Crossing Over

I was going to write about wonder, awe, and joy, how it shows up for me in the small gestures of daily life, beholding the awe-inspiring leaps of a young squirrel, drinking garden herb tea… despite… despite… despite… about the short days in December, darkness, star light. Then this morning, in the New York Times, I come across the harrowing guest essay by Atef Abu Saif, a writer and minister of culture in the Palestinian Authority who lives in Ramallah, on the West Bank. I have followed his recent diary entries in other publications. While reading my body starts shaking like the children whom he describes waiting in line when crossing from North to South Gaza as they evacuate. The taste of young bodily fear – not the one that we experience later in life swirling mostly in our heads, well contained. Human beings, young & old, in the violent throws of historical forces, political chaos and utter destruction. Unimaginable. Mr. Saif’s undramatic words are effective and more evocative than videos – we are getting a true taste of war refugees’ indignities and hardship, otherwise often illusive. However, refugees everywhere.

 

https://nytimes.com/2023/12/02/opinion/gaza-family-palestinian-leaving.html 

His account of leaving home fleeing to the south brings back vivid memories from my much more benign postwar childhood. Recently, I was alluding to our family’s border crossings, experiencing close-up the military death strip between East and West Germany. Our summer vacations start with this ritual. Taking the train from Regensburg (West) to Weimar (East) – 185 miles only – becomes an exhausting daylong ordeal. At the border, everyone is ordered to exit and march with all their luggage for a kilometer towards the wooden barracks for passport inspection. The rough voices of guards with military rifles along the way barking their orders. Long lines winding through the cramped stifling rooms, old and young, babies, kids, almost fainting, some do, hours of inching forward. Finally, suit cases and bags are opened on tables, thoroughly inspected and rummaged through, some things are taken out and kept. As the oldest I notice my father’s hands trembling. He tries to hide this; I know he is shaking deep inside where his lived war memories hide. I fervently yearn to protect him, my mother and siblings. The steely determination of the East German military police installs cold fear. It is meant to intimidate everyone, conjuring a sense of war, and helplessness, of being at the mercy. Something in me knows the situation is potentially dangerous, but also not right. Only once a year during the summer break, are we able to visit our Oma and Opa, our uncle, aunt and cousins. The border is closed for any West German without family in the East. These soldiers speak our language, are our brothers and sisters, yet cruelty is exercised. At my young age I understand, anyone here can be taken prisoner for a few hours or days, weeks, years....

More sharp yelling rushes us back along the tracks to the waiting train. We might miss it and will have to wait overnight for the next. Exhausted my brother attempts to climb up the very high and steep steps into the wagon. They are far away from the curb – not like accommodating modern trains these days. He slips and disappears deep down onto the rails. My little sister is already lifted up, safely with my mom. Frantically I try to pull Matthias up from the tracks below. Papa comes to help. The conductor blows his whistle and as the last one of the family I jump on the stairs, pulling myself up onto the already rolling train, with Papa’s help. Safely embarked, Papa closes the door. We find seats in a compartment further to the front. Our family and many others, all silently looking out the windows. Hearts still beating fast, solemnly. We’ve been through it together, no words needed. Everyone here has a divided family, must apply for their visa, wait weeks before making this journey. The loud screeching of the train’s wheels, the shaking and jerking when crossing the rail switches, are soothing me. The familiar landscape with its coal powdered villages rolling by, I ruminate about human cruelty. Injustices. I am six or seven years old, already I know that robbing someone’s dignity is a violation of what is right – of human rights. The taste of fear. Protest is futile. Survival. History is a mighty force, handing out fate to each of us, indiscriminately. 

. 

These experiences train my observations and sense of justice. Memories from the late fifties, about 65 years ago. It is different to read about something that we cannot really imagine, versus being able to feel it because we lived through similar challenges. What Ukrainians, Yemenis or Palestinians have to live through is beyond ordinary imagination, it is war at its worst. The civilians – not just the soldiers in the trenches and tunnels – are often suffering the most, like in World War II. On social media it might look like a video game to some. For me, the ruins in Syria, Ukraine, Yemen, or Gaza bring about physical reflexes. It is not abstract. The smell of rubble dust stays in my nostrils till next morning, or longer. The helplessness hurts my palms, throat tightens, ears ache. 

 

And still, as aways, I find delight in the humble flowers on my kitchen window sill. Or in a teapot full with garden herbs to share with friends, the last apple from the tree. Beauty. With that – delight and beauty – and with sadness in my heart, I pray for safety for all. Especially for the children, sick and old. We know what is right, and what is violation. Don’t we? 

More by Atef Abu Saif

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2023/10/30/gaza-diary-war-explosions-death-hospital-fear/