I am tidying up the bathroom. A picture of a young woman on a truck swirls in my mind. Her naked body is thrown on to the loading space, like a hunted prey. Her huntsmen are driving her across the streets and being welcomed by people cheering. Sounds of celebrations echo from the walls. The outrageous feelings of victory fulfil them in an accurate targeted spit on her naked body.
I am folding the towels. They take their place on the shelves one by one, just as the truck makes its way on streets one by one. It does not stop on the streets of Gaza. It is flying across the world like a cursed carriage, directly sent from the deepest pit of hell. People are waiting for its coming, wearing their best clothes, baking cakes and other delicacies, singing and chanting their anthems while waving their flags. The truck gets brighter and brighter and at some point it catches fire, nourished by this colossal triumph. It continues its way like an enormous fireball.
The towels in my hand feel so smooth and smell like orchids. I take a deep breath to inhale the sweet fragrance and I cannot help but think of the last breath of this woman. Did she smell the acrid scent of gunpowder, the burned corpses or the overpowering odor of the men who left their sperm on her body? The fireball is everywhere, burning down streets, leaving only blinded people and darkness behind.
I am searching for the laundry. Of course the children have sent their clothes flying across the whole room. I am holding one sock in my hand, trying to spot its pair and I see nothing but a child covered with dust and blood. I see the dead bodies wrapped in white plastic bags everywhere. How often did I tell my children that our bathroom looks like a bomb has gone off? Now, I am overwhelmed with the pictures from bomb explosions and I feel shame that I used this comparison because of some filthy socks and shirts.
While I am easily collecting and tossing the clothes in the basket, I see the parents in the dark who are trying to find their children among dead bodies amid feelings of despairing hope that they are unharmed and prayers that they at least die in an easy and fast way. I see the doctor trying to save life surrounded by an environment where life cannot thrive.
As I am putting the last shirt in the laundry something cuts my finger. I am lifting a broken cup from the heap of clothes.
‘Hah, there is my favourite cup I have been missing!’ I am smiling. I imagine how it must have broken and how the evidence was hidden. The path of growing up and learning to take responsibility is such a long and hard journey. Not only because we have to face the consequences, in this case, making mom sad, but also because of feeling ashamed.
I see the people who try to tear down and hide the evidence about this heinous hunt. And when hiding becomes impossible, they try to persuade themselves that the evidence is simply not true. As humans, we will try to find reasons, in many case very good reasons, for why we did what we did. It is understandable. Filled with shame, we will possibly fight back against the reality that confronts us. We will blame each other and entangle ourselves in the who-started-it competition. We will shout and point at each other. We cannot recognise that we are only tapping in the dark. Facing reality is cruel and painful. Taking responsibility needs courage and has to be learned.
The children enter the bathroom. I am wondering perplexed about my findings.
‘How did this cup ended up in the basket?’ They are staring at the floor, murmuring something to themselves. I check the cup.
‘I think we can fix it, but only if I find the broken handle.’
The younger one runs to the basket, digs his little fingers into it and happily cries out, ‘I have found it’. We search for the glue and stick the cup back together. I wipe the last remnants of glue from my fingers as he hugs me, ‘I am really sorry.’ I hold him tight and whisper to him how much I love him.
Growing up and learning how to take the responsibility is a truly challenging journey. So who is to blame for this fireball, that flies across the earth? Our ancestors? A bad education system? Dangerous ideologies? Other people, communities, countries and continents? Leaders? NGOs? Soldiers? Terrorists? Blinded individuals? Or is it more likely the fear and hate that we are sowing and planting in the hearts and minds of our children.
Perhaps we are asking the wrong question. Instead of asking who is to blame, we should ask what our goals are and how we can achieve them. We should all take responsibility and face the consequences of our actions. Shouting and praying for the death of others, attempting to build peace through murder, traumatising and installing fear in the hearts of the next generations, is might not be a successful way. We all have a choice. Do we want a more peaceful and better future for our children or do we want to burn down the earth? The reality is straightforward. We must acknowledge that we have failed, all of us, as a collective. Each one of us must mature, face the problems, accept the consequences and choose the path we will follow.