For every house, there is a guardian... When helplessness becomes a title for a nation...

Author: Younes Al-Amouri

 
There are moments when the news ceases to be news, the number ceases to be a number, and the image ceases to be an image; everything transforms into a large mirror standing in front of the face of a nation saying to it... look at yourself closely. More than two thousand three hundred settlers flock to the courtyards of Al-Aqsa, while the rightful owners stand behind iron gates, and worshippers are prevented from reaching the place of prostration, and guns are spread in a place that should have been guarded by the sanctity of prayer, not the intrusion upon it. On the other side, a whole nation watches the scene from behind distant screens, getting angry, denouncing, condemning, then turning off the screen and returning to its day, as if Jerusalem were never once the first qibla, and as if the mosque towards which hearts turn in their prayers has become just a title in breaking news...

What has happened to us...? How have we reached this enormous distance between what we believe in and what we do...? How has the sacred become besieged, while we possess enough words to build cities of oratory, yet we lack the will to open a door...? How has Al-Aqsa become this lonely, to the extent that sometimes it seems that the wall surrounding it is more merciful than the wall that has risen within us...? A wall of fear, a wall of habit, a wall of interests, and a wall of silence, until it seems that we all have lined up in one row, not to protect the place, but to witness our helplessness while we wear the garments of wisdom and call it realism.
In Jerusalem, the scene says something greater than the intrusion itself. It says there are those who wish to change the meaning of the place, and that there are those who want to rewrite memory on ancient stones, and that there are those who think that the multitude of feet can change the identity of the land. But homelands do not change their names whenever a stranger passes by, and sanctities do not lose their sacredness when guns surround them, and the land does not forget its owners just because they have been prevented from entering it. The stone knows who built it, the door knows who opened it, and the air that flows in the mosque's courtyards knows the names of those who prostrated there for centuries, even if force tries to bury memory beneath layers of iron. And the domes of the place remain, no matter how dense the clouds of oppression around them, as a witness that the sky does not forget the places of prostration, and that the stone which carried the prayer does not lose its memory...

And yet, the most bitter question remains... where are we...? Where are those who should have been here...? Where is the nation that expands geographically to almost touch the farthest edges of the world, yet narrows its will so much that it cannot encompass a single cry? Where are the capitals that adorn themselves with mirrors, while Jerusalem looks at itself in a broken glass? Where are those who speak of history while leaving the history itself to pass in front of their eyes, writing in its notebooks that this day has also passed without anyone moving...?

Helplessness has become a habit for us. And this is the disaster that exceeds all occupation. The occupation intrudes upon the land, but helplessness intrudes upon the soul. The occupation closes the doors, but helplessness closes the windows. The occupation prevents people from praying, but helplessness prevents hearts from getting angry. The occupation imposes barriers on the roads, but helplessness builds barriers in consciences. And how grave it is that oppression becomes a familiar sight, for when oppression becomes familiar it loses its ability to provoke questions, and when questions lose their ability to disturb us silence becomes a partner in the crime, even if the tongue continues to repeat phrases of denunciation.

Perhaps Palestine itself has become a witness to this transformation. A people standing alone in the storm, while the Arab and Islamic world stands at a distant place, raising its hand behind the glass, then lowering it. A people carries the key to its home as a believer carries a secret he doesn't want to lose, and keeps an image of the place in his heart like a drowning person clutches a piece of wood in an endless sea. Everything in Palestine says that memory is longer than occupation, that patience may be more solid than walls, and that those who hold the land by force do not necessarily own its meaning.
Every time they invade the ancient home, they try to make force the only language, the gun a witness to the right, and the number a proof of ownership. But there are things that cannot be measured by numbers. No one counts how many prayers have risen from that place. No one knows how many tears have fallen on its thresholds. No one can count the number of hearts that carried its image while being far away. And no one can assign a number to the memory of a people, or enclose a prayer in the heart of a child, or prevent a soul from crossing the barriers. And no one can fold in a notebook of absence an image of the ancient home, that house that remains in the mind a witness that the sacred has a memory that does not bend before the multitude of passersby... And yet, the more painful truth is not that they invaded, but that we have grown accustomed to them invading. That news becomes seasons, blood becomes numbers, and Al-Aqsa becomes an image that repeats until it loses its ability to shock. That we wake up in the morning to find that the mosque has been violated, we grieve for a little while, then have our coffee. That we hear worshippers have been prevented from entering, we write a few lines, then proceed to our work. That we learn that someone is being expelled from the place they were born in, then close the phone and say... what can we do...? And here, perhaps the entire tragedy lies in one word... what can we do...? This word has become a wide grave where we buried our will. What can we do in the face of force? What can we do in the face of the world? What can we do in the face of history? What can we do in the face of this vast destruction? And thus, little by little, we have learned to see the impossible before we see the possible, and to measure the size of our helplessness before we search for our space of action. We have forgotten that nations do not always begin with strength, but may begin with the refusal to surrender to the idea of weakness. And that the long road may begin with a small step, and that the light does not need a full sun to shine, for a small crack in a thick wall of darkness may suffice...

Perhaps for this reason the phrase "for every house, there is a guardian" at this moment seems more than just a phrase. It seems like an old echo returning from the depths of the soul, reminding us that things have a balance unseen by the eyes, that oppression has a ceiling it cannot exceed, and that for the house that is intended to be demolished, there is a guardian who does not sleep. But at the same time, it is a dangerous phrase if we understand it as a call to surrender. For the heavens do not ask the people of the earth to vacate their places, nor the rightful owners to leave their doors for the invaders and then wait for a miracle. True faith is not just sitting and waiting, but working while knowing that you are not alone. Planting while you do not see the fruit. Standing in the storm while you have no promise of immediate safety, but you have the certainty that the storm is not the deity that decides your fate... For every house, there is a guardian, yes. But for the house, there are also people who must not forget it is their house. And for Jerusalem, there is a guardian who preserves it, yes. But for Jerusalem, there is a nation that must not forget it is part of its spirit. And perhaps our true test today is not only in our ability to liberate the land but in our ability to free ourselves from that heavy feeling that nothing can be done. For the greatest defeat is not losing a battle, but becoming convinced before the battle that everything is lost...

Look at Jerusalem. It is still there. Despite everything. Despite the soldiers, despite the closed doors, despite the invasions, despite the rituals they try to impose on the place, despite the silence that envelops the world, it is still there. Like a stubborn heart that refuses to stop. Like an ancient tree struck by axes from every side, yet still extends its roots deep into the soil, knowing that those who cut the branches cannot uproot the memory. And above it, the domes remain standing, not as silent stones, but as hands raised toward the sky, preserving the place's dignity, the memory's name, and the spirit's window that the siege cannot close... And perhaps in this, we find a little consolation. Those who possess power today are not necessarily those who will own tomorrow. History has never been a book written solely by the powerful. How many empires thought their name would remain forever, only to end up as a broken stone in a distant museum. And how many peoples the world thought had vanished, then returned from the ashes like dawn returns from the last night. So not everything that seems fixed will remain, and not everything that seems weak will vanish...

But we must also acknowledge that the heavens do not absolve a nation from its shame. We cannot hide behind fate to justify our inaction. We cannot say, "For every house, there is a guardian," then leave the house alone and move on. We cannot raise our hands to the heavens and close our hands to the duty of the earth. For faith that does not awaken responsibility becomes a sedative, and hope that does not create action becomes a barren wait...

Perhaps this is why this stage needs something beyond anger. It needs an awakening. To regain the meaning we lost amid the noise of the days. To know that Jerusalem is not a seasonal issue, that Al-Aqsa is not an image, that Palestine is not news. To understand that what is happening there is not far from us, for nations that allow violations of their sanctities in one place may find themselves one day searching for their sanctities in another place. And whoever grows accustomed to seeing oppression without moving, may wake up one day to discover that oppression has learned the way to his door...

In the end, perhaps we do not have a clear answer to the question of helplessness today. And perhaps we do not know when the scales will change, or where relief will come from, or how the weak can face this immense mountain of power. But we possess one thing we must not lose... the faith that the night is not the end of the story. We can refuse to let oppression become ordinary. We can preserve Jerusalem in our consciousness from becoming just a memory. We can raise our children to understand that sanctities are not protected by words alone, and that the right does not fall just because its owners delayed in reclaiming it. We can remain standing, even if we are trembling... For Jerusalem does not need a complete nation to remain sacred, but it needs complete hearts to stay alive within us. Al-Aqsa does not need new speeches as much as it needs a conscience that has not died. And Palestine does not need those who mourn her every morning, but those who believe that her cause is not a forgotten destiny on the margins of history. The first qibla does not need us to repeat its name in speeches, but needs to remain present in our conscience when the ways narrow, when barriers multiply, and when the road to the ancient home seems further than just a path in geography...

And perhaps, in our deepest moments of despair, when it seems that all doors have closed, and all paths have narrowed, and the house has been left alone in the storm, that calm certainty remains deep in the soul which the powerful do not see... that for the house, there is a guardian. And for the land, there is memory. And for the right, there is a due time. And for the darkness, there is an end, no matter how long the night lasts... So if there is a guardian for the house, let us have faith that prevents us from abandoning it, and awareness that prevents us from forgetting it, and courage that makes us worthy of the moment when the door opens. For when the miracle comes, it does not seek those who have slept long, but those who stayed awake in the heart of the storm, guarding what remains of light, and telling the whole world, in a voice that may be faint but does not die... this house is ours in memory, this land is ours in the heart, and this sacred will not become foreign as long as we refuse to become strangers to ourselves...