Don't Look Left by Atef Abu Saif

Author:Atef Abu Saif
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Beacon Press
Published: 2024-02-07T15:22:46+00:00

As I fall asleep, I see the dead walk, I see the living die, I see a boy searching for his mother in the corridors of al-Shifa. I hear his words – ‘Mama, Mama’ – flying through the air along with all the debris. I see trees uprooted and their fruit squashed into dirt under tank tracks. I see the walls disassembling mid-air, in ultra-slow motion, slowing spinning and moving closer and closer to the occupants of the house, lying perfectly still in their beds, trapped in their slumber, as if for centuries like sleeping beauty.

I see a girl crying for her lost doll, shouting for it to come back, angry with it. I see a city being erased from the world’s memory, building by building. I see death sneaking through parks and gardens. I see it all and still, even after 84 days of it, I don’t believe any of it is happening. It must all be a nightmare, I think to myself, in the dream. It must all be a nightmare.

Widdad had a nervous breakdown a few days after leaving Gaza with Wissam on their arrival in Port Said. The 26-year-old accompanied her sister to take care of her during her journey and subsequent treatment. When she crossed the border, she suddenly woke up. She suddenly saw the truth: she had lost everything – her mother, her father, her brothers – and she must now spend the rest of her life taking care of her sister with no legs and one hand. She had lost her life in that way, as well. She would have to pay for the absence of her family for the rest of her life. All of these realisations crashed in on her at the same moment, and she couldn’t bear it. When you live in the middle of a war, you don’t realise the terror it has released in you until you are out of it.

Now she is being treated in a psychiatric facility in Port Said. This morning, I visit her in her room, in the presence of three other nurses. She has lost a lot of weight. For three weeks, she has been given medicine and subjected to psychiatric analysis sessions. She tells me she can no longer bear any of it. It is better if she dies. ‘What do I have to live for?’ she asks. ‘What is there even for Wissam to live for? How are we going to live? The only good people in the world have died [she means her parents]. Why should we live on after them? I can’t do it,’ she concludes. ‘You must carry on,’ I say, ‘because Allah kept you alive for a reason. It is His wisdom. None of us can understand it, but you must struggle to prove Him right.’ She nods her head. For two hours we talk but she never looks straight at me. Her eyes are absent, looking in all directions, at nothing, into nowhere. It is this nowhere that she currently resides.

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