Fatemeh Akbari Asl
From the series “I write to be the voice of Gaza”
My innocent child, I do not even know your name. I have seen you only through the screen of my phone, yet my heart aches for you. I search for your mother, wondering where she stands in this picture, as tears brim at the corners of her eyes. I do not know whether she scratches her own face in anguish, seeking solace in someone’s embrace from the pain you endure, or whether she bears this burden alone.
I remember when my baby girl, just one year old, fell and cut her delicate skin on the sharp edge of a console. Infection soon set in, and she could no longer move her tiny hand. My heart racing with fear, I rushed her to the hospital. My vision blurred as the doctor said, “She needs surgery.” I begged the nurse to handle her gently, to treat her fragile body with care. When they told me I had to dress her in a dark blue gown and lay her on the cold infant bed to await anesthesia, I could barely breathe.
As a mother, I could not bear it, even if it was the only path to my beloved child’s healing. That hospital was the finest in the city, gleaming with cleanliness, fully equipped, and with a doctor who never ceased to reassure me. And yet, even there, when the anesthesia took effect and my little girl’s eyes closed, I cursed myself for allowing them to sedate her. In my husband’s arms I sobbed, tormented by fears: what if she woke even a moment too late, what if the scalpel slipped and cut more than just the wound? I knew these were only whispers of doubt. My trust was first in God, then in the doctor’s skill and the hospital’s safety. Our city was secure, untouched by the enemy’s bombs that never cease above your sky.
But my heart shatters for you, for your bare body laid upon the cold, filthy ground, blood dried across your face. Above you the roar of bombs and rockets tears through the heavens, and your lifeless father struggles to hold you still upon the hard tiles. My soul trembles for your mother, for her desperate glances, for the supplications she whispers with every breath. I know the mothers of Palestine are born in patience, swaddle their infants in patience, and are martyred in patience. With nothing left to us but tears, I plead with God to hasten the reappearance of the Savior. May your mother’s eyes one day shine with joy. May her breath be freed from sobs caught in her throat. May she see your smiling face and smile again. For without that, grief will forever be her companion.
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