Nakba 70 years

Nakba, catastrophe, many think it happened 70 years ago, but look how Palestinians live and you realise it is happening to the Palestinians every day for the past 70 years.

Population living under occupation, in refugees camps, for many generations! Checkpoints, imprisonment, targeted assassinations, damage to infra-structure, and the list goes on…

Today is just another day, the occupation will continue, the massacre will continue, and silence will continue. Today is not just the 70^th anniversary of the Nakba of Palestinians, it is the 70^th anniversary of the world Nakba, when the entire world has lost its dignity and humanity.

Today is no difference to any other day in the Palestinian calendar: Israeli army will kill few Palestinians, arrest few more, and injure many more, the refugees will wake up as refugees and go to bed as refugees, meanwhile: the world will continue to watch, majority will remain silent, many will hesitate to condemn, few will blame the Palestinians, and some will try and do something: which one are you?

Dear World; We are sorry that we have bothered you with our existence. Our existence is our identity, and our identity is not occupation and massacres and refugees, our identity is Palestine, and Palestine should be no bother!

I am a Palestinian, lost many things but not my identity. I am a Palestinian, and every time I mention that, every time I introduce myself I have to give an explanation of what do I mean, to where I belong, and what is Palestine.

For me, Palestine is my homeland, by choice. Unlike many people who are born in countries they call homeland, I was  born in Syria, but not Syrian, was given a Jordanian citizenship, but told I am not Jordanian, living in England but not English. I have no home in Palestine, our entire village was uprooted and erased from existence,  but still I chose to be Palestinian, not because my parents are, but because that is where the sun likes to shine as a golden dome, where the mountain is holy, the river is holy, the valley is holy, the mosque is holy, the church is holy and land is blessed by God, where the olive groves are thousands of years old, with its branches kings were crowned, in its oil goddesses were bathed, in its shades prophets sought shelter, and it still look young.

I chose to belong to Palestine, a population that never stopped giving, every nation had a share of our bloods, Assyrians, Pharaohs, Hebrews, Romans,  Crusaders, and many more. All came and went, and we remained as legends, descendants of all the populations of the world, but like our vineyards and olive groves, like our churches and mosques, we remained Palestinians.

Nakba: n. catastrophe

شهداء مسيرة العودة

شهيد غزة
على حدود الوطن وقفوا
على حدود الوطن سقطوا
نادوا بأعلى الصوت :
بالروح بالدم نفديك يا فلسطين
وكذلك فعلوا

يشبهوننا، لهم أسماءٌ كما لنا،
ولهم أحلامٌ كم لنا،
لكنهم الآن شهداء ونحن كما نحن.

استيقظوا صباحًا، فطور الجمعة مع باقي أفراد العائلة، شاي بالمرامية تحت الدالية التي بدأت اوراقها تُعلن فصل الربيع. اغتسلوا للجمعة ناسينَ أن الشهيد لا يُغسّل، واتجهوا إلى الصلاة. استمعوا للخطيب يتحدث عن نعيم الجنة، فاشتاقوا لفلسطين أكثر. بدأت الجموع تتحرك نحو "مسيرة العودة" الهتاف يعلوا، الناس كُثر، والكل يحمل في صدره هويته: فلسطين.

هناك على مرمى البصر  يقبع الجنود، لكنهم لم يروا إلا بيارات يافا، شواطئ عسقلان، قلعة عكا، بيت الجدة الذي لا زالت تحمل مفاتحه.
أرضنا، فلسطين، ترقد خلف السياج، تنادي من تنادي؟ سمعوا أسمائهم بدر الصباغ، محمد النجار، وحيد ابو سمور، امين ابو معمر، محمد  ابو عمرو، احمد عودة، جهاد فرينة، محمود رحمي، عبد الفتاح عبد النبي، ابراهيم أبو شعر، عبد القادر الحواجري، ساري ابو عودة، حمدان ابو عمشة، عمر سمور..

تابعوا المسير، هل يقف من سمع فلسطين تنادي إسمه؟ هل يقف من سمع فلسطين تنطق بإسمه؟ صوت الرصاص يعلو، لكنهم لم يسمعوا إلا صوت فلسطين.

لا شيء يقف بيننا وبين أرضنا إلا هذه اللحظات الأخيرة، "تسابقوا على الموت" ليحتضنوا الأرض بأجسادهم، تشربت فلسطين دمائهم الطاهرة فنبتت شقائق النعمان والدحنون وأغصان الزيتون لتفتح لهم أبواب الجنة، أبواب فلسطين..
مسيرة العودة، لقد عادوا
إلى منتهاهم،
إلى مبتغاهم،
عادوا إلى الوطن، وفي أحضانه يرقدون
مبتسمين،
مرددين :
بالروح بالدم نفديك يا فلسطين..

ليتني معكم
أحمد بكر

Rahnel's memorial service

Rahnel's  memorial service was held today, and I was honoured to say few words on behalf of the team :
Dear Melissa, friends and colleagues,
What is life? I often wonder. Is it the joyful moments that we live with friends and families, or is it the sorrow, pain and grieve we live when we lose them; it is all of that and much more.

Today is a hard day for all of us, it is much easier to mourn in silence; where tears are the most appropriate words. But silence or not, we all appreciate being here together, sharing each other’s silence, words and thoughts for Rahnel.
We are grateful that fate made our paths cross, and will always cherish the moments we shared with him. . We were lucky to have known him unlucky to lose him, 
Palestinian poet Darwish once said:
I have no role in what I became or will become...
It is luck. Luck has no name
We might call it the blacksmith of our fates
call it heavens postman
call it the carpenter of the crib and the coffin
or call it the custodian of gods in legends
in which we wrote the texts for them

Our friend, colleague, and more; Rahnel, lived life to enjoy it. Never intended to hurt anyone, and he never did. I could share many memories of laud laughter, childish banter, and innocent jokes I had with Rahnel, but I know I am not unique in that, because that was our Rahnel, funny, bubbly and full of life and all he wanted is to share that joy with people around. And I think he would be happy to know that we are here sharing that joy and love.
Many have asked me if he is now at peace, or if he is in heaven looking down at us? What do I know! I know nothing, except that we have lost him! And we are now looking at photos of him, he is smiling and we are grieving. I could say that I hope he is in heaven, but honestly, I hope he is here with us.
Every time I sit for handover I look over my shoulder hoping that he will be rushing through the office door, marching the long corridor, spreading his nice scent, wide smile, mumbling curses and excuses for running late.
I look at the door, patiently, and wait,
tears racing to my eyes looking for him, and wait,
the piercing pain in my chest as my heart searches for his presence, and wait,
my voice struggling in my throat trying to say his name, and wait,
seeing his face every time I close my eyes, and wait,
wishing he will walk through this door again explaining why he was late, and I wait.
We can turn our back on tomorrow and live yesterday, but I choose to be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday. We can remember him and only that he is gone, or we can cherish his memory and let it live on.

My dear Rahnel, your texts to me often were “I missed my train, I am sorry I am late”, and today I say to you: I am sorry you went really early, and we miss you.
Ahmad Baker

Zhuangzi Dream

I went to bed just before midnight and within minutes I was fast asleep. I had a very vivid dream that I remember every minute detail of it:
I saw my birth and all my life, the joy of being, the misery of being.

I saw the moment I was nine years old crying my soul out for leaving my birth place. I saw the fear I was wearing while sitting in the smoke filled waiting room of the security service, waiting for my name to be called out for interrogation.
I saw that dark, short, cold November day, my first day in England. I saw my wedding day, the birth of my children, the death of my mother..
I saw it all, and it was clear as if it was just happening. The emotions I felt was there, I felt the pain as I did the first time, the smiles, the laughter and the tears, I felt it all.

And in my dream, I became exhausted of being, of existence, of life and I went to get some rest, some sleep.

And now, I am wondering: am I now awake living my life, or am l still asleep, in my dream, dreaming of what I think is my life...

Ahmad Baker

Zhuangzi is a classic Chinese philosopher

Death of an unknown man

Short story : Ahmad Baker

-you are late!

-I am not, I said I will be here around 10..

- It is almost quarter to eleven, so you are 45 minutes late

-Or, it is 10:40, and therefore I am on time!

-you are in the Eleventh o’clock territory, you can’t be in that territory and say you are around 10

 

I knew I could not win this argument with him, I could never win any argument with him. But winning arguments was his skill, trying and annoying him was mine!

 

-10:40 is related to 10, anything that is related to 10 is around 10, I am not late!

-when the Titanic sank she was about three quarters of the distance from England, they did not say it sank in England!

I looked at his eyes as they started to shine; his wrinkled cheeks moved backward like a huge curtains in a royal theatre displaying the final act of the argument: his smile declaring winning.

-why you are here so early anyway, You are never on time!

-well, time is something I have in abundance these days..

-you said you were busy writing a book!

I could see the curtains moving back closing that smile;

-I am working on it

His voice lost a bit of its strength and the hesitation was audible

-you have been saying this for a while

It sounds like there is one argument I can win with him, his ability to produce anything other than talk, and I enjoy that!

-it is not as easy as you think, it takes a lot of work and preparation. Also I have to process my thoughts and clear them so I can focus on what I put on paper!

He clearly was not convinced with what he was saying, but I had him cornered and I wanted to push harder;

-Do you have a timescale?

-you cannot limit imagination and the wonders of the brain by time and space, ideas have to come at its own pace, not your own choice!

- I do not think that what produces greatness: waiting! Picaso said that inspiration comes once you are working, or something similar..

- Did not realise that you are a fan of Picaso

Clearly his attempt to ridicule me and change the topic means I am winning, I cannot let him off

-I am not, nor it is the point. My point is you cannot wait for inspiration, you are always talking about your great ideas and how you are going to put it in a book, but so far you have not moved an inch forward!

-I have, I reject your claim, I do not think you know what I have been doing

As he started explaining to me his work and passion, I was looking at his face stretching and shrinking, his eyes retracted and his hair looked as it started to grow  back on his bold tanned head. His hands were moving in an operatic way and his eyebrows were following the melody. His fingers were stained with ink, cigarettes and dirt, his nails overgrown and the tips were black. My eyes travelled over his coat which looked very old, it was dirty and the stains on his shirt were apparent.  He had the appearance of a homeless man, but he was not.
He used to tell me how wonderful his life is, was, and how he had it all. Now all I see is the leftover of that man, shattered pieces thrown into a remaining of a coat. I wanted to feel sorry for him, he deserves some sympathy, but he does not want it, what he needs most is someone to push him out of his misery and lead him back to normality.

-.. normalising and stabilising is not what I need in my book, it has to be odd, it has to be challenging, to me to write it and to everyone who is going to read, and to everyone who will follow it.

 

He was still going on, lecturing me about his ideals and what I should be doing in my life, which he considered a failure..

-   I do not believe that

 

I said, in sharp, deep and  clear voice. I continued:

-          I do not believe you, I do not think you believe yourself in any of this and I do not think you have the willing or ability to write it down!

I looked at him, he was empty, his face frozen, his hands dropped down on the table, and for a second I thought he died. He died, but momentarily, you could not see any signs of life in him, not sure was it the shock of the truth, or the shock of the truth coming from me.. 

-Stop telling me, actually stop telling yourself that you can do it! Declare failure, surrender, and start something meaningful, something has a value, something can makes your life worth living

-no.. The darker the moment the closer the dawn! He said, as if he was leading an army to the battle. 

I heard this many times, I had enough of this misery and I have plenty of it in my life

-you have passed dawn, sunrise and the entire day, or even days.

-I will prove you wrong, as I always do, I always prevail, not just because I am good but because I do not stop

I don't believe you, and you don't believe yourself. I mumbled to myself..

-I am still here and I can hear you. 
He said, and in an angry voice he continued
-you know what I am going to do now: I am going home to start writing

He stormed out, my eyes followed him leaving the cafe and disappearing into the crowd. I didn't feel that I won, didn’t feel relieved that he left, I felt empty. Seconds later I heard the noise of car breaking, the deep sighs and the shock people outside displayed could be felt inside the cafe. 
-is he alright
-call an ambulance
-this is terrible
-I think he's dead
-ohh my God

The crowd outside was increasing and the noise was a mixture of shock and sympathy. I chose to stay put, sunken in my chair and staring at my coffee and asking myself: did I kill him? could it be him lying on the floor across the road and dying:
His book that he never wrote, his ideas, thoughts and all what he believed is him are trapped inside his dead head? Or maybe he is looking at a dying man on the road like the rest of the crowd and finding more ideas for his writing, or more reasons for not starting, remembering my words and wishing it was me, or him, lying dead...

I looked at the time and I was late...

 November 2017

Whipps Cross 100

Whipps Cross  is not the old buildings, not the new buildings, not the long corridors, not the strange plant names, it is not any of that. Whipps Cross is some of that and much more, it is the look on people’s faces when you mention the name; Whipps Cross: my grandfather was born there, my mother died there, I did my training there, and many more stories I have heard from friends, colleagues,  patients and families so many times and I never felt bored.

 

These long corridors, big nightingale wards, stairs, balconies, chapel, restaurant and shop have seen so much and if they could talk they will tell us about the people who have gone through this building over the past 100 year. How Whipps Cross touched people’s lives during their at most need and changed it forever. How the memory of being at Whipps has changed them, and changed Whipps.

 

Cathy told me how she met her husband at Whipps, Emma told that she was born at Whipps, now work at Whipps and will die at Whipps, Mary told me about the lady who gave birth to twins in the hospital car park, Percy told me how he raised funds for hospital for so many years, John told me how he lost his wife at Whipps at the same ward he was a patient in, Theresa told me about how they used to smoke on the wards and share the “drinks” with patients on Christmas … many more stories, stories about giving birth and meeting new ones for the first time, and stories about death and losing someone forever.

 

Every story has a hero and a villain, Whipps Cross stories has so many laughter and tears, joy and sadness, happy and sad endings, it has so many heroes but no villains.

 

Whipps Cross happy 100..

And suddenly I became homeless

And suddenly I became homeless!

Our village was demolished! It was old, older than history books. It was there when Richard the Lionheart stayed and met with Saladin. Nearby Jesus was seen three days after the crucifixion.

But that did not make a difference, it was demolished, we were forced out and we had to learn a new word: refugees!
We had to learn how to build a tent, how to live on food portions and handouts, how to accept with grace all the name calling, accusations and misery, because we are refugees!

It was not something I did or any of my forefathers, we had no idea!
A man in an office in London, promised my land, my home, my sky, my identity, to another man, who his ancestors happened to be passing through my history...

Balfour Declaration...
This when the story started, and it is still going..

My village is called Beit Noba, my country is Palestine

لديّ حلم

لدي حلم...

أكثر ما أحب رؤيته في المدن التي ازورها هو حقيقة المدينة، لا أحب الفنادق ذات النجوم التي يسكنها من يعيشون فوق النجوم، ولا مجمعات التسوق السياحية التي يرتادها من لا يعرفون قيمة المال، ولا المطاعم التي تشبه بعضها البعض في كل مدن العالم. أحب أن ازور بسطات الخضروات التي تبيع ما يجود به الموسم، دكاكين الأسواق المكتظة بالبشر الباحثين عما يحتاجون، المقاهي الشعبية التي يجلس على كراسيها المتعبون من الحياة، أمثالي. وفي إسطنبول وجدت كل ذلك، وأردت ان أستمتع بكل ذلك..

في ثاني يوم لي في المدينة، قادتني خطواتي التائهة في الأسواق إلى مقهى شعبي في زاوية مخفية من زوايا هذه المدينة الساحرة. جلست على كرسي من القش وظهره مطرز بزخارف هندسية، الطاولة الحديدية بقربي تشهد على سنوات طوال من الخدمة، مجلسي بجانب المدخل، مقابل محل بيع شاورما قررت ان اجربه وانا انتظر وانظر.. جاءني صاحب المقهى بإبتسامة عريضة يعلوها شارب كث، وتمتم مرحبا وبدا أنه يسأل ماذا أريد؟ قلت: قهوة سادة؟ تعابير وجهه أفضت بأنه لم يفهم، فكررت : قهوة سادة،وعدتها بالإنجليزية ولكن ذلك لم يغير من تعابير الاستفهام على وجهه! لا أعرف من التركية سوى كلمتين، شاي وملح (تشاي وطز) ، فإذا اصبح الخيار واضحاً : تشاي، فكرر موافقاً: تشاي...
بعد لحظات جاء طفل يبدو أنه عايش العالم أكثر مني لكن لا أظن أنه تجاوز العاشرة. وضع كأس الشاي والسكر بجانبه وقال مبتسماً : تحكي عربي؟ قلت:  نعم، ويا ريت تجيب لي قهوة لأني لا أحب الشاي. عاد بعد دقائق يحمل القهوة، سألته : من أين من سوريا؟ قال بلكنة واضحة : حلبي، من نفس حلب. واسترسل قائلاً : بس صار لي هون أربع سنوات، عُمْر! أسررت في نفسي، أربع سنوات لمن كان مثلك هو عمر، ولمثلي هو الأمس.. قلت: وأهلك؟ قال : نحن نسكن قريب من هنا، أمي تعتني بالصغار، وانا أبي نعمل، هو في البناء وأنا هذا كاري...
صمتُ، لم ادرِ ما أقول، الصغار؟ انت تعتبر انك الآن من الكبار!
قال: صاحب المقهى يعطيني 100 ليرة في الأسبوع، وان شاء الله في المستقبل يزيدني..
قلت: ألا تريد أن تعود للمدرسة، لطفولتك؟
قال ضاحكاً : أنا خلصت تعليم، أخذت الابتدائية وخلص يكفي، الآن انا عليّ مسؤولية أساعد أهلي.
شعرت أن الدنيا توقفت، خفتت جميع الأصوات في المدينة، السماء دنت مقتربة من الأرض مصغية السمع، الأرض للحظة فقدت الرغبة في الدوران، وتجمعت الدموع في عيني. أردت أن أقول له: انت طفل، مسؤوليتك ان تحيا كطفل، تحلم كطفل، اردت أن اعتذر عما حصل له ولطفولته، ان اعتذر لكل أطفال سوريا، عن الأحلام التي لم يعودوا يملكون أن يحلموها...
لم أقل أياً من ذلك، هنأته على حلمه، واجزلت له البقشيش، وغادرت المقهى وانا أحلم أن أستطيع أن أعيد للأطفال السوريين أحلامهم...

(عن حادثة أخبرني بها صديق وكتبتها)
أحمد بكر