لحظة ادراك

 "We will not contribute to spreading gloom on a rare day of national joy."

After fifteen months of death and destruction, the most violent chapter of a century-long war of myths, and the announcement of a temporary cessation of the machinery of death, I read dozens of articles and comments about the ceasefire in Gaza. However, one article stood out—the piece written by the activist Nabil Amr, "Abu Tariq," titled "I Have Come to Hate the Word Victory." It includes the following passage:

"I begin my article with words from an anonymous poet, once attributed to Mahmoud Darwish, which feel as though they were written for the days we are living through:

The war ends, and the leaders shake hands.

But that old woman still waits for her martyred son.

That young woman still waits for her beloved husband.

Those children still wait for their heroic father.

I do not know who sold the homeland,

But I saw those who paid the price.

I was happy for those who celebrated the opportunity to live after death had seemed inevitable. I was happy for the mothers who gave birth yesterday and were given a chance not to mourn their newborns the following day.

I was happy for the hungry, who rushed for a bite of bread, and for the thirsty, who drank water mixed with salt and sand, hoping one day to taste fresh water like the rest of God's creatures.

I was happy for the injured, who now have a chance at treatment after hospitals had been destroyed, leaving only a few standing to treat tens in an era when hundreds die daily.

I was happy for the innocents who lost their loved ones, neighbors, and children, hoping the remaining members of their families might survive.

I was happy for those whose loved ones remain buried beneath the rubble without a grave or prayer, unable even to say that the dignity of the dead is in their burial.

I was happy for the displaced, returning from southern Gaza to its north, only to stand on the ruins of their destroyed homes, finding comfort in the rubble that shelters them better than tents of fabric could shield them from the cold winter winds.

But like any human of flesh, blood, and spirit, I felt great sorrow when I heard the word victory used to cover up everything that had happened—like sugar sprinkled over wounds or honey drizzled over a full-blown catastrophe, composed of hundreds of thousands of dead, wounded, and disabled, and millions left homeless. I believe I am right to be wary of the word victory, to the extent that I now hate it, for our fathers and grandfathers taught us the true meaning of a victory worthy of celebration:

Victory is when our flags fly over Jerusalem, over Al-Aqsa Mosque, the Dome of the Rock, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and the historic stones of the Old City walls.

Victory is when no Palestinian man or woman remains in Israeli prisons, where some have spent decades and others have given birth in its dark, damp confines.

Victory is when not a single inch of the West Bank or Gaza remains under occupation or siege, and when no house faces the threat of demolition by a mere Israeli decision.

Victory is when Palestine returns as a unified entity—one people, one goal—without division or disagreement.

Since none of this has been achieved, the dream of every Palestinian, I can no longer be content with merely reserving judgment on the term victory. I now find myself hating it deeply, mourning and lamenting each time I hear it.

I ask forgiveness from those who consider themselves part of some grand bargain and claim a great victory. I must tell them plainly: this is not victory, and what has happened does not deserve celebration.

Finally, I say: Long live the steadfastness of Gaza and its people, who endure beyond human capacity. Until Gaza, the West Bank, and Jerusalem are liberated, only then will we restore the true meaning of the word victory after all the torment it has endured."

My Reflection:

With full agreement on the political perspective of what you wrote, dear comrade Nabil Amr, "Abu Tariq," I must say this:

The terms victory and defeat as defined by political dictionaries no longer mean much to those who have tasted every flavor of death. The rush to declare victory or defeat serves only to burden the rare moments of national joy.

For those who have experienced liberation from captivity or brought joy to their families, this is the greatest victory. For the hungry and thirsty, for those who have lost loved ones, simply walking the remnants of their old streets and neighborhoods—though they no longer exist—feels like triumph. Their definition of victory and defeat differs entirely from the logic of politicians.

Let us allow them to define their victories as they see fit and embrace their feelings as they are. Let us join them in this shared sentiment, for it is their strength that will ultimately create victory as understood by politics and politicians. Until that time comes, let us say:

"We will not contribute to spreading gloom on a rare day of national joy."