A Palestinian mother | The Press

One day during the war in Gaza, a magnificent bird landed at Alaa el-Qatrawi’s window. Its beak was golden like a ray of sunlight. Its brown plumage was decorated with fine white lines at the tips of its wings. Alaa wondered how a bird of such beauty could have ended up there, in the middle of a ruined enclave, pitched with tents and populated by the dead.

An explanation came to his mind. Well, less an explanation than a sort of comforting daydream, which she didn’t have the courage to chase away: what if this bird was her son, Yamen?

Alaa approached the window. The beautiful bird began to sing softly, as if it were singing to her. When he flew away, Alaa felt that a hook was tearing out his heart and carrying him away.

“Mom, get me out of here!” »

It was December 13, 2023, two months after the start of the war in Gaza. In Khan Yunis, the house where Yamen had taken refuge with his father, brother and sisters was surrounded by Israeli tanks. In the neighborhood, fighting raged.

Alaa el-Qatrawi, 33, lived separated from the father of her four children. She had therefore not followed them when her ex-husband, fleeing the advance of Israeli troops, had decided to head for the south of the enclave, hoping that their children would be a little safer there.

In Khan Younès’ house, there was Yamen, 8 years old, with pale hair and big blue eyes. A sweet and affectionate child, excellent in mathematics, who would perhaps one day become an engineer.

There was Kinan, 6 years old, a laughing and mischievous boy, and his twin sister, Orchida, an observant and insightful girl, who would certainly succeed in whatever she did.

Finally, there was 2 year old Karmel. Of the four children, it was this little one with the piercing eyes who most resembled her mother. Alaa was eager to see her grow up, curious to know if she would continue to see her own reflection in her for much longer.

“Mom, get me out of here!” “, Yamen begged on the phone on December 13.

“Yes, my love, the Red Cross will get you out of there, I am in contact with them,” she replied. In turn, Alaa reassured her other children. “I asked them to stay calm, telling them everything would be fine. »

The next day, December 14, Alaa el-Qatrawi lost contact with her children. Days of anguish followed, during which his calls to the Red Cross went unanswered. Days of helplessness, terror and despair.

Israeli soldiers shot down those who tried to approach the area. “They exploded the water tanks and gas cylinders. My children’s grandmother asked them to allow them to leave the house, but they refused. They ordered everyone to stay indoors or face death. A few days later, they bombed the house and killed everyone inside. »

Alaa didn’t know what really happened until three months later. In March, after the withdrawal of Israeli troops from the area, his brother-in-law was able to go there. Instead of the house, he found only ruins, from which the smell of decomposing bodies emanated.

Since then, Alaa’s last words to her four children have never ceased to haunt her.

Alaa el-Qatrawi is a poet recognized and celebrated beyond the borders of Gaza. Holder of a doctorate in Arabic, she has received numerous awards for her collections of poetry.

Over the past year, she has had to flee her home seven times. But she continues to write texts that touch the heart, like the story of this bird sitting at her window. “Poetry helps me breathe,” she explained to me in Arabic, through a Montreal interpreter.

Poetry also helps her defend her humanity, a way of saying to the soldier who can kill her:

For 10 years, Alaa has taught in a school run by UNRWA, the United Nations agency for Palestinian refugees. A photo shows her smiling, surrounded by her students. It was taken on the last day of school in the world before. Before the bombs, the terror and the destruction.

It was a beautiful day, filled with laughter and joy of life. In class, Alaa had said that when she was little, she dreamed of becoming a famous poet and writing books. A student asked her if she too could dream and make her dream come true. Alaa responded enthusiastically, “Of course you can. The important thing is to cherish your dream and make it grow within you. »

A year later, the school was transformed into a shelter, the desks into firewood, and the laughter into tears. It’s the same throughout the Gaza Strip. “Every time I pass by a school, I close my eyes so as not to reopen my wounds. »

Sometimes, Alaa sees a former student in a queue for a bread ration. So, the question that one of them asked her a year ago comes back to mind: “Madame, can I dream, too, and make my dream come true?” »

Alaa doesn’t know what she would say to him today.

Every day, Alaa el-Qatrawi sits at her window watching the birds of Gaza.

For her, their singing is no longer ordinary. Between two explosions, each chirp captures his heart with its sweetness. She watches for birds, but above all for life through their songs.

She is watching for a particular bird. It has a golden beak and wings streaked with white. She is waiting for him.

Gaza taught him patience. She experiences the anxious wait for a visa issued at the last minute, before the war, to take part in a poetry competition abroad. She knows the endless wait at checkpoints to leave and enter the enclave.

In the world before, she was waiting to see Karmel grow up. She was waiting for Kinan to overcome her difficulty pronouncing the letter “R”. She was waiting for Orchida to put on the princess dress that she had spent ages shopping for, but which was still a little too big for her. Next summer, she consoled herself, the dress would suit her perfectly…

But there was war, and death. And for Alaa, the wait took on a whole new meaning.

Previously, she was waiting for a friend in a restaurant by the sea. Today, she is waiting for the end of the war to visit her grave. She was waiting in line to order a coffee; she waits for her turn to get drinking water. She was waiting for the elevator; she is waiting for a miracle for it to start working again.

She was waiting for life to pass; she waits for the return of life – and of this magnificent bird she called Yamen.