Author: Saadut
•3:00 PM



The timelines of my life are so scattered and strange that it would take more than one lifetime in picking up and arranging them. The occurrences and incidents of my life seem like a play with a scenic backdrop where I have been trying to fight cloaked demons, each passing day, each unending night. The walk of my life has led me through battered streets, disheveled pavements where toys lay scattered and kids lay lost to invaders march. The windows of my rooms stand broken and dismembered by alien hands, our windowpanes having been shattered into glass blades that were then used to inflict on us only. The views of my journeys stand blinded by barricades of the trespasser who barged in, breaking my doors, uprooting my steps and taking off my roof. The inquest of my life is riddled with more questions than answers, and each question leading to more inquests.

My self introspection has made me realize that I have am someone desolate by forced anonymity, someone that I am still searching for, than someone I know of. The frames of my homeland now hold views of anguish and pain so colossal that we have stopped quantifying our losses in the recognition of their continuity. And while we are busy grieving trauma of torment and brutalities, brushes of conveniences have been used to present pictures from afar, of views so deceitful in colors of treachery by proxies of the iron fist here, a facade used to sell their own mirage of power.

The friends I lost in the prime of youth, those pictures of innocence stay etched in my mind forever. The kids I saw framed in photos of remembrances, many having been led to sleep even before the alphabet of schools had turned a page, lay as uncelebrated birthdays of this land. The harvest of this land stays littered with shells and obnoxious bunkers, from where murderous fatigues would mark their targets often killed for the sport of their imposed war.

The meadows of this land hold names to obscurity, hold stones to epitaphs, hold rows to facelessness, hold the medals of the invaders war in our fallen, but not submitted, torsos. These pits hold no cases, no caskets, no preambles, only stumps there trampled without trunks and bodies inhumed in open clasps with others. These meadows hold paths for many of our quests, the markers to the milestones that stood once, erased by the aliens. The unnamed stones of these mounds search for the mothers embraces that lay in wait by the broken windows in perennial freezing winters of this land.

There is too little that I have forgotten of this land, too little of the things that I so much tried to forget but wished never ever to forget. The red stains of our lost breaths, on every village corner, every city square, every old alley; the screaming silences of the every hearth of this land that I walk past but can’t take off from my mind.

Why did I come back to this place they would ask of me, why did I look back when I had an open door to flee, to pretend a recluse, to turn away my eyes? I came back because I belong to this land, because you don’t abandon your mother when she is in distress, because I finally want to sleep in her bosom.

Our memories shall live within us, in frames, in photographs, in names of lost friends, in the laughter of kids who no longer wake up, in the parched tears of our mothers, in the blankness of our desolation, in the failing walk of the frail old man who burdened his son to sleep, in our forced dispossessions, in our disheveled homes, in peaks that now look down upon us in suspicion and in a sniper’s aim, in the arrogance of the oppressor, in the mock of the tyrant, in the abuse of the state.

Our memories shall live within us as a determination, as a resolve, as an aim, as seeds of our harvest. 





2:30 PM, 7th April 2013