Tuesday 26/1/2024

Essam - Day 112 of the Massacre

When war deprives you from all the warmth that makes you feel human, comes Nassar holding love within his hands, telling you that your heart, is in fact, still beating, and that cupid’s bow would never miss you, if he ever intended to strike you.

My friend Dalia once told me about Nassar, his expat wife, and the poem that he wrote for her. After fleeing from Al-Karama area, north of the strip, to Az-Zawayda, in Southern Gaza, Nassar, his wife, and a group of family and friends were gathered in a wedding hall, when they were bombed by the occupation air forces. Nassar’s wife's face was so badly injured that it became disfigured. She has completely lost one eye and the vision in the other, due to shrapnel fragments in her eye; she couldn’t even open her own eye unless a nurse force-opens it, so he could treat it. Nonetheless, these injuries were not a hindrance to Nassar’s withstanding love.

Nassar is an Arabic teacher who writes poetry and who loves his wife. He never shies away from openly showcasing his love. Every time he feeds her with his own hands is his own act of resistance against the occupation; as if he is stating that maybe they’ve changed her physical features, yet her beauty remains unchanged, maybe they’ve taken a part of her, but I still own all of her heart. He unabashedly displays his love for her as he constantly runs after the doctors awaiting any updates concerning her state. His heart shamelessly states for all that it can’t stand the sight of a single tear being shed from her eyes.

One time, Dalia walked in on Nassar while he was writing on a piece of paper. When she asked about it, he replied by saying that he is composing a poem for his wife. After being done with his poem, Nassar kept on reciting it, throughout the day, to whoever visits their room in the hospital. That day, his wife’s eyes bloomed like a flower, and she kept on wringing her fingers shyly when she heard the poem.

Dalia insisted that I must hear the poem so we went to Nassar. Nassar then led us to the hospital’s main hall, took out his cell phone, then he started reciting the poem. Every word he uttered resonated with me. In his intense, warm, and affectionate voice, Nassar announced to all that even if his wife is an expat, he is her home and her everything:

The language of eyes are both curricula and schools

and I am the captive of their charm, and the guard

I’ve always been her beauty’s warrior 

but today, this warrior was stabbed in the heart

Your eyes were extinguished, my wife, my love,

My heart was lit up by their harmonious warmth

My love for them has deepened, like a cloud

With their warmth cajoling

a blood chilling cold, melting me

Damn this cold, for it pierces.

Your Kohl is alive in my imagination 

As your eyelashes excite me and practice 

feminine wiles in youth ripening 

Confusion and worries arise within me

Repelled by my unwavering faith because

This warrior has found such favor in your femininity!

For I still worship her eyes yet,

I have no inclination for desires and straying thoughts.

Your eyes are a minaret that extend its beauty

A ceremony for which churches will ring.

Your eyes are like a garden with its havens,

Or like an orchard in the sky and paradises.

Your eyes are an enigma in the sky departing,

They are the space and the twirling brides within it.