The Last Elegy of Hanthala... To the Witness Who Became a Martyr... and Remained a Witness...

When the men left the camp, the departure was not a defeat, but the last remnants of the honor of the rifles, raised as they left in search of temporary exile, with a promise of return after the massacre ended. They thought that massacres have an end, and that death has an expiration date, but Sabra remained alone, lying among the corpses, hanging her talisman on the walls of the destroyed houses, as if entrusting the stones with the memory of those who would not return. Since that morning, the massacre ceased to be a fleeting event, transforming into a fate that proliferates, and an open chapter in the book of Palestinian blood. What ended in September was just the beginning of a long era of slaughter, and Shatila became adept at the rituals of death, getting used to seeing the killers change their faces, while the victim remains the victim. The years passed, but the knives did not age, and every time this people tried to rise early, they found someone waiting for them with a new massacre, as if rising in this land were a sin, and freedom a crime, and life itself an accusation that warrants execution...

The dead dreamed of a quiet night after the loved ones left, and their farewell was part of the protocol of departure. They returned to dream of the path of pain, certain that the fighters' departure meant nothing but a journey towards eternity. The dead tried to die quietly, gathered in streets and alleys, so that death would be less severe, and so that souls could share their last pain, hoping to alleviate each other's burden in the final moment. But death was not merciful, and the killer sought only more blood, more bodies, and more silence... Their screams still echo to this day, demanding the pursuit of the slaughterer and the killer, and those who guarded the crime, and those who listened from afar to the noise of killing, and those who counted the hours waiting for the mission to end before they began to deliver their false humanitarian speeches. And the pursuit here means pursuit, in all forms and methods available and unavailable, because crimes that go unpunished always return with new names, and new maps, and new victims... And because the massacre did not die, it emerged from Sabra and Shatila to inhabit Gaza, then crossed to Jenin, and to Noor Shams, and to Tulkarem, and to every camp assigned to be a witness to the world's silence. The names of the alleys changed, but the smell of blood remained the same, and the faces of the children changed, but the fear that dwelled in their eyes remained the same, and the means of killing changed, but the killer did not alter their nature, still seeing the Palestinian as a legitimate target, and the camp as an open arena for experimentation, and Arab blood as merely a fleeting headline worthy of only a few minutes on the news.

Alone was the one who bore the trust, and the pains of the bereaved, and the story, and the tale, and chirped outside the flock. Alone was the one who filled the world with noise, and carried the message of the dead and the outcasts from life, turning their pain into a cause, and their silence into a scream, and their names into a memory that does not die. Alone was the son of the camp, who chased and continues to chase the killers in all places, until he became an icon of freedom and life, and turned into a curse following anyone who committed their vile acts against the sons of the brown earth, and anyone who made blood a commodity, and the cause a season, and the martyrs a number in news bulletins, and the homeland a negotiable deal.

Blood for blood, head for head, oh representatives of those who live below the level of humans, and you know. That homeless person between the camps, hiding behind walls, and proclaiming the truth, was a witness to the slaughterer since the beginnings, and a listener to the wails of the raped women, and the pregnant women, and the children who were slaughtered before understanding the meaning of homeland. Everyone renounced him, even the capitals that sang the cause could not bear his symbolism, so he became hunted by its ghosts, just as he was hunted by his enemies, but he remained the talisman of the poor, the champion of the deprived, and the ones waiting to find shade beneath an olive tree still standing on a hill of Galilee, waiting for its owners, just as its owners wait for it, no matter how long the exile, and no matter how the maps change...

He became a spirit embodied by all the tired bodies, deprived of the warmth of the moment, and the fragrance of the sacred perfume emanating from the morning dew in the land of love and passion, and much breaking. He became infused with the earth's soil thirsty for the steps of lovers ascending the mountain, seeking refuge in a cave that only welcomes those who chant the hymns of the Canaanite alphabets anew. He became the scent of the meadows perfumed with the breezes of daisies and anemones, and became a sacred icon hanging around the necks of the guardians of the dream, and the stewards of the promise that did not die, even if weighed down by defeats, exhausted by disappointments, and surrounded by processions of traders of homelands...

He became the savior, soaring in the sky of those waiting for the bounties of golden wheat yearning for the sun, and became a shining star in the space of our truths, always guiding us to a compass that does not deviate, no matter how many routes there are, and how similar the faces, and how the wind tries to change its directions. For the compass that points to Palestine does not err, even if the travelers have lost their way, nor does it veer, even as politics shifts, nor does it change, even if capitals exchange and platforms become marketplaces for bargains...

He became a symbol of the longing of the free for a revolution that slays injustice, and became a formidable figure in the accounts of the wicked, and a term of the good news of a new resurrection for the bowed worshippers in the presence of the palms in the land of Mesopotamia, and a melody on the harp of the wretched time, echoing in the alleys of Cairo, Cairo which still preserves in its stones the faces of the poor, and in its alleys the scent of those who passed carrying their dreams on their shoulders, before they were swallowed by the big cities, leaving them strangers in their homelands...

He became a prophet confronting the pharaohs of the new age, not with a staff of miracles, but with an eternal truth, and a word that does not break, and an ink that mingles daily with new blood. He became a word of magic cast by a beauty, crying out beauty, in the deserts of oblivion, and perhaps seemed more glorious on the bridges of Constantine, between the pages of an incomplete story, because Palestine is still writing its last chapter with the blood of its children, and the true novelist is the martyr, not the historian...

He became a chant sung by the Nubian beauties when longing intensifies for the tales of poor lovers, and became a curse to the killers of the rebellious woman in the alleys of Baghdad, and was a witness, patient, and steadfast in the Hamra Street in Beirut, when his name echoed against the walls of battles, and when he confronted the boots of the invaders, as he confronted the howls of the swollen bellies, and the merchants of wars, and the traders of blood, and the vendors of slogans who were accustomed to sharing the spoils over the ruins of cities, while mothers shared the coffins.

He witnessed Beirut as it drained itself over and over, not only by the invaders, but also by those who turned the camp into a venue for settling scores, and the refugee into a negotiating paper, and the cause into a postponed item on the tables of politics. Then he returned to witness the camps of Lebanon as they returned to fire, as if they were not satisfied with what their memory carried from massacres, as if history insisted on repeating itself, every time people thought the blood had dried, and the alleys forgot the names of their martyrs...

He was a witness to the actual death of what is called the human conscience, the day those killed in the insane alleys of Sabra and Shatila, and the day the victim was hunted to fall between the jaws of the dragon as a tasty meal, preceded by rape, humiliation, and broken dignity. Today he witnesses the same conscience being buried every morning under the rubble of Gaza, and hanged on the barriers of the West Bank, and suffocating in the camps of the north, while the world has nothing but condemnatory statements, and pictures taken from safe distances, before continuing its life as if nothing happened... For killing has another story, and other images, and other faces, as for Sabra and Shatila, they have a story yet to be fully told, because the massacre did not end; it just changed its names. Sometimes it is called Gaza, sometimes Jenin, sometimes Noor Shams, sometimes Tulkarem, sometimes Ain al-Hilweh, and sometimes every camp that refuses to relinquish its Palestinian identity. As for the killer, he remains the same, and as for the victim, she remains the same, and as for the world, it still masters the art of managing silence more than it masters the defense of humanity.

Fatima is allowed to chant and dance the dance of the desperate in the alleys misnamed as homeland, after the handshake with the killer became part of the protocol, and the official meetings justified under the guise of necessities. I do not mean here the traditional killer sitting next to the mosque and the old house, but the one living close to Sabra and Shatila, who the sun shines on first, and drinks his coffee every morning overlooking the alleys of the camp, watching the deformed, the survivors, and those who still live with the remnants of life, as if they are a living witness to a crime the world has only recognized as news from yesterday.

And here the scene repeats itself, not because time has turned back, but because the killer has not changed, and the victim remains the victim, and those who applauded the silence still master the same applause. In Beirut, the camp returns again to the circle of fire, and the refugee becomes surplus to necessities once more, while in Palestine the graves open their doors every morning to receive new waves of children, and death becomes part of the details of the day, just as life once was part of their dreams...

He chose to depart after the sons of the camp had left, and he should have chosen the form of his departure as well, wanting to be the one killed upon his white pages, so that the scene of slaughter balances between Shatila and the capital of fog, and so that the ink mixes with blood, and the drawing becomes testimony, and the word becomes a bullet, and the paper becomes a battlefield no less dangerous than the barricade. He realized that the bullet that would settle in his body would not be aimed solely at him, but at all who persisted in depicting Palestine as it is, not as the killers want it, and at all who refuse to let the massacre become a small margin in the history book...

From that moment, he did not die; rather, his true presence began. He became the symbol attached to the Southerners stretching all the way to northern Galilee, and became a ritual of the rifles in July, and a book in the pocket of the Karrabali gentleman with the black turban, just as he became a poem recited by those who know that justice does not fall into disuse, that blood does not age, and that memory, no matter how burdened by defeats, is able to sprout anew, just as anemones sprout above the soil quenched by the blood of martyrs...

He became majestic on the slopes of Qasioun, and on the melodies of the chants coming from the Golan, we hear his thundering voice proclaiming a return that knows no defeat, and a dignity that accepts no compromise, and an honor that does not measure by the number of rifles, but by the ability of a human to remain standing, even while bleeding. He became the dream of the virgins of Jerusalem, waiting for him at twilight, when they ignite the fire to welcome the gallant men who have written his words with deed before speech, and carried his messages on their shoulders, not in their notebooks...

He became the deeper meaning for the youth of Carmel in Haifa, who know that a child always looks towards the place, believing that the return is not a romantic dream, but a postponed promise, not subject to the passage of time, nor canceled by maps, nor erased by borders. Therefore, they continued to prepare the places for that return, just as the earth prepares itself to welcome the first rain after years of drought....

He became Arab, voicing the collective, without mastering the art of oratory, or the rules of rhetoric, or lessons in diplomacy, and he did not need platforms of conferences, applause of halls, nor condemnation statements. He knew that the truth, when it comes from the heart of the camp, is more eloquent than all speeches, and that a small drawing of a child turning his back on the world can defeat thousands of elaborate speeches, and thousands of faces that have mastered talking to the extent they lost the ability to tell the truth...

For this reason, he declared his allegiance from the beginnings, and spoke on behalf of those who adhere to the soil, not on behalf of those who rose above it. He belonged to all religions, and to all those who worship, for he learned that humanity is the first value, that the homeland is the great prayer, and that freedom does not require a creed, but needs a living conscience. He trampled on the illusions of the great, and on the red cans of night, and on anyone who tried to sell dreams in the markets of politics, and declared his identity as it is, without evasion, without fear, and without waiting for anyone's approval. He stated who we are, what we are made of, and what we dream of, then left the flood to come, and the war to cross, and the tyranny to strike, and the silencers to release their fire, for he knew that the dreams that dwell in the hearts of the poor cannot be assassinated by bullets, but rather live on...

They recognized him in all places, and recognized in him the cause of a people who does not rest, who does not compromise on its memory, and who does not appease the injustice coming from the north of the north. The world learned who we are, without roaming the capitals, or mastering the languages of others, or crowding at the doors of politicians. He knew that the truth, when it is genuine, needs no translator, that one image can defeat thousands of speeches, and that a child turning his back on the world can expose all global platforms if he remains loyal to his memory, to his land, and to his first dreams.

He etched his messages early on, for he knew he would dismount before his time, leaving behind the story of the symbol, and the sacred journeys for a people who rise from the ashes, amidst the smoke of the almond, fig, and olive fires. They thought the forests would also fight their owners, and that the trees would tire from waiting for the returnees, but the land retained their names, as mothers retain the names of their absent children, and as stones preserve the traces of the first footsteps of those who passed over them one morning, swearing not to exchange a homeland for another, nor a memory for another.

And when the departure drew near, he remained gazing always ahead, while also looking back, where the stones of the first land are, and where the road leading to the camp is, and where the houses that were demolished still stand in memory more than they do in geography. He knew the secret of the stones, and knows that the children who pick them today will carry the narrative tomorrow, just as those who preceded them carried it, and that the tree that is cut will sprout from its roots again, and that the camp, no matter how narrow its alleys, will remain wider than all exiles, because it carries the homeland in its memories, not in its space.

And Hanthala became a talisman for all the poor, for all the deprived, for all the revolutionaries in the southern lands, and for the travelers in the seasons of migration towards the north of their dreams. That child is no longer just a drawing on a paper, but has become a conscience standing behind every Palestinian, and behind every oppressed person, watching the world in silence, and granting it another chance to awaken, before turning his back when he discovers that the human conscience still delays justice, recognition, and truth.

He became a witness to Sabra and Shatila, as he became a witness to Gaza, to Jenin, to Noor Shams, to Tulkarem, and to every house demolished, every mother bereaved, every child pulled from the rubble carrying his small toy, and every camp that realized that massacres do not age, but merely change their names. He saw the world producing the same silence, and saw the killer changing his tools, but he did not change his convictions, and saw the victim growing generation after generation, without relinquishing her first name: Palestine...

And thus he was, and thus he will be, and will remain the name attached to the flag, hanging around the necks of the virgins and the valiant, not as the name of a man, but as the memory of a people, the conscience of a camp, and the voice of a land that knows its owners, no matter how long the absence lasts. The artist will remain present in every hand that carries a stone, in every mother bidding farewell to a martyr, in every child writing the name Palestine on a wall threatened with demolition, and in every elderly person keeping the key to his house, as if he were holding onto all his life.

Oh masters of killing... Do you really know who he was? And did you realize that the bullets, no matter how they hit the body, fail to assassinate the idea? And that slaughter, no matter how wide its arenas, cannot kill the tale? You thought that when you assassinated the artist, you extinguished the light, but the light multiplied in every camp, in every street, in every tent, in every child who refuses to turn to you, and looks towards Palestine.

And oh leaders of drumming and trumpet blowing, and traders of blood, and professionals of rhetoric on platforms, stop your noise for a moment, and depart. For homelands are not built with applause, nor restored with statements, nor safeguarded by interests, but rather by those who remain loyal to their memory, to their martyrs, and to the dreams of their children, no matter how intense the siege, and how wide the exiles, and how numerous the disappointments...

Hanthala has become the maestro of our songs whose meanings we preserve before their words, and we rely on their rhythm whenever the compass seems lost, and whenever politics tries to convince us that the path has changed. He has become the voice of those without a voice, and the face of those whose faces were stolen beneath the rubble, and he has become the witness who does not die, for the true witnesses do not dwell in graves, but live in the memory of nations...

And we are, as we are, feel our homelands while we live upon its soil, as if we are strangers to it, and we long for it even when it is in our hands, for it is not yet complete, and for the homeland dreamed of by the martyrs still waits for its children. We converse with its sky, its grass, its rain, and its olive, and we hang Hanthala around the neck of the homeland, not as an ornament, but as a conscience guarding it from forgetfulness, from traders, from killers, and from those who change the names of defeats and sell them as victories...

As for the camp... that which they thought they left lonely when the men went out, it never left them. It stood guard over memory, preserving the names of martyrs, teaching children how stones turn into stories, how keys become promises, and how drawings can become rifles, and words become barricades, and memory a homeland that does not fall...

Whenever the killers thought they had killed the witness, the camp sprouted another witness. And whenever they thought they had assassinated the artist, a thousand Hanthalas emerged from the rubble, turning their backs on the world, pointing their fingers towards Palestine... and smiling, because they know, just as they have known from the beginnings, that homelands may be delayed... but they do not disappear.