the corner of his vision, the ghost
of the child soldier stood, a chilling reminder that the torment

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– both in the darkness of sleep and the glaring light of reality

– was a relentless pursuit. It's a face that haunts me until it
leads me to hell.
The stench of burnt gunpowder and dust clung to his senses,
a constant reminder of the nightmare that clung to him like a
second skin. He closed his eyes, the faces of the children
flashing behind his eyelids. Emaciated, hollowed-out eyes
held a chilling defiance, a single, identical face staring back
at him with a haunting intensity.

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Sharon1
He served a cause he believed in, a homeland he felt
obligated to defend. Kindness simmered beneath the surface,
a stark contrast to the brutality his duty demanded. He was a
man of surprising sensitivity, burdened by a secret loathing –
the color red. It wasn't the vibrancy that repelled him, but the
crimson tide it represented – the blood spilled in the name of
his cause.
His greatest torment wasn't the act of killing itself, but the act
of witnessing it. He performed his grim duty with eyes
squeezed shut, his soul recoiling from the inevitable carnage.
It wasn't a hobby, not a source of pleasure, but a horrific
necessity he endured, all the while yearning for a different
life, a life where the color red wouldn't be synonymous with
a battlefield nightmare. He serves his alleged homeland,

1
- Ariel Sharon: Personal Information: Full Name: Ariel Sharon (Hebrew:
‫) ֲא ִריאֵ ל שָ רֹון‬
Date of Birth: February 26, 1928Place of Birth: Kfar Malal, British Mandate of
Palestine (present-day Israel) Date of Death: January 11, 2014Nationality:
IsraeliEducationHebrew University of Jerusalem (Law)Military
ServiceHaganah (pre-Israeli underground militia)
Israel Defense Forces (IDF) - General (retired)Commander of Unit 101
(retaliatory commando unit) Southern Command (during 1967 Six-Day War)
Head of the Northern Command Head of the Training Department Political
Career Likud party member Minister of Agriculture (1977-1981) Minister of
Defense (1981-1983) Minister of Industry and Trade (1990-1992) Minister of
Housing and Construction (1990-1992) Foreign Minister (1998-1999)Leader of
the Likud party (1999-2005) Prime Minister of Israel (2001-2006)
Controversies Involvement in the 1982 Sabra and Shatila massacre in Lebanon
Order to withdraw Israeli settlements from the Gaza Strip in 2005.
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Israel. He is kind and has a sensitive nature, even if he

tramples on all of humanity. He hates the color red because
he hates seeing blood, and therefore he does not practice his
sinful hobby, which is killing Palestinians, except with his
eyes and soul closed so that he does not see the blood of his
victims.

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Slave
He came from Ethiopia, fleeing after ambitions and illusions.
He claimed to be Jewish in order to achieve a comfortable
life, as promised by the Zionist rabbi he desired, his family
and many of the people of his Ethiopian city, and he released
them as mangy flock into the embrace of a Zionist. A colony
where security, comfort and upscale human treatment are
cherished.His fellow Zionists treated him like a slave. All
they gave him was hatred and contempt, some food, a cement
box to live in with his family, and a vile broom with which
to sweep the establishment where they had appointed him as
a servant. Now he is a real slave, a Jewish Flashas1 slave.
White Jews make fun of him because he is black and
lucky.He longs for freedom. He decides to recover his stolen
self and return to his true homeland. He stays away from

1
- Beta Israel (also known as Ethiopian Jews or Falashas): are a group of Jews who
have lived in Ethiopia for centuries. They are believed to be descendants of Jews from
the ancient Kingdom of Israel who migrated to Africa. Beta Israel has faced persecution
throughout history, but they have managed to preserve their culture and religion.
In 1977, Israel began airlifting Beta Israel to the country. Nearly 80,000 people were
airlifted in a series of covert operations. Beta Israel faced difficulties integrating into
Israeli society, but they have made significant progress in recent years.
Beta Israel now live all over Israel and are an integral part of Israeli society. They serve
in the Israeli military, work in a variety of professions, and contribute to Israeli culture.
Here are some additional facts about Beta Israel: They are believed to be descendants of
Jews from the ancient Kingdom of Israel who migrated to Africa. They lived in Ethiopia
for centuries. They faced persecution throughout history. Israel began airlifting them to
the country in 1977.They faced difficulties integrating into Israeli society. They have
made significant progress in recent years. They now live all over Israel. They are an
integral part of Israeli society. They serve in the Israeli military. They work in a variety
of professions. They contribute to Israeli culture
Famous Ethiopian Jews: Some famous Ethiopian Jews include:
Pnina Tamano-Shata: She is the first Ethiopian-born woman to serve as a minister in the
Israeli government. Eden Alene: She is a singer who represented Israel at the Eurovision
Song Contest in 2021.Berhane Asfaw: He is a world-renowned mathematician who has
made significant contributions to the field of number theory.
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Palestine, where he has no homeland. When he lands with his

wife and family on Ethiopian soil, he returns free again.
Aching for a better life, he left his Ethiopian home, a tapestry
of vibrant colors and rich traditions. Dreams of comfort and
security, whispered by a persuasive voice, led him and his
family across continents. They embraced a new land, their
hearts filled with hope and trepidation.

Instead of the promised haven, they found themselves

confined in a concrete shell, far from the warmth of their
community. The air held a strange chill, laced with prejudice
and misunderstanding. His skills, honed under the African
sun, were reduced to the menial task of wielding a broom, his
worth measured in scornful glances. The color of his skin,
once a source of pride, became a target for mockery.He
yearned for the freedom of his childhood, the laughter
beneath the acacia trees, the stories whispered under the
starlit sky. He realized that true belonging resided not in
external promises but in the embrace of his heritage.With a
quiet resolve, he gathered his family and embarked on a new
journey, one that led them home. As the familiar soil
embraced their feet, he felt a wave of liberation wash over
him. He had shed the illusions and reclaimed his authentic
self, finding his roots not in promised comfort, but in the rich
tapestry of his true homeland.

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Book
His book, “Ethnic Cleansing1 in Palestine,2” is the holiest
thing he ever accomplished. He treats him with pride, care,
and reverence, and quickly and carefully escapes from the
racist Zionists who stone him for treason, spit on him, and

1
- The term "ethnic cleansing»: is highly charged and refers to the forced
removal of a specific ethnic group from a certain territory. It's a complex and
sensitive topic, especially when discussing the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
Here are some resources that can help you explore this topic in a nuanced way:
Books:
"The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine" by Ilan Pappe (represents a Palestinian
perspective)
"My Promised Land" by Ari Shavit (represents an Israeli perspective)
Documentaries:
"The Invisible Thread" (explores the personal stories of Israelis and
Palestinians)
"Palestine is Still the Issue" (examines the historical context)

2
- "The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine" by Ilan Pappe: is a book that
examines the 1948 Palestinian exodus from the perspective of a new historian.
New historians challenge the traditional Zionist narrative of the Israeli-
Palestinian conflict and focus on the role of Zionist militias in the expulsion of
Palestinians.Pappe argues that the expulsion of Palestinians in 1948 was a
deliberate and planned act by Zionist forces, which he characterizes as ethnic
cleansing. He bases his argument on archival evidence, including documents
from Zionist militias such as the Haganah and Irgun.The book has been
controversial since its publication in 2006. Critics of the book argue that Pappe
exaggerates the role of Zionist militias in the expulsion and downplays the role
of Arab violence in leading to the Palestinian exodus. Supporters of the book
argue that it provides important evidence of the Zionist role in the Palestinian
exodus and that it challenges the traditional narrative of the conflict.Here are
some of the key points of Pappe's book:The expulsion of Palestinians in 1948
was a central plank of Zionist ideology from the beginning of the Zionist
movement.Zionist militias deliberately planned and carried out the expulsion
of Palestinians in order to create a Jewish state in Palestine.The expulsion of
Palestinians was not a spontaneous reaction to Arab violence, but rather a pre-
meditated plan.The book has been widely debated by historians and Middle
East scholars. It is an important contribution to the understanding of the 1948
Palestinian exodus and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
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flog him, saying: “Ilan Pappe 1, you traitor, you agent of the
Arabs.”
He does not care about what he suffers, but finally his bold
pen wrote the whole truth and with complete fairness after he
realized the brutality of his people. Finally, he can live in
peace and die content. He wrote the truth that his people
wanted to feed into oblivion.

1
- Ilan Pappe :Israeli historian, political scientist, and former
politician.Professor at the University of Exeter in the UK.Founder of the Haifa
branch of the Emile Touma Institute for Palestinian Studies.Self-described as
an anti-Zionist.Challenger of Traditional Zionist Narrative: Pappe is considered
a "new historian" who critiques the traditional Zionist narrative of the Israeli-
Palestinian conflict. He argues that the conflict is not simply a matter of
competing narratives but has historical roots in the expulsion of Palestinians
from their land in 1948, which he terms "ethnic cleansing."Criticisms: Pappe's
work has received both praise and criticism. Supporters commend his work for
challenging dominant narratives and bringing attention to the Palestinian
perspective. However, critics argue that his methodology and interpretation of
historical events are biased and inaccurate. They point out a lack of evidence
for some of his claims and accuse him of omitting counter-arguments or
downplaying historical context.Considerations when engaging with Pappe's
work:Critical Engagement: It's crucial to approach Pappe's work critically.
Consider the historical context, methodological choices, and potential biases.
Research different perspectives on the topic to form an informed
opinion.Sensitivity: The Israeli-Palestinian conflict is a complex and sensitive
issue. It's crucial to use language and engage in discussions with respect for all
parties involved.
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Museum
The air in the Museum of Man in Paris1. hung heavy with
the echoes of lost civilizations. A student's voice, crisp and
youthful, narrated tales of vanished tribes and forgotten
peoples, victims of history's brutal hand. The man shuffled
along, a grim smile playing on his lips whenever the student
described an entire culture erased by conquest. The Zionist
rabbi2 shakes his head with joy whenever he stands before
the nation that was extinct at the hands of the sinful occupier.
Reaching the display dedicated to an "extinct" nation, his
heart, if it could be called that, swelled with a perverse

1
-The Musée de l'Homme (Museum of Man): is an anthropology museum in
Paris, France. It was established in 1937 by Paul Rivet for the 1937 Exposition
Internationale des Arts et Techniques dans la Vie Moderne. It is one of the
seven departments of the Muséum national d'histoire naturelle (MNHN). The
Musée de l'Homme occupies most of the Passy wing of the Palais de Chaillot
in the 16th arrondissement.

2
- Zionist rabbi: is a term that can describe a rabbi who supports the ideology
of Zionism, which advocates for the creation and maintenance of a Jewish state
However, it's important to be aware that:Spectrum of Views: Zionism
encompasses a wide range of opinions and approaches. Some Zionist rabbis
may hold more traditional views focused on the religious and historical
significance of the Land of Israel, while others may have more progressive
views on issues like peace with Palestinians or the inclusion of different Jewish
denominations within the state.Diversity within Rabbinate: It's important to
avoid generalizations about rabbis based solely on their stance on Zionism.
Rabbis come from diverse backgrounds and hold varying viewpoints on various
theological and social issues.

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satisfaction. Here, at last, was vindication. Here was proof of

their supposed enemies' barbarity!
But as the student continued, detailing the harrowing events
that led to their near-destruction, a flicker of something
unexpected crossed the man's face. His smile faltered,
replaced by a mask of impotent rage. At the end of the tour,
the rabbi backed down; He began to bray and cry with the
sorrow of a pig mourning for food in a dunghill that he could
not enter. His shy student asked him with concern and
confusion: What makes you cry? The rabbi replied while
wiping his snot with his sleeve: They are the Palestinians.
They embarrassed us in front of the world and history when
they refused to exterminate them, so we will be relieved of
them and bring them into this museum for display
only."They... they lived," he rasped, his voice raw with
something akin to disappointment. "They refused to be wiped
out. They defied us! Now we're the ones on display, a relic
of hatred preserved for all to see."

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Melodies of the Palestinian

Hobby
The best Zionist pastime is seeing the heads of Palestinian
children quickly roll off their bodies. He practices his hobby
in all Palestinian camps. He finds special pleasure in chasing
the heads that were forcibly escaped from their bodies in the
Sabra and Shatila camp. He has long enjoyed the small Arab
heads sacrificed in the Bahr al-Baqar1

1
Bahr al-Baqar: A Tragedy Etched in MemoryBahr al-Baqar, a small village nestled
in the fertile plains of Egypt, carries a heavy burden of remembrance. On a
fateful day in 1970, a dark shadow fell upon this peaceful community, forever
etching a tragedy into its collective memory.The sun had barely begun its
descent when the earth itself seemed to tremble. Warplanes, bearing the insignia
of a distant land, tore through the pristine sky, unleashing their deadly cargo
upon the unsuspecting village. Their target: the Bahr el-Baqar primary school,
a place of laughter and learning, where dreams and futures blossomed under the
watchful gaze of dedicated teachers.In the ensuing pandemonium, the air filled
with the agonizing shrieks of children, their innocence shattered by the
deafening roar of explosions. The school, once a symbol of hope and education,
lay in ruins, a testament to the senseless destruction. Amidst the debris and
smoke, the cries of the wounded and the wails of the bereaved pierced the
heartbroken silence.The world watched in horror as news of the Bahr el-Baqar
massacre unfolded. Forty-six innocent children, their lives barely begun, were
among the casualties. Their laughter, once a symphony of joy, was silenced
forever. The tragedy reverberated across the globe, a stark reminder of the
devastating consequences of conflict and the fragility of human life.Today,
Bahr al-Baqar stands as a poignant symbol of the enduring spirit of its people.
Though the scars of the past remain visible, etched not only on the landscape
but also in the hearts of its residents, the determination to heal and move
forward is unwavering.Memorials stand as silent sentinels, bearing the names
of the lost children, a constant reminder of the tragedy that befell them.
Educational initiatives ensure that the memories of the victims are kept alive,
while new generations are instilled with the values of peace, tolerance, and
respect for human life.Bahr al-Baqar's story is not simply a historical footnote
but a stark reminder of the devastating cost of conflict and the importance of
safeguarding the innocence of children. It serves as a call to action, urging
humanity to strive for a future where the playgrounds of children echo only with
laughter, not the deafening roar of war.
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and Qana 1schools.

And when his hobby ignites. With intense thirst, his spirit
approached his son's head and attacked him with a cleaver.
And keep it away from his body. He starts watching the
Zionist blood fountain. And it grows louder and tossed into
the space of his son’s bed.
He laughs greedily, contentedly, and happily, but he is still in
a feverish thirst to hunt the head of a Palestinian child.

1
Qana: A Tapestry Woven with Hope and HeartacheQana, a town in southern
Lebanon, carries a complex and multifaceted story, woven with threads of resilience,
sorrow, and an enduring spirit. Nestled among olive groves and vineyards, its history
stretches back centuries, a testament to the region's rich cultural heritage.However,
Qana's name frequently surfaces in headlines for reasons far removed from its idyllic
setting. The town has tragically become synonymous with devastating events that have
inflicted deep wounds on its people.A Land Steeped in History:Qana boasts a rich
tapestry of history. Archaeological evidence suggests settlements dating back to the
Canaanite period. It holds historical significance for both Christians and Muslims, with
several religious sites scattered across its landscape. The town even witnessed the first
miracle attributed to Jesus Christ in the Christian faith – the turning of water into wine
at a wedding feast.Echoes of Conflict:Unfortunately, Qana's history also bears the scars
of conflict. The town has been caught in the crossfire of regional tensions and wars on
several occasions. The most notorious instance occurred in 1996, when a United Nations
compound sheltering civilians was struck by artillery fire, resulting in the deaths of over
100 people, many of them children.This incident, along with other tragic events,
continues to leave an indelible mark on the collective memory of Qana's people. Yet,
amidst the narratives of hardship, there lies a powerful story of resilience.Facing
Adversity with Strength:The people of Qana have demonstrated remarkable strength and
resolve in the face of immense adversity. Despite the tragedies they have endured, they
remain firmly rooted in their land, rebuilding their lives with unwavering
determination.Qana's spirit finds expression in its vibrant community life, its bustling
marketplace, and its unwavering commitment to education and cultural preservation.
Local initiatives promote peace and understanding, fostering a sense of hope for a future
free from violence.A Symbol of Hope and Remembrance:The town of Qana stands as a
poignant symbol of the human spirit's ability to endure hardship and rebuild in the face
of devastation. It serves as a reminder of the devastating cost of conflict and the
importance of fostering peace and understanding. While Qana's history carries within it
the echoes of heartache, it also whispers tales of resilience and an enduring hope for a
brighter tomorrow.

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Medal of Valor
He received the Third Class Medal of Heroism from the
Zionist Army, in recognition of his important role in the
complete annihilation of a Palestinian children’s school.
They called him a hero. They named some new-borns after
him. Zionist newspapers published his image as a national
hero. The revelers quickly forgot about him. The newspapers
left him. The media turned their backs to him, and his medal
lay rusty in one of his desk drawers. The faces of the
Palestinian children he killed with a single missile continued
to haunt him day and night, digging their nails into the depths
of his soul, which lived in an endless earthly hell.

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myth

In the shadow of a mythical, invincible army, he trained.

Drills pounded the myth into his soul - an unbreakable force,
destined for victory. Each movement, each thought fueled his
insatiable thirst for conquest. He craved the day he would
crush not just guerrillas, but the very world itself, his loyalty
a shield against any doubt. After he passed the intensive
course that received at the head of his army administration,
he saw that he was a soldier in a legendary, unbeatable army.
The cycle fed him the myth of the chosen people and the
invincible army. He is now ready to go out on any mission
assigned to him in order to crush all the guerrillas and even
the entire world. As long as he is a soldier in this legendary
army

The night before his first mission, he drowned his remaining

anxieties in alcohol. Victory, he believed, was a mere
formality. No need to waste precious energy. He envisioned
a swift triumph, a triumphant return to the glorious ranks.

His first mission was to crush the Palestinian guerrillas in

Lebanon. On the night he was assigned his mission, he drank
a lot of alcohol. There is nothing wrong with wasting his
energies, as he does not need them in this battle, and he will
not wait long until he reaps victory and annihilates the
Palestinians. Then he returns to his den.

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Finally, he went out on his promised military outing. But

dawn revealed a reality far harsher than myth. Their
opponents weren't the ragtag guerrillas he expected. They
were young, defiant rebels, their eyes burning with a
righteous fury. They saw the "legendary" army for what it
truly was - a force of needless destruction. No need for
seasoned veterans He did not meet any of the guerrillas. He
and his army faced young rebels who saw him and his army
as so despicable that they did not call in the senior guerrillas
and rained RPGs on him and his group. he walked back, not
a conqueror, but a broken pawn in a game he never
understood. The myth, once a shield, now hung heavy, a
reminder of his shattered pride and the bitter cost of blind
obedience. He became a symbol, not of an invincible army,
but of the devastating consequences of believing in fairy
tales.

Within a few hours, he was a captured soldier in the hands of

the Little Titans. They did not kill him as he thought. Rather,
they humiliated him and released him so that he could return
alive to those deceivers who convinced him that he was a
soldier in a legendary, invincible army in order to spit in their
faces., his dreams of conquest shattered. The "Little Titans,"
as they called themselves, didn't kill him. They saw his
capture as a weapon, a living testament to the hollow lies he
had been fed. They released him, a walking embodiment of
the myth's deceit, to return to those who had nurtured his
delusions.

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Memory loss

They told him more than half a century ago while teaching
him the principles of Zionism: The elderly Palestinians will
die and their children will be forgotten. He was proud of the
small faces of the Palestinians and ordered them to be put in
prison as punishment for stoning the Zionist soldiers. So, he
ordered that the punishment be severe for them. He cursed
them and cursed their children, and spat in their faces until
his saliva dried up and he almost choked on it. The door was
closed after they left and they were chained to torment and
hell. They were blindfolded. He began to echo the sound of
their cries for help that shook the sky. He rejoiced in their
suffering and gloated over them. Then he started snoring and
crying loudly. He swallowed his generous tears. He said they
will not forget.Decades had passed, etched not just on his
face, but in the lines of his soul. They echoed the words
whispered to him in his youth, during the bitter lessons on
upholding colonial power: "The conquered fade, their names
lost to the winds, their children forgotten."He remembered
their faces, young and defiant, framed by fiery anger when
they dared to hurl stones at the soldiers. His pride, twisted
into a monstrous form, had demanded their punishment. He
had ordered their imprisonment, a severance from their own
lives. Curses spewed from his lips; venom laced with hate.
He had rained insults upon them, his spittle a physical
manifestation of his disdain, until his throat grew raw and his

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voice hoarse. The heavy oak door slammed shut, leaving

them in the bowels of their torment, their cries for help
muffled by the thick stone walls. He had stood there,
relishing their despair, intoxicated by the power he wielded.
But as the echoes faded, a different sound filled the silence -
his own ragged snores, punctuated by choked sobs. He
swallowed the tears that welled in his eyes, tears not of regret,
he told himself, but of the burden of power, the loneliness it
carved within him. His lips moved silently, forming the very
words he once believed: "They will not forget." But the
weight of those words now crushed him, a haunting reminder
of the cost of his actions, the echoes of which would forever
resonate within the desolate chambers of his soul.

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Aromatic plant
She lives on the second floor of an ancient Jerusalemite
house that the Zionist occupation took from its people and
owned. She was supposed to do all the evil and harm she
could think of to disturb the Jerusalemite family living in the
basement and force them to leave. But she was unable to do
so because of her psychologically benevolent nature, for
which her husband and his family hate her. They constantly
demand that she abandon her good qualities in favor of their
ambitions and loyalty to their Zionist entity.
She placed her hands on a basin of aromatic plants that
belonged to the owner of the house, among the furniture and
clothes that she found on the second floor of the assassinated
house. She loved this aromatic plant, which smelled good and
sweet. But the plant has been wilting constantly since I took
control of it.
I guessed that the plant loves its people. This plant misses
the landlady who planted and cared for it. She picked up the
small basin and brought it down the stairs. The Jerusalemite
woman was sitting in a small area of the garden, braiding the
hair of one of her daughters. She placed the basin of the
aromatic plant in front of her and said to her in a Palestinian
accent that she almost mastered: “This plant wants you”
The Jerusalemite woman replied without looking at her:
“This is normal, as trees know their people and reject
strangers”.
The scent of rosemary filled the air, a bittersweet fragrance

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that clung to Yasmin despite her efforts. It was a remnant of

the life before, a life stolen by forces beyond their control.
She lived above, in a space that felt borrowed, while the
family below occupied the beating heart of the house – the
garden. Yasmin was burdened by the task. Her husband and
his family viewed her as a weapon to be wielded, a tool of
intimidation meant to drive out the occupants below. But
Yasmin, with her gentle touch and compassionate soul, found
herself incapable of such cruelty. Every harsh word caught in
her throat; every manipulative tactic tasted like ashes on her
tongue.

The rosemary plant, once vibrant and lush, mirrored her

internal struggle. It wilted under her care, its life force
dwindling. Yasmin understood. It yearned for the woman
who had nurtured it, whose hands had known the earth
beneath its roots. The plant, in its silent way, echoed the ache
Yasmin carried within herself.

One day, compelled by an unspoken understanding, Yasmin

descended the stairs, the rosemary clutched in her trembling
hands. The woman below, with hair woven into intricate
braids, looked up in surprise. Yasmin, hesitant but
determined, offered the plant, her voice barely a whisper, "It
wants you."

The woman's gaze, filled with a lifetime of loss, softened for

a fleeting moment. "Trees know their own," she said, her

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voice raspy with unshed tears. "They recognize the love that
nurtured them, even when stolen."

The moment passed, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Yet,

in that shared exchange, Yasmin found a fragile hope.
Perhaps, like the rosemary, she too could find a way to thrive
again, not by wielding a weapon, but by letting her true
nature bloom.

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Student

He must be his teacher's secret, and this is his greatest

opportunity to be his loyal disciple who follows his path. He
is the one who taught him that scientific research and field
education are goals that permit everything humane or brutal.
Here, the end justifies the means, regardless of all morals, so
it was appropriate for him to explain to them the body of the
Palestinian prisoner while he was alive. Because he wants to
show them how vital organs work and their owner is alive.He
fainted when he attended the first of these field lessons
applied to the bodies of Palestinian prisoners. All he saw was
the scalpel entering the prisoner's chest and his screams,
which tore his vocal cords from the intensity of the pain.
Then he entered a world of dark, sticky coma until his Zionist
teacher, the doctor, woke him up with a slap that knocked out
one of his teeth. He never fainted after that slap. His doctor
teacher continued to use the scalpel on the bodies of
Palestinian prisoners until he no longer cared about human
pain, and he always wanted to play with his scalpel on his
teacher’s body, to prove to him that the student could surpass
his teacher in satanic acts.Now he will achieve the pleasure
he dreams of, as the awaited opportunity came to him on a
golden platter. His teacher is paralyzed in front of him,
paralyzed to move and speak. He suffers from a rare disease
that deserves to be discovered, and he is responsible for it in
this hospital. So, he could operate his scalpel there without

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uttering a word or muttering a protest. Even if he was in

severe pain, he would never waste this opportunity. He closes
the door of the room with the key, puts it in his pocket, takes
out his scalpel, and turns on the light. He walks him across
his teacher's body, starting from his neck, where the larynx
appears, down to his lower abdomen. The professor's gaze
flickered across the room, a predator assessing prey. His
students, a mix of eager and apprehensive faces, awaited his
next pronouncement. A cruel smile played on his lips. "The
textbooks can only teach you so much," he rasped, his voice
a chilling counterpoint to the sterile lecture hall. "True
knowledge lies in the field."Our protagonist, the once bright-
eyed student, now felt a knot of dread tighten in his stomach.
He wasn't naive. He'd witnessed the professor's unorthodox
methods before, the way ethics seemed to evaporate in his
presence. But this... this was different. A cold thrill snaked
down his spine.

"Tonight," the professor continued, his voice dropping to a

conspiratorial whisper, "we delve deeper. We witness the
symphony of life, not in sterile diagrams, but in a living
organism." A shiver ran through the students, a mixture of
morbid curiosity and dawning horror. The "living organism"
turned out to be a Palestinian prisoner, their struggles muffled
by a thick cloth bag. The professor, his eyes gleaming with a
detached fascination, began his macabre lesson. Each
incision, a morbid brushstroke revealing the intricate

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workings of the human body. The student, his loyalty now a

suffocating weight, watched in horrified fascination. Was
this the path he'd signed up for? Was knowledge worth such
a price? The prisoner's whimpers, a constant counterpoint to
the professor's clinical explanations, gnawed at his
conscience. Here, in the cold light of the operating room
turned torture chamber, the ends, however noble the
professor might paint them, did not justify the barbaric
means. He had to act. But how? Disobeying the professor
could mean his own demise. This was his greatest test, a
twisted loyalty war brewing within him. Would he become a
disciple of this dark science, or would he find the courage to
defy his mentor and fight for a sliver of humanity in this
descent into the abyss?

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Ozone

A gathering fueled by prejudice and hate unfolded. They

offered empty thanks to a deity for creating a convenient
scapegoat, a singular group to blame for all societal ills.
Every conceivable misfortune, from petty theft to world
wars, was attributed to this targeted population. Diseases,
tragedies, and conflicts – all their fault. Even death itself,
they claimed, was their invention. This scapegoating reached
its peak when the group, unable to explain the ozone layer's
depletion, pinned the blame on their chosen target.They
gathered and thanked God who created the Palestinians to be
a scapegoat for all calamities, tribulations and difficulties,
and in one session they attributed all human crimes to them
and that they were the ones who corrupted the world, stole
all the treasures, and fought peaceful peoples. They spread
diseases, sorrows, tragedies and misfortunes on earth and
ignited the flames of past, present and future world wars.
They are the cause of disputes and conflicts everywhere.
Rather, they are the ones who invented death and imposed it
on man. Therefore, they must be tortured, killed and
displaced.

And at the end of the list of crimes attributed to Palestinians,

living and dead, who remain nothing in the mysterious
unseen. They found that they could not explain the cause of
the hole in the ozone layer, which would cost humanity

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invaluable problems. The shortest person present at this

world summit smiled as he attributed the crimes of the
universe to the Palestinians. He was wearing a black hollow
hat. A foul odor stuck to his head, and he said with joy and
relief, as his stomach expanded and flabby: This matter is
easy and simple. It must be the Palestinians who violated the
ozone layer in a moment of recklessness. The attendees
cheered with joy and relief at this proposal, and they all voted
to agree to assign this dangerous environmental charge - if it
is real - to the miserable Palestinians who spoil everything
that is placed in their hands, to the point that their tampering
has extended to the ozone layer that they have pierced. A
collective cheer erupted, a sigh of relief that their irrational
prejudice had found a seemingly perfect target.

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Enemy Melodies

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Statue

In the dawn of time, a Palestinian master sculptor molded his

homeland from dreams, leaving its beauty etched in every
statue. One fateful night, a shadow fell: a Jewish usurper
shattered his paradise, casting him and his lineage adrift.
The first Palestinian man, forever marked by his stolen home,
became a wanderer. He carried its essence within him, a
whispered memory guiding his steps. His children, scattered
across the world, carried its echoes too. Each in their corner,
they sculpted – not mere figures, but fragments of a lost
paradise.
Generations passed; whispers became legends. The yearning
for their ancestral home, a constant ache in their hearts. Then,
a flicker of hope. They rose, a tide of longing, and drove back
the usurper.Home was reclaimed, yet a strange restlessness
remained.
The first Palestinian’s spirit, it seemed, had woven itself into
their very being.Though they rebuilt, recreated, their
creations mirrored the lost homeland.They built grand cities,
flourishing empires, yet each bore a whisper of the stolen
paradise.
And so, the cycle continues. With every generation, the
memory of the original homeland dims, yet the yearning

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remains. They leave, they build, they return – a story etched

in the very fabric of their existence.Will they ever truly find
rest, or is their journey an endless loop, forever chasing a
phantom paradise?

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The wind and the dogs

They were able to kill a gigantic number of Palestinians.
They mutilated their bodies. Burned their skulls. They
crushed their bones. They scattered their ashes in the wind to
rest from that ghost called the return of the Palestinian people
to their homeland.Their voices were barking with blissful
ecstasy as they said: We are Israel, and the Palestinians have
become nothingness.
The wind mocked their hoarse barking. It collected the ashes
of the Palestinians that were scattered by its breezes. It
kneaded it with the water of immortality. So, the Palestinians
rose again, descending from a phoenix that never dies.
The crimson sands whispered tales of atrocity. A whirlwind
of violence had swept through, leaving a desolate silence in
its wake. The victors, voices hoarse with hate, proclaimed
their triumph – a pyre of innocents reduced to ash, scattered
by the wind.
But the wind, an ancient witness, held a different memory. It
cradled the remnants, not with indifference, but with a
promise. Each grain of sand, imbued with the essence of the
fallen, held the spark of resilience. As the wind danced across
the dunes, it whispered a defiant lullaby:"They may have
tried to erase us, but we are the wind. We scatter, yet we
gather. We are the ever-shifting sands, and from our depths,
we will rise again."

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sickle
The Palestinian landed on the ground carrying a sickle.
Nothing more. He only loved his sickle for the land he reaps
its treasures.
The Palestinian, calloused hands wrapped tight around a
gleaming sickle, a symbol of toil and survival, landed hard
on the dusty earth. He owned nothing more, his heart pledged
solely to the land that yielded its bounty to his unwavering
labour.
Greedily Strangers came to rob the land from the sickle in
love with it
After the strangers who escaped from the grip of the
Palestinian sickle left, the sickle returned to devote itself to
the love of the land, and sings in the hands of the loving
farmers .
Greed, a serpent with eyes of polished gold, slithered in,
seeking to plunder the land this man cradled with his
calloused affection.
A clash, a whirlwind of steel against desperation. The alien
hands that sought to despoil fled, leaving only the echoing
silence and the glint of the sickle, still clutched in the
Palestinian's grip.

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Now, cleansed by the struggle, the sickle hums a song of

resilience in the hands of its master. A love ballad sung in the
callouses and sweat, a testament to the unwavering bond
between the farmer and the land.

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Cravings
the land itself bore the deepest scars. They robbed her and
scattered her people. And the land carried axes that they had
split for thousands of years to cultivate it.She craved their
features, their voices, their smell, their patience, and their
dreams. Every groove carved by their tools, every path they
walked, echoed their absence.
And she gave birth. She gave birth to fedayeen with the
features of their mother, warriors born from the very essence
of the stolen land. These fighters, with the faces of the lost
people, carried the land's yearning for its return. Once again,
the land's name was whispered on the wind: a name of
resilience, of longing, of unwavering hope.
She continued to be pregnant and crave and give birth to
fedayeen while chanting her eternal heavenly name. The
land, a silent yet potent force, fueled the fight for her return.
Her name became a battle cry, a promise etched in the hearts
of her children.The cycle continued, not just of leaving,
building, and returning, but of the land itself birthing
resistance, forever pregnant with hope for the day her stolen
children would return to her embrace.

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Resurrection
When the final thread is spun, and the world unravels, a
different call will echo. All humanity, bound by their deeds,
will gather. The weight of their choices, heavy stones around
their necks. But the Palestinians, they will stand tall, bearing
on their heads not burdens, but the very soil of their stolen
Palestine.
Theirs is a reckoning woven with love, a testament to an
unyielding bond. For the love between a people and their land
transcends even the tapestry of time, a love that whispers of
a future where the threads will be reforged, and the lost
masterpiece remade.

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The story collection is over

Wroten in the diaspora

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Dr. Sanaa Shalan (Bint Na'imah)

A Brief Overview

Dr. Sanaa Shalan (bint Na,imah):

is a Jordanian of Palestinian descent,
she is writer, academician, and media
personality, is widely recognized as a
prominent figure in Arabic literature.
She is often referred to as "the Sun of
Arabic Literature" and "the Lady of the
Arabic Short Story." Her contributions
to literature and her activism in various
social causes have earned her
international acclaim and numerous awards.
Dr. Shalan holds a Ph.D. in Modern Literature and Criticism
with Distinction. She currently serves as an Professor of
Modern Literature at the University of Jordan. Her prolific
literary career has resulted in the publication of 75 works,
encompassing novels, short story collections, children's
literature, plays, travelogues, and comparative literature
studies. She also has numerous published articles, essays, and
regular columns in various Arabic publications.
Beyond her literary accomplishments, Dr. Shalan is a
passionate advocate for human rights, women's
empowerment, child welfare, and social justice. She serves

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as the Honorary President of the International Peace and

Friendship Organization for the years 2023-2024. Her
activism has led to her participation in numerous local, Arab,
and international conferences on literature, criticism, human
rights, environmental issues, social justice, Arab heritage,
human civilization, and comparative literature.
Dr. Shalan's works have been translated into multiple
languages and have received critical acclaim worldwide. She
has been the recipient of numerous international, Arab, local,
and regional awards in the fields of novels, short stories,
children's literature, scientific research, theater, travel
literature, comparative literature, and media. Her plays have
been performed on local and Arab stages.
Dr. Shalan's literary works have been the subject of extensive
critical studies, master's theses, and doctoral dissertations
across Jordan, the Arab world, and internationally. Her
contributions to Arabic literature have established her as a
pioneer and a role model for aspiring writers.
Dr. Shalan is a representative of many cultural and human
rights institutions.
She is a partner in many Arab and international cultural and
intellectual projects.
Her works have been honored with numerous awards,
shields, honorary titles, cultural, community, and human
rights representations.
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Dr. Sanaa Shalan stands as a beacon of literary excellence

and social activism. Her contributions to Arabic literature,
her advocacy for human rights, and her dedication to social
causes have left an indelible mark on the world stage. She
continues to inspire and empower individuals through her
writings and her unwavering commitment to making a
positive impact on society.

Contact Information
To connect with Dr. Sanaa Shalan (bint Na,imah), you
can use the following contact information:
Dr. Sanaa Shalan (bint Na,imah)
Postal address: P.O Box: 13186
Postal code: 11942
Jordan- Amman
Mobile:0096279/5336609
E-mail: selenapollo@hotmail.com
Facebook: sanaa shalan
Youtube: sanaa shalan )‫(سناء الشعالن‬

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Dr. ZERNADJI CHAHIRA:

A qualified and experienced university
professor with over 10 years of expertise
in teaching and research. Proven ability
to design and deliver engaging courses in
Arabic language, linguistics, and
translation. Possess extensive experience
in research methodologies, curriculum development, and
integrating educational technology for effective learning:
Develop and deliver engaging courses in English language,
linguistics, and translation. Utilize online platforms and
innovative methods to enhance student learning. experience
in research methodology. Authored numerous articles in
national and international journals and presented research at
international conferences. Proven track record in developing
and implementing effective curriculum materials for Arabic
language and linguistics programs. Skilled in leveraging
technology to enhance the learning experience, including
online courses and interactive platforms. Published articles
in national and international journals on translation,
linguistics, and educational discourse Presented research at
international conferences on topics such as the
phenomenological approach and employing pragmatics in
educational platforms. Authored several books, most notably
one on the first grammar schools in Basra, Kufa, and
Baghdad.Member of research teams focusing on linguistic
interpretation and analysis of the Quran. Editor-in-chief of
Asdaa University magazine. Member of the Union of
Algerian Writers, Biskra branch.

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