A neighbour lost her mother last night. She messaged me late last night, rather early in the morning, at around 2 AM to tell me, rather tell a lot of people, for it was one of those messages that could be pasted everywhere, a copy of mechanics, not mood. Have you ever thought what would happen if we did not have copy-paste and had to message all the neighbours, friends, acquaintances, and bank managers when a loved one dies? Can you imagine what would happen if we did not have copy-paste and had to type the link to that lithub story on a Palestine meditation in a time of annihilation? Can you imagine what would happen if we did not have forwards, a copy of the copy-paste, if we had to write of our grief, rage, and despair to every single person who follows us on social media?
I was half awake this morning, with that half-moon of knowledge brushing my insides that there was something this morning, and I remembered -- the cremation was scheduled in the morning. My neighbour is my friend, and I wanted to go hug her when I read her message at around 2 AM. 'Big hugs', I wrote to her in response, and somewhere I assume my friends all know what 'Big hugs' means -- it is a hug that lingers long enough to tell you with all my body, my arms, and scents, and skin, what my words can never manage to convey. I assume my friends will remember my hugs, and feel the warmth of my body meeting theirs in an envelope where for those few moments, we fold into each other, for those few moments, we are reminded of each others' presence and solidity in this world where even poets are bombed. In the Lithub story, Fady Joudah speaks of the poet Hiba Abu Nada, 32, who wrote her final poem ten days before Israeli bombs killed her.
As I type this, I can hear the distant sounds of vessels and household chores from my neighbours' house, and when I manage to breathe the tears back in and ignore the whooshes of the vehicle outside, I can hear distant birdsong. My phone keeps popping up with condolence messages on the residential group. Can you imagine what would happen if we could copy-paste grief, and feel our heart clench so hard that it squeezes tears, breath, and snot out with unspent love for every human being who dies? Can you imagine what would happen if we could copy-paste love, that love which we now carry like big and small bombs, to be aimed at some, to shield some from, to reserve for some, to accidentally throw around? I read somewhere that the US told Israel to use smaller bombs. The bigger bombs, like the ones Israel used on the Jabaliya refugee camp, is not suitable for densely populated areas, as they kill more people. Apparently, Israel has a large stock of large bombs, for they assumed they will be using them to bomb military positions in Lebanon. The US has proposed to send small bombs to Israel.
In the morning, when I remembered that the cremation was scheduled for the morning, I groggily opened my phone to check what time it was, and realised I was late. Would the now late aunty mind? I giggled. Death makes me impolite.
Still in that half-sleep half-awake space, as I checked messages and other updates, I was distracted by the ads of something called 'decal'. It is a plastic, cloth, or paper with something printed on it that can be transferred to another surface upon contact. So you can take a decal on paper, and copy-paste that print on your wall. It is deemed as 'mass produced art-transfer' in one of the explanatory sites. This site had pretty decals, of monkeys and palm trees, and motifs named barkat, rehmat, and masoom. As one part of me wondered if I should get one print of a peacock and paste it on the wall to hide some water stains, I shut that window. Yet, this half-formed question lingered -- was this decal shop a start-up, I wondered, and was unsure why that thought popped up. And then I remembered -- one neighbour, who works with start-ups, told me that there is less funding for start-ups because all the rich investors are betting their money on those who make weapons. Anyway, these are cycles, he said, that money will find its way to start-ups and other markets. Something pasted itself on me after that conversation.
Cannot seem to find the words (or the breath) to respond. What a fantastic piece. Thank you for writing this so all of us have something, anything that makes us realise it's a cycle and we are not mad for feeling what we are feeling.
Absolutely loved this.