finally a name to things

It was May 9, 1948, in the Tiberius region in the Gaza Strip, where I and my family of 5 live. The war has started. There have been many large-scale military engagements between Arab troops and the Israel Defence Forces near the borders. I could hear all the firing of the artillery shells, rumbling of those heavy tanks, and roaring of the jet planes overhead in the distance. Worse, I feel a growing trepidation in my heart that the horror of war was inching closer every day, and it would be inevitable before the blood and screaming invade my village. Then came the reinforcements on both sides. The sounds and cries of battle increased and drew nearer. Soon, there were talks amongst the villagers to evacuate the area before things get too intensive. But it was too late. On May 15, 1948, the Arab troops began a full-force invasion, and the IDF responded. We were caught square in the middle. Everyone was in a state of paranoia and lived in fear every day, afraid that troops would come in the dead of the night and kill us all.
In the day, we were afraid to leave the house, or even go out in the open, for fear of being sniped. There was incessant sniping by the Israelis, who killed anyone who looked minutely like a terrorist. And it was very demoralizing; I have lost two good friends to these infamous out-of-the-blue headshots that took away your life in an instant. Morale in the village was very low, and the village elders were already preparing for imminent evacuation. Finally, on May 17, 1948, the bombs arrived with an almighty bang. Chaos erupted. I grabbed my two kids while my wife accompanied my elderly grandmother, and we rushed to a waiting truck. Israeli jet fighters flew by overhead, and dropped multiple bombs and missiles that obliterated our village. Our village had suddenly seemed so fragile. We took half our lives to build it up, and it was destroyed by a person pressing a “Fire” button. But we had no time to think of that during that spur of the moment. We were only concerned about getting out safely. Thank God, we managed to squeeze aboard, and our truck started rumbling off into the distance, leaving behind the shattered and smoldering remains of our village that was once my, our homeland.
The ride on the open-top truck was very bumpy, but we managed to catch a nap over night. In the morning, we reached a small town on our way to the border. As we passed by the small town, we saw many stores and houses on fire, barren landscapes and smoldering remains of broken-down vehicles by the roadside. We also saw people looting from those dilapidated and vacant stores which were not on fire. There was a strong lingering stench of burning flesh and smoke too in the hazy air. As we moved on, we witnessed more and more remnants of the despair and disrepair caused by the war, such as vehicle skeletons, dead bodies on the side of the road, bomb craters, devastated homes and crumbling infrastructure.
Four days later, after many stops for food and water, we reached the border. There was an extremely humongous crowd of people (I later realized it was 25,000 people) attempting to cross the border into Lebanon after rumors that Arab air forces were going to bomb Jewish areas around Mt. Carmel, and no one wanted to be caught in the crossfire. Soon, news reports came in that Haifa was captured. Tens of thousands of Arab men, women and children fled toward the eastern outskirts of the city in cars, trucks, carts, and afoot in a desperate attempt to reach Arab territory until the Jews captured Rushmiya Bridge toward Samaria and Northern Palestine and cut us off. Thousands rushed every available craft, even rowboats, along the waterfront, to escape by sea. Amazingly, I and my family made it through, in a truck driven by a family friend living in Lebanon. By night, more than 50,000 Arabs had crossed the border.
I had lost all contact with my friends and my colleagues. I had lost my home. And now I was on the run with my family, heading nowhere into unknown lands. We reached the highway late in the evening. There were still lots of chaos and pandemonium around, with embers flickering everywhere from the remains of burning objects, and also people running around haphazardly. I was dozing off on the back of the truck when it happened. No one even had the chance to yell ‘BRACE!’, before the truck’s front wheel hit the landmine.
The truck’s front cab totally blew apart in a shower of sparks and flames, and the back assembly was sent spiraling off the beaten track. I just felt a crushing G-force pressure all around me, and just held on to the chassis for dear life while the assembly tumbled end over end. I shut my eyes, and saw my life flash before my eyes…and hoped. Finally, after an agonizingly long time, the truck came to a stop, around 30m behind the mine. I slowly opened my eyes.
I was still alive.
With fear, horror and adrenaline coursing through me, I surveyed my surreal surroundings through swollen eyes. Blood was splattered all over the road and truck. I vaguely recognised my wife amongst the carnage, and crawled slowly towards her. Only when I reached her did I realize that life was conspicuously absent from her. I turned around, still shell-shocked. The unmoving bodies of my kids and grandmother lay in awkward positions all over the accident site.
Holding my wife’s body in my hands, I let out an agonizing scream of despair. No one was within earshot of us…the entire highway was empty. I sat down despondently on the side of the ruined highway, and cried.
In the morning, with no outside help and no way to contact any emergency service, I was left with no choice, and had to leave my family before the weather became unbearable and the elements began to take a toll on me. After about 2 hours of trekking, I stumbled upon an abandoned petrol kiosk. Dying of thirst and starvation, I moved about blindly in the kiosk, searching for food and water. The radio was still playing, albeit at a low volume. I had retained hope, in hope that the Arab armies would liberate my homeland, allowing me to return to my home and rebuild. Hope that was very much needed in my current weary and demoralized state. Over the radio, I heard the news. Days and weeks had passed, sufficient to accomplish the sacred mission, but the Arab armies did not save the country. They did nothing but let slip from their hands Acre, Sarafand, Lydda, Ramleh, Nazareth, most of the south and the rest of the north. The breath came out of me in a huff.
I had lost everything. My family, kin, home and now my country. With such overwhelming odds and the unreal truth that everything was gone, I could not take it anymore.
I crawled out onto the scorching sun-baked land, and waited for God to send me to a better place.

Mahmoud Darwish
24/05/1948
Somewhere near the Gaza-Lebanon Border