That girl from Gaza was screaming in pain while he was trying to bandage her wounds, and yet she kept asking him: “Uncle, tell me this is a dream or not reality.” The doctor was unable to answer, trying to calm her down, saying: “Uncle, let us stop the bleeding first.”
I don’t know what your name is, my little girl, so let me name you “Fatima” after the most honorable woman in the world, the daughter of God’s greatest creation, our beloved Muhammad, may God bless him and grant him peace.
I too, Fatima, do not want to answer, or do you know why, oh soul of the soul – and all the girls of Gaza are like this, by God – because I fear for you, first of all, from my lost self, and from the consequences of the early awareness that you reached under the bombing and gunpowder.
Hey Fatima! Let us remain in the dream, even if it is a nightmare, for it is too merciful for you to realize, my beloved, the truth, for the wounds of consciousness are sometimes deeper and more painful than the wounds of nightmares.
Hey Fatima! We will not go to the Prophet Joseph in his prison so that he can interpret the dream for us and pass through our terrible nightmare. If we did, my daughter, you will find around you nothing but the grief of a nation crucified by its executioners from across the seas. Here are the birds eating from the heads of all of us, except for the people of Gaza, for they drink the world with dignity from the cups of their struggle.
We will never leave the dream
Oh Fatima, I fear for you! We will not leave the dream even if it is a nightmare, and if we did – my little girl – where would we go? They will ask you at the border for a passport, and you have not obtained it yet, and if you had obtained it, they would not believe you if you told them: “It was kept with my mother, on whom the roof of our house fell, along with the rest of my brothers and sisters.”
Even if we had the travel document, Fatima, they would say to you: Where is the “visa”? Who is like you, for whom the Arab countries are forbidden, permissible for others, even if they were among those who demolished the house over our heads, its borders are difficult for him alone, common for others who are white-skinned and blue-eyed!
Oh Fatima! If your mother were alive, she would tell you some stories of our pain on the Arab borders and on their paths! How many times has one of us had to unload his luggage for inspection and carry it, and will not pass without paying a fee!
We, O Fatima, are always suspected by our own people. They sometimes describe us as being divided and untrustworthy. We are asked, interrogated, and turned back on our heels. How many families among us have traveled the airports of the world and did not find an Arab door through which they could enter? They were welcomed by “homes of war” after “homes of war” rejected them. Islam”.
Tomorrow, Fatima, the gatekeepers will know who are stranded in a world that only has mercy on the strong and free.
Did I tell you, Fatima, about hundreds of families who took refuge in an Arab country and then were expelled from it, a few years ago, and no Arab country received them, and Brazil on the other side of the world opened its doors to them, and among them was an old woman, who almost choked a hundred, to be buried there in her homeland? New asylum?!
Hey Fatima! I fear for you. We will never let go of the dream, even if it is a nightmare, “Oh, my father’s gray hair,” as my grandfather used to call me, and I am the soul of his soul at your age today.
The dream world
We will remain in the dream world, my little girl! Or do you know what you will see if we go out into the world of truth? The rugged streets are filled to the brim with bodies that do not feel their existence or weight. Birds land on their heads and are not shaken by hand to rouse them.
The shepherd rebukes them and his dog drives them to the barn behind the bell of the meadow, (it is the ram with the bell leading the ewes behind a donkey that the shepherd rides).
Hey Fatima! If you looked, you would see crowds waving, and from afar you would think they were hordes fleeing to the battlefield. If you approached, you would see the turds of a torrent, the bubbles of which were scattered like a spread bed.
Do not leave, my daughter, for no one tells you anything like me, and I am one of them, a bubble that has no weight or value.
Oh Fatima, I fear for you! The nightmare for which you are looking for a more merciful interpretation than what you will find in the countries of those who we thought were among us and we were among them, and what their pride harbors towards Gaza is greater and more degrading, as they rush the annihilation of Gaza and its mujahideen.
In its distress, Gaza asked for a little food and water, and they brought it shrouds and a few other belongings. These did not enter except after permission from their masters in the entity.
Do you know, my little girl, what is the value of all the children, women, and elderly of Gaza who rise as martyrs, or are wounded like you, in the eyes of this turd? A short film on platforms like the one in which I saw you asking about the dream and trying to cross it into reality.
We exchange it and pretend to be sad, and we praise the steadfastness of the people of Gaza, and we write as I do now, and we pray and enough is enough, waiting for another movie! Even if this other film was the moment of the demolition of Al-Aqsa, God forbid, they will wait for another film that depicts something greater and more terrifying.
Do not ask, O Fatima, for an interpretation from Joseph until a time comes when turmoil is replaced by those who struggle and seek help.