A Gaza Diary Of Displacement: Scent Of My House, Remains Of Our Lives

-Essay-

RAFAH — In February, my sister, who did not flee from northern Gaza to the south, managed to reach the Sundai area where our family house is located. The house that has become a corpse, a dead body, since October following the arrival and withdrawal of the Israeli military.

When she arrived there, my sister dug through to recover things from under the rubble. I will call these things: Ashla’a, or “remains.” The house has a spirit, a soul, like us humans. The house has turned into remains scattered inside the bedrooms, the living room and the garden.

There were also remains from the house scattered in the street; some of which may have disappeared from the scale of explosions and fire, and the collision or crash of ceilings. I can’t overcome this image, the images of the house as a corpse.

Among the remains from under the rubble: A shirt for my nephew, shoes and pajamas for another, family tea set, a fridge, spoons, dishes, and some twisted utensils.

Whatever their appearance, these remains are part of the house’s memory — they carry its scent! This was what the children said the moment they received the “smuggled” items in mid -April.

Smuggled!?

Yes, that is the Palestinian miracle in circling around the untold Israeli prohibitions: A smuggled sperm from behind bars! “Body parts” from the house, although roads are blocked.

​Two bags: white and blue

The remains arrived in Rafah in two bags, one blue and the other white. Everyone gathered, ready and hoping to see what share of the remains were theirs.

My little nephew mumbles: Oh God, let it be my ball!

And a niece next to the white bag whispers: Oh God, for me, my colors!

And another: I hope there’s the very last thing I bought, my beautiful shoes.

And one other niece: My dress, my birthday dress!

Another voice came, arriving in the corner of my own head. What if all these wishes didn’t come true, and the disappointment of nobody finding what they wished for? But a more severe question appears: What about the regret of those who did not find what they wished for, in front of those who did?

Leave the dust

All of this stands, walks, runs, hurts and looms before my eyes and in my mind, while the bags are fixed in front of me. We do not have the courage to remove the cover from the remains! Let’s give them a chance to rest.

I had told my sister not to wipe or wash anything from the remains.

But why!? The remains might have been terrified to pass in front of the soldiers and the vehicles at the checkpoint. But they must have been missing us! But if they were missing us, they would have jumped out of the bags and come running towards us. Let’s leave them, and be prepared for their reproach that will come later…

Days passed and the bags were fixed in the corner of the room where we were staying in Rafah. Until the moment that I opened the bags. I had told my sister not to wipe or wash anything from the remains. As a kind of small, preemptive apology for having left them alone, I will clean off the dust, rubble, screaming and fear that covered them.

I opened the first bag. A drop of tears fell right away. The dust spread from the bag.

I put off mourning the home for months. I wasn’t brave enough to cry for its missing body in front of me now.

​Tears again!

Another drop of tears fell, and the edge of the teapot sparkled. I took it from the bag and brushed off the dust, like someone rubbing a lantern. I rubbed it and an image of the house appeared before me; a family gathering for teatime. I brushed off more dust and kept wiping.

I can smell the house!

I wanted pictures of the house to heal the wounds the bombing had inflicted in my memory. Isn’t this the teapot that used to bring everyone together? I wanted this scene to be separated from the present of my hand touching the teapot. And then my father’s voice woke me from my illusion: We will drink tea with the scent of the house!

I washed the teapot with water, and prepared to serve tea.

With a sigh

My nephew ran, sniffing his shirt, waving it in front of us and shouting: Oh God! I can smell the house! I can smell the countryside! The scent of the house!

With a sigh, my little niece asked: But where is my dress?

I told her that my dress didn’t make it either.

She replied that both are together, there under the rubble of the house.

I looked at her and said: The war will end, and we will find it!

She said: But I will have outgrown my dress.

I smiled with consolation and told her: My dress will be waiting for you.