Ghazal Mhanna, 15 — Trainers’ Academy, Tulkarm
He sat on his bench in the garden sipping his coffee quietly, enjoying the warm sunshine and the gentle spring breeze. Usaid glanced towards the wall to find that its shadow had disappeared…
27 January
Mohammed Mustafa Sududi, 15 — Tulkarm
In the winter days, Tulkarm Camp used to wake to the sound of children’s laughter slipping between the walls and alleyways, just as warm sunlight slipped through the windows of quiet homes. And the camp’s day would begin, the sound of the drone more disturbing this time than ever before. Um Hassan, whom all the camp knew for her sincere prayers, opened her small window. ‘O Opener, O All-Knowing, O Provider, O Generous.’
Life moved slowly and almost normally inside the camp. Everything was ordinary, a strange calm settled over the houses and streets. Suddenly a violent explosion thundered, as though it came from the sky. And the news spread quickly, like wildfire. ‘A car struck — everyone inside martyred.’ The sound of the drone rose louder, accompanied by occupation bulldozers devouring the earth. This time was different. People ran in all directions, car horns filled the world, mothers searched for their children and children wept like the lost, shops shut their doors, and occupation patrols ordered people through loudspeakers to go into their homes.
‘Khalid, get inside, yamma!’ Khalid’s mother shouted. ‘Coming, coming, yamma, I’m not far!’ Khalid replied. ‘This time is different,’ said the Hajja Um Hassan, but she did not know that this ‘different’ meant leaving with no return. The bulldozer engines shook the neighbourhoods and military commands echoed all around. Adam, the small boy who had not yet turned ten, asked his grandmother, ‘Sitti, why are there so many bulldozers?!’ She answered him, trying to hide her fear, ‘They’ve come to search, my love, but don’t be afraid — we’re together.’
But the fear was greater than all words. Soldiers stormed the camp by the hundreds, blew up doors, entered homes without mercy, searched them, arrested the young and the old… The scene was not merely an ordinary raid — it was an uprooting of peace and safety. Hanan, who had not yet seen her eighteenth spring, said, ‘The sound of the soldiers’ orders, the storming of homes — it gave us no time even to think. Everything was faster than our ability to understand. We left as we were, in light clothes unsuited to a harsh winter that knows no mercy. We took nothing with us, not even our photographs and memories, nothing that resembled us. We took only what our trembling hands — trembling with fear and cold — could reach: a little clothing… and a great deal of silence.’
And darkness fell. The night was longer than usual, the air colder than familiar, the ground hard, and no roof to shelter us but the sky. We had no refuge to protect us from the winds. We searched for temporary warmth, for postponed safety. The children shivered with cold and fear, and the adults feigned strength even though their hearts were breaking in silence. The days passed heavy, as though time had stopped at the moment of displacement.
When dawn broke, the bulldozers had devoured everything in their path: streets and squares, houses and trees, shops and courtyards, as though redrawing the features of the camp anew. The camp became empty, void of its inhabitants. Children’s laughter no longer filled the streets and homes, the sun no longer slipped through the windows and panes. Uncle Abu Sabreen no longer fried falafel for the schoolchildren, the young men no longer gathered in the evenings outside the cafés, the women no longer sat on the doorsteps drinking coffee together in the morning… The lights were extinguished, and the smell of earth and emptiness spread through the place.
But despite everything, despite the pain, we did not stop. We began from zero, from nothing. We learnt how to make warmth from cold, how to transform exhaustion into strength and loss into determination. We built our lives piece by piece, as a house is built stone upon stone, with faith and conviction that we deserve better.
The road was not easy. We learnt that the occupation can, of course, demolish houses, but it can never demolish hope. It can steal the land, but it can never steal the spirit. We carried the memory of that night in our hearts and minds — its cold and its fear and its pain — but it was not the end of the story. It was the beginning.
For the camp will remain pulsing with humanity and hope and life. Every house in it carries stories and memories, every child in it carries a dream, every woman in it weaves patience, every man in it creates hope, and every stone in it will be witness to the will to live.
The End
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