The State of Zinco...

I remember when I first crossed into Gaza, my way was to Jabalia, where my maternal grandfather and grandmother lived, I was welcomed by towering eucalyptus trees and torn flags. I had entered the zinc state, which had kept the occupation awake, in 1987, where the sand alleys were between the asbestos alleys, and the borders of the houses were cactus. The women of the gate would chat, covering themselves with the dairs, and the white veil tents, the seller of the heitaliya was still alive, roaming the streets of the camp, and the attic of my aunt’s house was a den for us, the children of the descendants, we would chat, play and have fun, while the breezes blew from Tel al-Zaatar, and approached us, the eucalyptus leaves danced, enchanting us with their beautiful rustle. In a piece of music that has no equal, I remember the Eskmo refrigerators, and the old video tape stores, we would gather at night to watch a foreign film, and play Sheda (cards) interspersed with a meal of hot tea, and screaming and laughter that echoed to the end of the camp. In the morning, the roosters of Jabalia crow, telling us of a new day. The narrow shops rise early, and the old men talk at their doors, sitting on small straw chairs, which later become firewood.

The children wander around with iron plates, to get hot beans, a lick of hummus on the sides, and a sheet of delicious falafel. The people of Asbest gather around a hot loaf of bread, which they divide among themselves. The mother had prepared it on the fire oven, and it had just come out (fresh). As soon as they finish breakfast, the iron doors start knocking. These are the sudden visits of relatives; there is no privacy in the camp, but there is no grumbling either, as its children are attracted to such visits. The talk of sisters and mothers. The men flee the house, as there is no place for them among the women and their noise, and the children find an opportunity to escape from the sight of their mothers. They play hide-and-seek among the mazes of the narrow alleys, until they get tired. The symphony of Zen begins to get some money, to buy juice and white throat, a drummer plays on the corner of the street, a freed prisoner leaves the occupation’s bastilles, and mothers ululate, as the camp’s celebrations are held, and I don’t know why it was called the camp, but it is the common name for the camp, perhaps because of the army’s militarization in it, and despite the imposition of the night cordon, there was pleasure in those who raced to venture out and break the cordon, to become a story on the tongues of the camp’s sons, and this is different from the encirclement of the entire camp, and this used to happen to reach one of the wanted fugitives. All were stories, buried with the third entry of the Israeli army, and the demolition of all the squares of the camp, and the execution of the memory boxes, the shops of the grandfathers, and the stories of the grandmothers. Some colors appear among the rubble, indicating the remains of toys. All that remains of the kite is its octagonal frame. There are no roads leading to the alleys that were there, rubble and walls, concrete, iron rods, melted zinc, and the remains of broken asbestos stones. Here was Jabalia and the wall drawings. There is no exit to the market, where my grandmother used to sell gold fifty years ago. Remains of carts without animals, the last of which was a donkey that was bleeding, next to the corpses, and cats roaming alone among the rubble asking about the people of the camp. There are no wounded in Kamal Adwan Hospital after the aggression. There is no map of the place. A nuclear bomb hit the area. The tank collapsed to wash away the blood. There was life. There was a camp.