Never Again

Never again1

Never again will we be broken
Our voices silenced by the pain
Never again our cries unspoken
Our tears washed away by the rain2

Never again surrounded by wires
Our children starving unable to cope
Never again to burn in the fires
Our unanswered prayers taking our hope3

Never again to have so much to grieve for
Our hearts feel the loss of so many tomorrows
Never again will we be forgotten and ignored
Our survivors forever bound to sorrow4

The poem was Chiara’s childhood. Every impassioned letter and pain filled word were the outlet of her Nona’s [Italian for grandmother] anguish and grief. Nona raised Chiara not to take anything for granted. Chiara was a child raised in tragedy. She was surrounded by the tragedy that was her grandmother’s past and the tragedy of her mother’s childhood that had driven her Nona to search for a new beginning with baby Chiara. 5

The night before her ninth birthday, she realized that she and her mother, Ciara shared two things- their names and the stories. Chiara and Ciara meaning light and dark. Chiara’s mother was born into an era of ashes. Ciara was born into the darkness that emotionally crippled all those who had lost their childhoods in barbed wire fences and gunshots ringing out signifying yet another future destroyed. Nona named her after the darkness the Holocaust had branded her with. Chiara was born into an era of the living when her Nona was beginning to live for the loved ones she had lost. Chiara was born to the love that had taken decades for her Nona to be healed enough to give- love that was hidden by pain and drowning before reaching the child that needed it. 6

Nona told her daughter the stories of watching little sisters marching with guns on their backs and the stories of having to be silent while soldiers threw children in the air to be shot. The stories of what Nona witnessed turned into nightmares that splintered her mother’s childhood. Nona told Chiara about her childhood and the memories of laughter and smiles that before were too painful because of the loss that followed them to tell her own daughter. The stories made Chiara choose to always remember but Ciara was never able to forget. 7

Chiara remembered summer afternoons on the porch curled up in Nona’s lap hearing stories of Nana’s childhood. She loved feeling safe in Nona’s arms knowing nothing could hurt her. Nona would stop talking in the middle of a story and look into the distance, seeing in her memories the faces of the stories. Nona would stare haunted at the weeds on the old lot or a broken down car. Chiara could tell that she was thinking of how the stories ended and she would touch her tiny finger to Nana’s cheek. She would trace the lines and wrinkles from beginning to end tracing where Nona was going and where she had been. She would talk about the blue bird whose nest she found or what her dreams were at the moment. Sometimes she would sing- her voice would echo the lullabies that had sent her to sleep for the past seven years, a soft way of reminding Nana that she had to come back to her.8

“How did the stories end?” Chiara would ask incessantly but Nona always shook her head and said it wasn’t time yet. She would set her mouth and tell her “No nightmares, ” and just smile when Chiara pronounced her seven-year-old self too old for nightmares. She began to walk away at the question, as Chiara got older. She held her silence.9

Chiara found her mother’s diaries when she was thirteen. Chiara read her mothers overwhelming guilt for atrocities beyond her generation. She saw the blurred pages whose letters ran together because of the tears that fell for their stories. She could imagine her four-year-old mother asking where her Grandmother was. She found her Nona’s writings after Chiara’s birth, of the grief and regrets when Ciara’s drive home to get baby clothes ended with a drunk driver. She heard the sorrow in the words that knew they wouldn’t ever get to say sorry to her face. She could feel the regret in the letters that told how a new beginning was the only way to say sorry. Chiara walked into the kitchen afterwards where her grandma sat carving another name she remembered into the table, and told her “ I know the stories now.”10

A decade of memories later, Chiara sat at the old kitchen table staring at the engravings made to remind all who sat there to never forget. A year ago she didn’t have to sift through memories that spelled out loss in her vision. The white calendar hanging on the wall with squiggly handwriting detailing two lives only reminded her of what had been taken from her. Her eyes closed and she ran her fingers over the bumps and in the indents that spelled the names of her Nona’s childhood and past. 11

Seventeen years of collapsing down in the chair after a hard soccer practice or sleep deprived day and seeing the words carved in the table had grounded her in being grateful for what she had. Seconds before she would have complained about how much her calves hurt after running sprints, it would be remind her that she wasn’t running away from anything. She’d close her lips together before she went on about how exhausted she felt when she remembered that tonight she could go to sleep early as a trade off for last nights late studying. All her life had been filled with knowing what she had and what she couldn’t take for granted. Now sitting at the table alone without the familiar noise of the stove boiling water for tea or the presence of someone full of life, the memories began to hurt. Remembering the feel of a warm muffin in her hands knowing she baked it, made her crave a time that was long gone. Remembering what it was like to feel pride to look at each name and have memorized each story just made her miss the storyteller.12

Chiara opened her eyes and felt water seeping beneath her eyelids. When her fingers touched her cheeks they came away with imprints of the black ribbons that ran down her face. Chiara stood up her legs faltering just long enough for a sorrow stained look at the table. Her minds eye saw all the names and instead of seeing their faces she saw dark hair sweeping down to graze her cheek as her forehead was kissed goodnight. Instead of hearing the voices of the stories, she heard one voice telling her the stories.
She sees the image of a one-year-old grave with white letters spelling a name instead of the blue pen inked in the cracks. She starts to walk away towards the door so she can get out but silence rings in her ears- a truth they couldn’t voice unaware it was confirmed in their silence. She knew of the silent denial that sent millions to death camps. She knew of the silence her Nona refused to break in the name of innocence- trying to right what she knew she wronged. She heard the silence that saved her innocence and the silence that destroyed so many others.13

Chiara ran for the door head down as sunlight her forehead, hiding the bleeding trail of sorrow marking her as in pain. She clenched her eyes tight as she shut the door unable to bear seeing the empty house if even for a second. She walked hurriedly down the sidewalk turning her face from the stares of the children running barefoot in summer innocence. Her arms wrapped around her ribs and held on afraid that if she let go it would end with her in pieces. Clouds that held nothing for her caught her gaze as she tried to avoid seeing the homeless who would fall asleep to biting winds tonight. Blurry shapes went by as she stared at the sky trying to remain in her head where she could focus on the pain overwhelming her heart. She bit her lip in an act of some dignity as she tried not to cry walking by a wandering girl younger than her who looked like she hadn’t eaten in days. Chiara's feet kept walking even though she didn’t know where she was going and didn’t care enough to think about it. She didn’t want to have to face the pain apparent on the faces of all those she had passed. She knew they hurt more than she did but just for a moment she wanted to not bear anyone else’s sorrow. Walking down sidewalks with cracks made for tripping in them and streets that weren’t completely paved brought her back to her senses. She started jogging, running from the coming of the night. Tall stucco buildings stood side by side on the sidewalk. Young girls ran giggling to awaiting mothers calling them in, their Hijab flying in the wind, the cloth opening up to allow fresh air to touch their innocent faces.14

She headed towards the back door of the hotel she worked part time at. Taking up the doorway was Jess, one of the guys in the stage crew, who she had made eye contact with but never really talked to. She often saw him speaking Arabic and laughing at jokes during the breaks with the other workers. They all seemed to know him. He would get his hair mussed or get pat on the back as he walked down the hall.
Letting herself in she saw Jess.15

Chiara moved to the side so he could pass but he just stood there. “Excuse me,” she muttered as she sidestepped him and ducked so he couldn’t see the black crystals imprinted in her skin. Ahead of her were people walking down back walk ways pushing trays of uneaten food and carrying longhaired mops and dust painted brooms. She could keep walking down those halls till she got to the lobby into the midst of all the guests with their hundred dollar glasses of champagne but the solitude of the dark and entertainment storage room behind the stage was easier for her to stomach. In a crowd full of people pretending their lives were perfect, the genuine pain connecting the freckles in her face in lines of liquid black would make her stand out. Some woman trying to be motherly would put an arm around her and smile understandably as if she could ever understand. At the very least someone would ask her questions and try to shoo her out of the lobby because a child looked misplaced in the lobby.16

She turned to her left heading for somewhere she could be alone. Dark hair brushed against her face catching droplets of pain in it. The unfamiliarity of the room behind the stage poured droplets of relief on the burning in her heart. She stepped carefully dodging black extension cords lying coiled ready to trip. Trying to avoid the piles of papers perched on the corners of amps and setting off the disasters when all she wanted to do was not have to think about anything. Tiptoeing around schedules piled haphazardly on the floor and trying not to get caught running into microphone poles she made her way to one of the black amps that somehow had nothing on it. She buried her face in her hands as her damp strands of hair fell against arms. Eyes clenched shut she willed herself to just cry. Mascara had dried on her cheeks leaving sticky residues of pain to remind her that she was sad but no fresh tears would come. Her heart closed up and there was an empty sadness inside of her.17

A sudden noise hit her senses and she glanced up to see that one of the piles of papers and books at fallen to the floor scattered in a spread of opened books and now dirtied papers. She reached out for the clutter nearest her and picked up an extension cord tangled in loops and knots that only tightened as her fingers grasped an end and tried to pull it toward her. Papers with black and blue details of where each band needed to be and when were stacked in an order they had been in but rarely stayed in. Clipboards were hung up on the wall where people could see them instead of tripping over them. Blue ink stained her finger as she reached for a pen without a cap. The ink bled on her fingertip spreading out in tiny designs. A line of ink marked farther than the rest and she took the pen and tried to bring lines together.
She wrote on her wrist trying to give herself reason to cry. She traced the veins on her wrist that ran to the palm of her hand, a river of life beneath her skin. The two veins ran together but in the space between them she signed a tribute to Nona “Never Again”. 18

She moved to sit on the floor but her back bumped the amp as she stood on sleepy and shaky feet. Cross-legged she sat in a square of empty, amidst a room full of objects. Static electricity shocked her finger as it pushed aside a rolled up cord. A buzzing noise coming turned her head to the amp.
“Are you kidding me?” she muttered to herself as her fingers tried to turn dials and push buttons to make it stop. She pressed four buttons at once hoping to turn off everything and the amp stopped dead. Flipping the on switch did nothing as the amp stubbornly refused to make any noise at all. She wanted to scream but really wasn’t interest in bringing a lot of people to where she was finally alone so she just groaned.
“What did you do?” Jess stood in the doorway shaking his head. His eyebrows were raised but there was a twinkle in his dark eyes. A smile erased wrinkles on his face from worrying way before ones time. She pointed at the amp and rolled her eyes expecting him to get it. He took in the trail of tears mascara had made on her cheeks and didn’t ask.
Instead he really wanted to know,"How could you break the amp? It's a bit too big to be broken!"19

"Well, I was fiddling with it, and it just...broke..." She shrugged not knowing what to say.
"I'd say something, but you'd probably need a dictionary for it.” It was an insult but he was trying not to laugh.
“If you spoke Arabic, then yea.” She countered, smiling.
He shrugged his shoulders “Fair enough, ‘kay how do I get to where you are without totally killing myself?” She stood up to point out spots he could step on so he could try to come and help her. She reached out a hand so he wouldn’t fall over the extension cords she hadn’t untangled yet. His warm fingers touched her wrist, cool from the air-conditioned air that had taken away her body heat.20

“Here just jump over this part, if you step on these it’s not that big of a deal, it needs to get thrown away.” He had stopped moving, standing in one spot looking at his hand. “Seriously, its fine”. She looked at him wondering what he was doing. His eyes were staring at the blue ink that had rubbed off into her hand. A faint outline of the words she had written like an angels shadow stood out.21

“Why did you write this on your hand?” He was expectant waiting for a serious answer. She searched for some hint of the lightheartedness that was in his eye a second a go but it had vanished.22

“It’s a way of remembering my Nona by what she stood for. It’s what was said after the Holocaust.” She reached her hand out again to help him get across, expecting it over.23

He laughed. “You believe in that?”24

“My Nona survived it, my mother and I grew up knowing the stories.” She stared at him coldly, unbelieving that he could deny something like that. It seemed like a cruel joke but this was far from funny. She turned around starting to walk out of the room, her hand withdrawn. She was just at the doorway when she heard a faint whispers but she kept walking because she only heard snatches of that. He shook his head in denial and muttered, “Lies” under his breath. Eyes flashing she spun on spot. ‘How dare he? He actually was trying to deny this.’ She crossed her arms over her chest and stepped forward toward him.25

“You have no idea how awful that is do you? My Nona lost all of her family in the Holocaust. Her baby sisters were shot before her eyes. She was fifteen yet she survived-forced to work and not allowed to acknowledge her losses. How dare you try to deny that?” She stood tall, long dark hair flowing to her shoulders in waves and her eyes flashing stars of furious fire. Lightning bolts could have sparked off the static bouncing off her body. It was easier to overlook the tearstains on her cheek when he looked at the thin line her smile had become and the cold almost hatred sparking in her eyes. ‘All he was doing was trying to enlighten her, why was she so upset?’ Papa had told him that if he heard about the Holocaust he should denounce it because that was why their Palestine had been taken away. He stepped toward her but she started backing towards the door.26

“It never happened. Its just lies.” He kept repeating calmly. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t know. Even he was surprised at the fury in her voice as she countered his statements, and the anger in her rigid body. She kept backing away from him as if his words would poison her and she seemed almost afraid of him. ‘But why?’ He wouldn’t harm her- he wanted to help.27

“Why would my grandmother lie about the things she went through? You disgust me,” she threw his way and stomped out. Her words echoed in the dimly lit hallways and the warm air raced to heat the tiny bumps cascading down her skin, the only sign of where she had been. Footsteps, cautious but curious followed her down the hall. Her eardrum felt the vibration of his feet hitting the ground, seeking her out. She was afraid if he didn’t leave her alone she would explode and … hit him or say something she would regret. She was afraid because she was always the calm one, the one who could think in a crisis. She wasn’t used to not having control, to just letting go.28

Years ago, screams tore open the night. The wind whipped the shutters against the outside window-battering it back and forth. She sat up in bed and listened for the wind howling outside but the wind died down for a moment and the screams continued. Chiara slipped out of bed silently heading towards the location of the scream. They got shriller and more terrified as she got closer and she began to hurry. Her bare feet barely touched the cold floor as she raced toward closed doorway letting the screams escape through its wooden panels. Somewhere in her mind, she wondered how it was shut. Nona always opened her door before she slept. She told Chiara it was so if something happened to her she could hear but since Chiara didn’t have any nightmares till she read the diaries so she always wondered what that meant. Her eight-year-old body pushed open the door and stepped into the middle of the screams. She raced to the big bed in the middle of the room- when she got there she climbed onto the bed to wake her crying Nona from the nightmares. 29

After she read the diaries she learned that the bed was in the middle because after years of being forced up near a wall in a tiny mattress she wanted something different. She shook the thin body awake trying to take her out of the nightmare and bring her back to the present. Her tiny fingers wiped away the falling tears. She held the sixty-year-old woman’s wrinkled hand after she had woken as they walked down the hall to get a glass of water from the kitchen. Her grandmother sat down at the table and her frail fingers grasped the glass shakily and tried to sip the water.30

“The door was shut- wasn’t right… the wind slammed it shut..heard it in sleep..couldn’t get out” was the only coherent words Nona could say about the dream. Chiara didn’t ask any questions because she knew she probably wouldn’t remember, as she almost never did. As she led her Nona back to bed and tiptoed silently back to her own cotton sheets, she would always remember that the door shutting was what set off the nightmare.31

Three years later when she read the diary, that came back to her and she searched for pieces of the stories that could explain that. Her mother wrote about how Nona left her door open because memories of having the doors slammed shut at night and being locked in still her mother. Ciara wrote about how if the door slammed shut at night Nona would hear it and start reliving the old memories in dreams. As Ciara began to wake up in the night crying because she began to dream about a world that lived and died before her time, Nona left the door always completely open so she could get to her daughter before the nightmare could end. Ciara wrote about the era of when the ones who survived had to search in the rubble of their childhood memories to see their families’ faces again.32

Jess started to trot down the hallway hoping to get to the girl before she ran away. He didn’t mean to frighten her and she hadn’t really sinned, she didn’t know better. He caught her arm just before she slipped out the door and was surprised with how tiny and fragile she was.33

“Its ok, you didn’t do anything wrong. They wanted to create Israel and rape Palestine’s people. They told lies to get that but you didn’t do it.” He looked at her eagerly, wanting her to accept his offering of peace, but instead she pulled angrily out of his grasp and stood to face him. Her hair glittered in the fast fading light and she seemed to shine with anger. She looked anything but fragile when he saw the fires his words had lit in her eyes. He saw anger instead of fear in her eyes, hatred instead of regret, strength instead of fragility. His face felt a sudden sting as the impact of her hand slammed into his cheek. He felt her nails rake his skin but more the shock hit him harder than his blow did. He watched her expression go from hatred to disbelief that she had actually done that.
Her face turned from beautiful to an ugly sneer full of disgust.34

“Right… Nona lied to me and my mother about seeing soldiers with guns grab people in her unit, harder workers than her and drag them off to be shot and then wondering if she was next. She lied about her shame at having to run naked through a gauntlet of German soldiers beating her, her family, and her community with guns. She lied about having to stand silent and still while a German soldier took her crying baby brother out of her mother’s arms and threw him in the air to be shot. She lied about biting her lip till there was blood as she tried not to cry watching the baby she had held and watched crawl, be sent flying only to be shot to the ground. So, she lied about not being allowed to wipe the tears from her eyes after making it past the gauntlet and having to watch as a soldier dragged her mother to her feet where she collapsed at her baby’s corpse, and then shooting her in the back as he pushed her to the ground again. Nona lied to my mother when she told her the stories of what she had to witness and survive.” His face looked uncertain now, as if he didn’t quite know what to say and his confidence had fast fled him. His skin looked ashy as if he was seeing all of it in his minds eye as vividly as she did every time she thought of it. Some light in his eye flashed though and he opened his mouth to counter with a retort but he couldn’t think of anything, all he could manage was35

“My brother died in Palestine!” She gave him a withering look along the lines of, ‘You interrupted me and that’s all?’ She looked as if she just couldn’t face anyone else’s sorrow. Her eyes seemed to be full with unshed tears- she was blinking furiously trying not to let them fall as if telling him this really caused her pain. He wondered if his eyes mirrored the same thing and if she saw the unshed tears he tried not to let fall.36

“Why can’t you just let me finish? Jeez, just shut up and let me tell you! NO, don’t you dare open your mouth right now and try to cut me off or snap at me- just close your mouth and keep it closed! Try listening!” She just exploded on him- her words were angry and full of fire creating sparks to that just built up the tension.37

“Lied to her so that my mother would sob and cry all throughout middle school when they took showers at school because she was so afraid that they were gas showers. Lied to her so that my mother would never be allowed to have sleepovers because she would cry and scream in the night stuck believing and reliving the stories. My mother spent most of her life hearing how my Nona’s world was torn apart and never knowing if she was loved because my Nona was too afraid to just lose her if she loved her. Mama never got to hear my Nona’s sweet innocent childhood memories because my Nona couldn’t think of them or tell them without feeling all that she had lost. My mother lost her innocence because she was raised knowing those “lies” as you call them. I grew up hearing how the stories began, knowing that these people lived once but never getting to hear how they ended till I read my mothers diaries, because my Nona was haunted by memories of her daughter waking up crying and not being able to stop. She was afraid to take away my childhood so she held her silence. My mother died days after I was born and so my Nona chose to do right by me. But that’s all lies right?”38

“Well….I dunno… never knew any of that.” He couldn’t look in her in the eye and he was starting to realize that if everything she had just told him while half crying half yelling was at least partially true, then maybe Israel wasn’t just an excuse to destroy his heritage and people. He felt bad because she seemed in genuine pain and it seemed more like his mother’s grief at his brother’s death then when his sisters pretended to be hurt to get attention. He wondered at Papas insistence that the Holocaust never happened and was an excuse to destroy Palestine- his head was overflowing with too many contradicting thoughts that were trying to swim around and not touch each other. The stories of Chiara’s Nona were someone else’s nightmares- Papa had never told him that and not even whispers racing around the neighborhood had ever breathed of those horrors. His brother was still gone- never to walk in the door and sweep him up in a giant hug or to kick the ball around with him before soccer season started. He wouldn’t wake up with nightmares of being shot at and hear his brother’s even breathing, proof that you could run from stray bullets and dodge riots and still come home safe.39

She had turned away from him hiding escaping tears and taken a few steps down the street- the cool night air chilled the fires in his cheeks. He started to talk to her while walking with her. In the Palestinian neighborhood, he thought she was probably safe but he shuddered to think if his father or one of the more extreme fanatics found her. Her being an uncovered girl alone at night, they would be angry-finding out she wasn’t one of them and was Jewish instead, would make her an outlet for grief and frustration that would start a damaging wave of violence. His legs started to move creating warmth that would run through his body acting as a shield to everything out there. He turned his head away so he wouldn’t see her tears. He wanted to tell her his story but he didn’t know how.40

There were no exact words for the mind numbing grief when he found out that his brother was a suicide bomber. He blinked furiously fighting back tears of anger at how they had betrayed his brother.41

“I was fifteen when Nasir died. He walked out of the door to fight for freedom for West Bank- he had gone before to visit and see the land our Papa always talked about but before he always came back. One time Papa came home laughing, proud of the son that had given all for Allah. I wanted that to be me just then- Nasir was gone and I wanted it to be me who he bragged about and who he couldn’t stop smiling at. One of his friends who had come home with him clapped him on the shoulder and told him to be grateful he had a son who would die for liberating their homeland. I wasn’t dead- I ran to him and told him ‘I’m still here Papa, I’m alive’ but he didn’t even look at me. He didn’t understand and he just laughed and told me to rejoice for Nasir had made him proud to be a father. When my mother started crying he hushed her and grew angry that she would cry over a martyr. He told her it took a brave son to walk into a crowd ready to die. My sister Cantara, asked him ‘How come you sent Nasir to Palestine to liberate her but he blew himself up instead?’ and Papa turned on her and told her to get out of his sight. Cantara fell running up the steps but he didn’t try to help her. Six year old Hessa ran to a corner crying and scared but he just looked at her and her black hair fell across her knees as she put her head down, silenced.”42

Tears began to fall freely down his cheeks as he hurriedly brushed them away and his voice grew hoarse with sorrow. He stopped speaking for a moment remembering.43

Five years ago, at a neighborhood dinner everyone was talking or glancing at each other in a certain way. He remembered wandering around and feeling lost because everyone older than him seemed to know something he didn’t. All the mothers were shaking their heads and holding their babies closer and the men were nodding and smiling.44

His brother grabbed him as he circled the room for the fourth time and whispered in his ear “Everyone is talking because a month ago someone walked into an Israeli crowd and just blew up killing the people around him. They are called martyrs, suicide bombers but that was the first who was 14. No one knows what to think because he died for Palestine but he is the first child everyone knows about being apart of the cause.” Someone had spoken and the room of adults had grown silent, he asked his brother what he didn’t understand, privately not realizing that everyone could hear him. He knew of people who were freedom fighters but they shot out of windows and they didn’t walk into crowds and blow up children.45

“Why didn’t his father and mother love him enough to stop him? How could they send him off to kill and then be killed? I’m twelve but my parents don’t hate me like-” His brother clamped his hand around his mouth but not before thirty mouths dropped open and thirty people hushed him.
He tried to finish his sentence but his brother pinched him and whispered“ Shut up, dummy! You crazy? You shouldn’t have said that!”46

His seventeen-year-old body shuddered at the memory. “I didn’t understand how my father wasn’t ashamed that he couldn’t protect the son who always wanted approval. Every time I saw my mother break into tears over a dish my brother loved and then cook onions to hide it from Papa, I died a little inside. I began to hate for all the tears I saw fall into a soup or mark a plate- began to hate for all the times I would have to run to my sisters side when she awoke crying in the night because I was afraid of what Papa would do to her if he found her. I hated for what Papa would say had happened to Palestine- the children falling in the dust killed or crippled by Israeli bullets that found their mark- the parents who would kiss their children a second too long before they left the house because they didn’t know when they would be back. 47

‘My brother came home and told me about the families who would keep their house another month and the mothers who could laugh and rest easy because he and his friends would go get them what they needed so they weren’t at risk. He told me that the first time he saw a child step on a landmine and lose their life in an explosion of limbs he cried because he thought of one of our sisters or me. While Nasir was alive I was able to hold onto hope and Palestine was a constant in the household but it didn’t directly affect me. I only heard about it when Papa ranted about the olive orchards being raped by Israeli bulldozers and about how the dirt of our land was being won back in the blood of our people. My brother told me that many farms were being demolished and many families were decaying because hotheads who believed in revenge were hiding out in orchards and trying to shoot at Israeli soldiers and so innocent civilians paid the price for it. After he died all I knew was Palestine- fighting for it had taken his life- because of it both my sisters silence themselves when my father is in the house, even though Hessa is eleven and Cantara is fourteen. I hated what had made my father so angry inside that he could let his son do that.”48

He stopped standing in the middle of the sidewalk, wanting her to turn and look at him so she could see that she wasn’t hurting alone for having to bring all of it back. She took a couple steps forward and then didn’t hear his footsteps following and as she brushed dark strands of hair out of her eyes she looked back at him. Cautiously she took a hesitant step towards him, her eyes were glassy but trusting.49

“Why didn’t your brother fight it? You talk about him as if he didn’t really believe in doing something that drastic.” Her eyes met his and the hatred that had flickered in her eyes moments before was missing. ‘I’m not alone and I’m not the only one left to bear all the grieving and pain’, she thought. She actually wanted to know- she didn’t want to judge anymore.50

“I don’t know- he told me before he left that they had wanted him for something special, some organization he hadn’t worked with before. He told me he wasn’t going to go back after this trip because it was getting too dangerous. It was too hard to get in and leave because of the checkpoints. I think Papa had some idea of what they wanted him for but he didn’t do anything. He just let him go and my brother was manipulated. He was willing to die for his people and homeland but I never thought like that. If he got shot helping someone elderly get past a checkpoint so be it, but he saw too much violence for me to think it would have been his idea to die the way he did without being influenced. I won’t ever really know”. He looked up above him trying to force his tears back into his eyelids but instead through blurry eyes he saw beautiful shapes of light. There were too many to count. He and his brother used to sit on the roof and watch the stars shooting by.51

“My home is in a nearby neighborhood, I should probably...” He pointed up to at the sky and told her to look. She breathed in the dark night air lit up by lights in the sky.52

“Wow” she breathed. ‘Its beautiful- they shine so bright but they look so tiny.’ She looked at him wondering if he was as mesmerized as she was.
“See the star to the left” she nodded, “That’s the North Star and that’s Orion’s belt.”53

He took her hand and pointed with it toward all the stars apart of the constellations he knew but just lighting up the sky. “My brother used to say that if you find a star that you just can’t stop looking at it’s because the star is the soul of someone you lost or who loved you looking down at you. He told me all those stars were what happened to all the people who died and didn’t have someone to remember them. It isn’t Islamic but he said that it just stuck with him after he heard it. I always remembered it.”54


“How many of them are there?” She wondered if there was one for all the people her Nona had lost and she found herself telling him about how her Nona would carve names into the table.55


“There has to be millions. That’s how your Nona remembered the people who were lost to her, this is how I remember the one I lost. A permanent tribute so they can’t ever be forgotten.”56

57

Epilogue
Chiara’s Diary58

After that night Jess and I didn’t really hang out that much. We still worked around each other and a look between us told of all the pain and memories that belonged to both of us after that. His family threatened to send him to Palestine if he hung out with me again and he was afraid of what would happen to his sisters if they lost him. We could only exchange looks at each other and could only pretend that we didn’t share anything other than the working at the same place. He starting writing on his arm and one of the days and backstage where we had to be in close proximity because of a series of shows, I saw a blue inked’ Remember’ written on his wrist. It was a couple of days after Israel and Palestine had decided on a temporary truce. For the rest of the year we worked together, I wrote ‘Freedom’ in black ink on my wrist – the two words were are connections.59

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