By Peter Finlay
This morning (11 December, 2023) I was beside my woodshed. That place where my robin has met me quite a few times. I have written of his friendly chirruping to me and the Christmas message he seemed to be conveying which contrasted so poignantly with the reality daily inflicted on the children in Gaza.
It seemed as if I could have been in some Gazan location myself, even with those children. Out of nowhere, a sound in the distance. A strange sound. Closer and closer and closer. Then very close indeed. Hardly any higher than where I was standing on the hillside, only about 200 feet above sea level. Then sweeping, as it seemed, right beside me. Only a few yards away.
I could see, almost feel, the two black sinister shapes streaking past at colossal speed with the thundering roar of the engines. That violent screaming rending of the air. In a second I found myself as it were in Gaza. Children cowering. Terrified. I was terrified.
In half a minute I was back in the peace of High Corrie. For the children out there, I knew in that space they might now be under rubble. Or starting to search for mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, cousins, friends. Or more likely their mangled remains. Unimaginable horror.
Were they screaming? Or were they simply too traumatised to scream?
The Lutheran pastor of Bethlehem, Munther Isaac, was speaking powerfully over Christmas for his people in their suffering. As well as his words, the manger scene in his church represented the reality today with the baby Jesus buried under rubble.
I am further reminded of a poem by Khaled Juma, a Palestinian poet. It was written about nine years ago. An earlier, and far from the first, brutal assault on Gaza. Suffering was common in Gaza well before October 7th 2023. It could easily have been written today. He wrote about screaming children. Screaming in fun at play. He, annoyed at the time, and then wishing them back again with all their mischief. If only….
And now instead there is the scream of fighter jets bent on death and destruction.
“Oh rascal children of Gaza.
You who constantly disturbed me
with your screams under my window.
You who filled every morning
with rush and chaos.
You who broke my vase
and stole the lonely flower on my balcony.
Come back,
and scream as you want
and break all the vases.
Steal all the flowers.
Come back…just come back.”
Now as the year draws to a close we hear the latest. No respite whatsoever. Just the brutal truth that the two million people of Gaza are now with unimaginable cruelty hemmed in, suffocating, trying to live in Rafah right on the border with Egypt – like the entire population of Glasgow forced to live in Lagg or Kildonan. With hardly any food or water or shelter. Bombs, shells raining down. Invading soldiers closing in.
Featured image of jets by Craig Manners at Unsplash