anne send me a message this afternoon. someone seriously injured in nabi saleh. i asked who. mustafa tamimi, 28. the brother of zeyad and ola? she didn’t know. i went online to check with others. yes, it’s him, manal said. its hard not to be in palestine right now.
i hate this. sitting somewhere getting a message that someone is injured, hoping its not serious, hoping, selfishly, that its not someone i know, finding out its serious, finding out its someone i know, hoping i’ll get news that he made it, freaking out from fear that i’ll get news that he didn’t, thinking of his mother, sisters, father, brother in prison, other three brothers, cousin, grandfather, etc., thinking plz plz plz plz no. paralyzed in my inability to DO something, infuriated at my inability to make people even notice, to make people care, to make people feel the outrage. wanting so badly to know how he really is, how his sister is, how his brothers are, if his younger brother in prison even knows, and how he is if he does, recharging my phone and then hesitating with my phone in my hands because what do i say, “how are you? I hope your brother survives?” sitting here and once again only writing xxxxx emails. i hate this. i hate this. and mainstream doesn’t even fucking take notice, they don’t even make it into any fucking statistics. i hate this. even though i saw the horrible picture with blood and that hole disfiguring his face, i cannot believe it, i want him to come through, well. am fucking angry at this world. and i am not even his mother, his father, his sister, his brothers, his relatives, i cannot even imagine.