"We are gone.. While Sabra was the lover..
The first half of the garment is split.. The second half
So she sewed a garment with it for her braid!!"
"Zakaria Shahin"
Afrasianet - Al Husam Mohieddin - It was not only a memory of death, but also a story of failure; the failure of man first, and the Palestinian second, the failure of the first and the second, and he became an accomplice in the killing. There are, in Sabra and Shatila, two allies with death: the enemy's deadly gun, and the axe of the Lebanese right, because the enemy's enmity should not become a cover for the rest of the massacre, the blood of the victims is indiscriminate between the hands of the murderers, and history does not write half the truth.
Betrayal is betrayal, the enemy is an enemy, and his partner is an enemy, and there is no consolation for us to remain silent about them One day, so that we do not betray ourselves and fall in the test of loyalty to the memory of man and freedom, the third of which is the inactionary Arab, when Arabism is tested in the blood of innocent people, and it falls from the first drop, an Arabism that has narrowed down on us, has not protected a child, has not saved a mother, has not rescued an elderly man, and has not prevented a knife from reaching the neck of an innocent defenceless Palistanid.
There, the blood of the Palestinians did not enter the accounts of the Arab brotherhood, and Palestine was only a small chapter in the book of the Arab conspiracy, for what a cruel memory plan was entitled defeat, and how deep it was the crime of killing the children of the camp twice: once with the knives of the murderers, and once with the silence of Arabism and the Arabs, the silence that is the real witness to the crime.
There, the impact of bodies on the ground was not just death, but the fall of man from the height of his humanity to the abyss of brutality; he is the criminal who does not see innocence when he raises his weapon in the face of a child, who does not see the sad long life when he kills an elder, who does not see a sister, a daughter or a wife, when he kills a woman, and who does not see a human being when he kills an unarmed man.
There, the crime reaches its most brutal level, the crime that does not only kill human beings, but also tries to kill the meaning: the meaning of innocence, the meaning of safety, the meaning of human dignity and the meaning of human beings being untouched, and then murder becomes a blind aggression against life itself, and the tent that should have protected its people becomes a permissible place for fear and death.
There, in Sabra and Shatila, the question is no longer innocent: who was the target? It becomes even more cruel: what heart sees a child with its toy, and then chooses to kill it?
There, in Sabra and Shatila, where brutality cut the last threads of mercy in the consciences of the murderers, time may fold the massacre, and the images of witnesses may disappear: scattered limbs, torn bodies, screams that go out halfway to death, an Israeli may slaughter a child who runs afraid of slaughter and not behind his toy, and is not deterred from it, or he may turn a human body into pieces and then walk away as if nothing had happened, but blood does not lose the meaning of freedom, the victims will not remain numbers on the list of those who have been deceived, and the murderers will not escape the punishment of heaven.
There, where the bodies of men and women were scattered, and the bodies of children who knew nothing of the world until its earliest beginnings were scattered, children whom the criminals did not give until they grew up They ask: Why?!
Men who were slaughtered before they could complete their stories, women who were snatched from the bosom of life, dragged on their breasts and thrown into the furnace of cutting knives, mothers who had nothing to embrace but the blood-stained void, and the luck of those who remained was no better as they searched for their children among the rubble.
There, there is no shame in the fallen bodies, nor in the innocent people of the camp who were unable to defend it, but it is the shame, all the shame, in a world that has seen blood flowing to the end of life.
There there are... In Sabra and Shatila, peace be upon those who left with their bodies torn apart, complete with their innocence, without sin or sins, and on mothers who hugged their children for the last time to die together, martyrs of crime, and peace to the faces of children who closed their eyes for the last time before they knew the difference between sleep and death, as if the stories of Palestinians with a sad sleep do not end.
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