Memoir Of A Little Boy Of Gaza Poem by Shemsi Elsani

Memoir Of A Little Boy Of Gaza



I Might Have Died By The Time You Read This,
Nevertheless, Please Don't Stop Reading.

I am a boy, merely 8.
I was born in Gaza, for obvious reason, I've been here all my life.
Shelled from outside world, or even people.
I wish I had better words to write,
But the nicest word, I could think of to describe my short life is chaotic.
Even that word didn't sound quite right.

I had bullet went through my tummy as write this.
It bled a lot; well it is still bleeding, if that makes you want to know more.
Doctor tried to seal off the wound, to stop the bleeding, but there was nothing they could use, and still is nothing here up till this moments.
Instead, I asked for a piece of paper, so I could write this, so you could read this, so you would know what really happened to me.

They had no pen too, so I use my finger, which I once had 10 of them, but now I only have one of them left, my little, left one.

As you might've noticed, I am right handed,
So, please forgive me for a bad handwriting, but you know what, I figured the doc has even worst hand writing than I am (I was smiling at this thought-please forgive me doc out there)

You might be wondering how did I manage to write when there was no pen, little finger won't be able to write by it own,

Yeah you're right.
I had tons of blood flowing from my tummy,
Again forgive me for ill-smelled letters.
Not that I had a luxury of a fountain pen, which usually black in colour.
My letters would be all red, as you might've as well noticed them.

Mind you, I won't write this if it wasn't important. It was hurt to even breathing, let alone moving your only-left finger.

I cried when the bullet first pierced my skin, even though I was a tough boy.
It hurt so bad that I had no more tears to shed.
It's like they refused to flow or may be I had dried them out,
I dint know for sure, that much I could tell.

I was playing with my little brother who was 5; he had no remaining by the time I wrote this.
I wish I could at least say goodbye or may be at least give him a little brother-lovey-hug (you know bear-kind of hug) to him for the last time.
I wasn't a lucky boy, I'd say.

His body was nowhere to be found, not even the pieces of his flesh.
That bomb was so loud that it almost had my head blow out.
I ducked on the ground, when I looked up; he was no longer there, where he had been just a moment before.
That bomb must've fallen straight on him; I can almost swear it had.
And I had lost all my fingers but my left little one.

If you think it was stupid that we played outside, try and lock yourself up, in a room with no food, no water, no nothing for a day, and see how far you could stand. Boys will always be boys. That much was true and still is.

Mind you, we were shelled as long as I could remember.

I had to think hard to write this because I didn't go to school much.
Not that I wanted not to go, it just that we had no school to go to.
You must be wondering why? Well all I could say is, they didn't shoot at us to get a school built.
I reckoned, you know what I tried to say.
Just remember, I merely an 8 year old who didn't go to school much.

Sitting on this so-called hospital bed, I could still hear the blast outside,
They must be very angry with us even though we had done nothing wrong.
Sometimes I, myself wondering, why would they do what they did to us.
I remembered, my mum and dad once told us, me and my little brother that,
in a strange way, they are people who didn't not behave like one.

Well, to put it simply, as I am now, big enough to understand, there are bad people who will do bad things to good people, like my little brother. I might not be a good-enough boy though.

Or some just call them evil. If you ever come across name like Benjamin Netanyahu, you'll know what I am talking about.
Or Barrack Obama or may be even Ayelet Shaket.
These aren't nice people to sit down with. Let alone to built you a school.

I rather say, true human being won't do such evil deeds. I hope you'd agree with me on this. Not that I'm forcing you though.

You know as I writing this, all I was thinking, who would fight for us if I died on this bed, at 8 years old. It made me so sad, to even had this thought crossing my mind. I had not given anything to my birth-land, except of course my still flowing blood.

I wish I could be one of the Al-Qassam, even though I had no idea how to fire a gun. But at least, I was good at throwing stones. If I was one of them, that would make my mum and dad proud. As I soon will be joining them on the other side, I just hope they won't get mad with me for dying while playing, instead of fighting.

Not that I choose to die this way, like a coward. I am a boy. I guess at least I could tell them that I wrote something for world to read. It was like fighting without weapons.

It is still a fight nevertheless.


My dad was killed when he fight the soldiers who came to our house, uninvited one night.

I didn't really know what exactly happened as my dad put my little brother and me inside the hole on our house floor. Just to keep us hidden. All I heard was shooting and it went silent. My little brother and I, we cried silently too.

We became orphan that night. A lot of us, children do become an orphan everyday, here in Gaza. If you still didn't know.
And a homeless too, if you know what it means.

As my life not going to last forever here, with this non-stop bleeding, I'd try to make it short, even though I had a lot to tell you.

I won't ask you, out there, beyond this Gaza border to come and fight for our land, or me because I know that won't be fair for you, to risk your precious life for us, when we have nothing to offer to you. I don't even have a penny in my pocket. And I doubt it, if anyone here in Gaza has any.

All I want is for you to pray for us, even if you don't want to pray for me, it's ok, because I'm ready to meet my parents and my beloved little brother now.

As I said, I might have gone by the time you read this.

But, I beg you my bothers and sisters out there, please pray for other children in Gaza whom still playing on the streets, beaches, among the ruins, on top roof and anywhere they thought safe (they are kids, and kids do play around a lot, like my little brother and me) . Pray for them to be protected and safe, so they could grow bigger than me, join Al-Qassam and fight for our land.

And pray for all our mums in Gaza, who will give our land new generations to carry on our fight.

And please stop supplying bullet to them to kill us; I know you'd know what to do about this.

Please forgive me if I, in any way wasting your precious time or if what I wanted is too much burden for you.

I am merely 8, and this is the least I could do for my beloved land of Gaza. Even though I am a boy, I do cry when it hurt too much. Not that I am weak or anything. It just that sometimes I thought I was all alone in this busy world. Even though I know I have lots of brothers and sisters out there who tried to reach my arms and hugs me (My tears shedding again at this point) .

This story of mine might not be a best seller out there, and I did not intend it to be that way, but at least I wanted it to be the most-read ever, or at least viewed or may be just shared.


sINCERELY;
YOUR LITTLE BROTHER IN gAZA (WHO IS DYING very soon)



#Pray for Gaza/Palestine

* Hope this illustration would touch something within

Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: Humanity
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