Posted on | Poetry

After 33 minutes, 10 seconds and 200 days of annihilation and more

There is no clothesline, there is no warm balcony with sage, there is no scent of mint or olive trees

There is no old kitchen and no wooden table in the middle

And the comb whose bristles were soft and unique is broken

The gray comb that my grandmother used to comb her white hair and braid it every morning

There is no glass for milk, no sounds of the morning call to prayer or the chirping of the birds

My grandmother was a skilled seamstress, sewing in the morning with her sturdy hands, her tiny green eyes, and her bright white teeth

I was always asking—how can my grandma, who is 92 years old, have such white teeth, while my own teeth fall out now and then?

After 94 years, my grandmother, Umm Muawiyah, finally permitted age to put its mark on her

And then she began calling out for her father, though he had left her when she was 15 years old

Her old memories began to form around us

Memories of Bir alSaba, playing with the neighbor girls, making dolls

She had a knack for learning languages

My grandmother was one of the women in the city that never grew old

Until she did, when she brought back the folds of the city from between the folds of her delicate memories 

At the age of 93, she called out to her father in a childlike voice and remembered Bir alSaba well

She was a strong grandmother who always made us sail through her childhood memories from Gaza to Bir alSaba

My grandmother gave her soul and her daffodils to her homeland

And her son, Moataz, who she lost early in her life

Even in her last moments in her memory she was still looking for him

And her son Mohaib was lost and gone

She was a bereaved woman due to her life, memories, and her kids

Grieving those she lost while raising those who remained

She formed a family that extended like the Oak of Palestine

She had more than 77 grandchildren yet she died alone

The occupation burned her alive in her bed next to Al-Shifa hospital

The house that grew mint and the voice of Fairuz

Where 77 grandchildren grew and then scattered around the world

How does a city die?

My grandmother, with those green eyes and white headscarf at 94 years old, the occupation burned her alone

بعد ثلاثة و ثلاثين دقيقة و عشر ثواني و مئتين يوم من الإبادة و أكثر
لا حبال للغسيل و لا برندة دافئة فيها المريمية و رائحة النعناع و شجر الزيتون
لا مطبخ قديم و طاولة خشبية تتوسطه
و المشط الذي أسنانه ناعمة و فريدة قُد كُسر
مشط لونه رمادي كانت تضعه جدتي على شعرها الأبيض لتجدل ضفيرتها في كل صباح
لا كأس للحليب و صوت آذان الفجر و زقزقة العصافير
كانت جدتي ماهرة في خياطة الصباح بأكف مجزرمة و عينان خضراوان ضئيلتان و أسنان ناصعة البياض
كنت اسأل دائما كيف لجدة عمرها ٩٢ عاماً لديها أسنان بيضاء و أنا أسناني بين الحين و الأخر تنوي السقوط ؟
بعد ٩٤ عاماً نوت جدتي أم معاوية ان تسمح للكِبر أن يضع عليها علاماته فبدأت تنده والدها اللذان تركاها في عمر ١٥ عاماً
بدأت تُكون و تُطهر لنا ذاكرتها القديمة
ذاكرة بئر السبع و اللعب مع بنات الجيران و صناعة الدمى
و كونها مميزة بتلقي دروس اللغات
كانت جدتي واحدة من نساء المدينة التي لا تُكبر
و حين كُبرت أعادت طيات المدينة بين حنايا ذاكرتها الهشة
كانت في عمر ٩٣ تنادي على أباها بصوت طفولي و تتذكر بئر السبع جيداً
كانت جدة متينة تجعلنا نُبحر دائما في ذاكرتها من غزة إلى بئر السبع و طفولتها
جدتي قدمت روحها و نرجس للوطن
ابنها معتز الذي فقدته في بداية عمرها في القدس و هي حتى  أخر دقيقة في ذاكرتها تبحث عنه
و ابنها مُهيب الذي فُقد و ذهب
عاشت امرأة ثكلى بالحياة و الذكريات و اولادها
بين من فقدتهم و تربية الباقي منهم
كونت عائلة امتداد بسنديانة فلسطين
لها اكثر من ٧٧ حفيد و لكنها ماتت وحيدة
حرقها الاحتلال على سريرها في بيتها بجوار مستشفى الشفاء
البيت الذي كُبر فيه النعناع و صوت فيروز
و كُبر فيه ٧٧ حفيداً ممتدين حول العالم
كيف تموت المدينة ؟
جدتي ذات العيون الخضراء  و الشاشة البيضاء و ٩٤ عاماً
حرقها الاحتلال وحيدة

Mariam Mohammed Al Khateeb is a Palestinian dentistry student, poet, oud player, Tatreez artist, translator, activist and organizer in in her local community. She is a survivor of The Gaza Genocide and currently a refugee in Egypt. She is hoping to be reunited with her family and to continue her studies. Mariam’s poems are both songs and screams: they illuminate the horror of The Genocide and the beauty of what it is trying and failing to erase.

Sarkawt Sabir was raised in Baghdad, Iraq. He is a native Kurdish speaker who grew up speaking Arabic and has a deep appreciation for Arabic language, literature and culture. He currently lives in the US, where he teaches Arabic language and culture.

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