The Sixth Day (Losing)


Najlaa Ataallh
Editor: Evelyn Teo

It is 3:30 in the morning, the people of Gaza have yet to remember a routine called sleep. Your heart gets thrown out of place with every sound of bombs that shakes every stone of your house. This time, the windows lost their glasses. Yet you assure yourself that you opened those windows.

You beg God with all your might for His mercy, pleading to Him to take away your eyesight and hearing. As usual, your mother prepares Suhoor meal in the kitchen. In a weak and shaky voice, she calls for you and the rest of the family for the meal. Looking up, one by one, their faces are pale and yellow. They are sitting as still as the chairs that they are sitting on. No one opens the bread bag. The voice of the muezzin heralds a new day of Ramadan fasting.

No one talks. Not a single word. In fact, no one even screams. The silence is broken only and only from two things: the ripping sounds from machines of war, reaping lives of more martyrs and the wounded; the television that acts as a counter of the number of martyrs and the dead. The number of martyrs has now exceeded 130 and the wounded exceeded 900.

Once again you beg God. You try to sleep but yet your fugitive heart is engulfing you. Inevitably, morning came and the noon came, yet you find yourself in the same pose, at the same place, as you did since the night before. You are waiting for what is yet to come, praying that it does not carry with it any tormenting news.

You may sleep for a short time while sitting up , dreaming of the peace that you wished would befallen your heart. But where would you get this dream from? Your heart sank to the ground between your feet, to the sounds of consecutive bombings, accompanied by the return of electric power to the house that makes everyone is hovering over the television. The news keep reporting the destruction of entire families. Once again you are shocked in disbelief of what is in front of your eyes, you struggle to reach for the remote control. You feel an intense urge to scream from inside. You want to cry your hear out and fill the world with your tears. You want to hit on everything around you.

“Is it her house?”, you ask yourself but no one answers.

You want to run, to run out of your house, to run to the hospital, to run like a madman on the street. Your mother runs after you, screaming and crying hysterically, “Pleaseee!! Don’t go out!!”

You quickly run down the stairs before you ask yourself “What will I tell them? Who am I to her?”

I’m not anyone. I’m just a human who loves her. You are left standing, realizing the true meaning of helplessness.

There are only two choices before you. You either run to her house or go to the hospital to bid her goodbye. You can’t even turn back and go home now.

“I’m calling her. I shall not bear this pain anymore.”

Sitting on the steps of the stairs, all your senses are numbed: the phone number you are trying to reach is turned off.

You are consumed with anger. You run, run, and run.


About nataallh

"It is an attempt to be me"
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2 Responses to The Sixth Day (Losing)

  1. Keryn says:

    My thoughts and prayers are with you, as are those of hundreds and thousands of people in Scotland.

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