Published on Alternet (http://www.alternet.org)
Home > This Palestinian Writer's Diary From Gaza Should Be Required Reading
________________________________________
This Palestinian Writer's Diary From Gaza Should Be Required Reading
By Atef Abu Saif [1] / Beacon Press [2]
July 11, 2016
The following is an excerpt from the new book The Drone Eats With Me [3] by
Atef Abu Saif (Beacon, 2016):
Sunday, 6 July 2014
When it comes, it brings with it a smell, a fragrance even. You learn to
recognize it as a kid growing up in these narrow streets. You develop a
knack for detecting it, tasting it in the air. You can almost see it. Like a
witch’s familiar, it lurks in the shadows, follows you at a distance
wherever you go. If you retain this skill, you can tell that it’s
coming—hours, sometimes days, before it actually arrives. You don’t mistake
it. برح . Harb. War.
I’m sitting in front of Abu Annas’s house with three of our friends—Tarik,
Sohail, and Abdallah. Abu Annas has been a headmaster for fifteen years now
at the camp’s Ahmad al-Shokairi High School, although I’ve known him since
the First Intifada. He lives just a two-minute walk from my father’s place,
in the same refugee camp I grew up in. The night is warm. Two shade trees
stand in front of the house.
Abu Annas and Tarik are playing backgammon, from time to time breaking away
from their game to contribute to the wider conversation. The sound of the
dice rattling against the wooden board always mesmerizes me slightly. I’ve
never played backgammon. I merely love the spectacle of dice bouncing along
the wood and ricocheting off the back board. An aging blue Sony radio sits
between us, playing a classic Fayza Ahmad song. “Oh Mother, the moon is at
the door, lighting candles. Shall I lock the door or open it?” Abu Annas has
kept the radio in good condition since the 1970s, still wrapped in a brown
leather casing it came with.
All five of us around the table were born in wartime—as Gazans, you don’t
get much choice about it. The crowded refugee camp we grew up in, known to
Gazans as “Jabalia”—once a field of tents, then a forest of shacks, now a
jungle of high-rise apartment blocks crammed tightly together—has been beset
by wars for as long as we’ve all been alive. Since 1948—before that in fact,
since the British mandate began in 1917—Gaza has barely gone ten years
without a war; sometimes it’s as little as two between each one. So everyone
carries their own memories of conflict: wars stand as markers in a Gazan’s
life: there’s one planted firmly in your childhood, one or two more in your
adolescence, and so on . . . they toll the passing of time as you grow older
like rings in a tree trunk. Sadly, for many Gazans, one of these wars will
also mark life’s end. Life is what we have in between these wars.
Tonight, another one is starting. SMS news updates interrupt the evening’s
conversation, with innocent little pings, more and more and more frequently
as the night progresses, as we flinch to read them, more and more nervously.
The last sustained attack on the Strip was back in November 2012 and lasted
for eight days. The one before that—dubbed “Cast Lead” by the Israelis—ran
from December 2008 to January 2009 and lasted for twenty-three days. How
many days will this one last? How will it compare to previous assaults?
These are the questions I want us to be discussing, but for Abu Annas, at
least, it isn’t even certain that war is coming. “It will only be a small
incursion,” he says, “a limited one.”
Zohdi, Abu Annas’s second son, who is also my barber, prepares the shisha
for all of us. When I see him I reach up out of habit and feel my hair and
stubble: it’s only been three days since they were last trimmed. Zohdi’s
shop is right beside Abu Annas’s house and seeing him appear in the doorway
with a flash of steel in his hand makes me think I’m about to feel razor
against skin. Then I see that it’s just the steel tongs for the charcoal.
Tarik, a veteran workers’ rights activist, leans over the shisha to blow on
the coals, saying that all indicators point to war. Sohail is more skeptical
about it. Sohail spent much of his early life in Israeli prisons, having
been a local PLO leader in the camp, and served in Fatah’s secret militia
during the ’80s. He insists that we are already in the holy month of Ramadan
and that full-on war, at least, will have to be delayed until the end of the
month, although a controlled “escalation of tension” may be a feature of the
next few weeks. Abdallah, who holds a PhD in psychology, shares this
reading.
Me?
Well, I tell them, I can smell it. I sense it drawing in. As it turns out,
it has arrived already, before we even started this conversation.
At around 9 p.m. this evening, a drone attacked a group of people near Beit
Hanoun, two miles north of Jabalia Camp. No one was injured. Half an hour
later another drone fired on three people on the street in the western side
of Gaza City. At the time, these were reported as one-offs, the way bad
traffic accidents would be. Such things happen now and then—usually a lot
more than half an hour apart, of course, but two drone strikes don’t make a
war. This is what the radio calls an “escalation in tension.” Then the
presenter goes back to his scheduled program on youth problems in Gaza. His
guest for the discussion starts to discuss the despair that hangs over so
many young people, especially with regard to their futures; how trapped they
feel being unable to travel, study, or make a career outside of the Strip.
Then suddenly, at about 11 p.m., the guest is cut off and a nationalist song
starts playing. The mood on the radio changes completely.
A few minutes later, Abu Annas’s mobile pings with information on a third
attack. “Two young men killed in attack in Bureij Camp.” We look at each
other. This is no “escalation in tension.” A moment later, the war
introduces itself properly. We hear an explosion, some way to the north,
echoing across the city. Hearing a bomb in real life, for the first time in
a couple of years, is like having a PTSD flashback. It jolts you to exactly
where you were two years ago, five years ago, four decades ago, to the most
recent, or very first time you heard one. As the noise of this new explosion
subsides it’s replaced by the inevitable whir of a drone, sounding so close
it could be right beside us. It’s like it wants to join us for the evening
and has pulled up an invisible chair.
Because it’s Ramadan and we have to be awake for the suhoor—which at this
time of year is around 3:30 a.m.—we spend most nights staying up, talking,
smoking shisha and eating Ramadan specialties: sweets and pastries like
awama, kenafeh, and baklava. Being the height of summer, it’s also far
better to spend this time in front of the house, under a tree, than sweat it
out indoors. When we first sat down tonight, scores of boys passed us
singing Ramadan hymns and beating on plastic boxes, turning them into drums:
nice hymns, the same ones I used to sing at their age. It’s a tradition that
starts three days before Ramadan and runs all the way to Eid; I imagine it
makes any Palestinian man—devout or not—warm with nostalgia to hear them.
But now the street is empty; the sound of the explosions has grown louder.
Everyone prefers to be inside. Tarik suggests that we go too, but Abu Annas
insists: “Don’t worry, it’s normal.” We know it’s normal, but we have to go.
Hanna, my wife, rings me saying that the explosions are everywhere, I need
to be with her. Her voice trembles: “The kids are sleeping.” I know she is
afraid to be on her own right now.
Tarik drives me back quickly. I live in the Saftawi district, to the west of
Jabalia Camp. All the inhabitants of the districts around the camp originate
from inside it. Jabalia is the largest refugee camp in all of Palestine,
home to over one hundred thousand Gazans in only 1.4 square kilometers. It’s
probably most famous as the setting of countless confrontations between
occupying Israeli forces and Palestinians, in particular during the First
Intifada, which broke out in its narrow streets. Now, with its increased
population, it has spawned new districts around its outskirts: places like
Alami, Tel Azaatar, Salaheen, Beir al-Na’aja, and Saftawi. In many ways
these all belong to the camp; they are its children.
Tarik is worried that a war in the summer, especially during Ramadan, will
be hard on the people. Before dropping me off, he reminds me of our meeting
tomorrow, two hours before sunset. Every evening, since the start of
Ramadan, Tarik and I have driven out to a small farm his family owns to the
west of Beit Lahia, where he grows fruit and vegetables. We spend the last
two hours of sunlight there, before iftar (literally, the “breakfast”). The
hardest hours of fasting are those last ones just before the iftar, so it’s
good to have a distraction.
I smile at his reminder.
“What if this is war?” I ask.
“This can’t be war.”
Inside, I find Hanna perched on the edge of the sofa, listening to the news,
rigid with worry. Even her eyes tell me, “This is war.” I make coffee and
set out a few pieces of katayef for when the children wake. With Hanna, I
begin the same conversation that every single adult in Gaza is having right
now with someone else: What if this really is war? How long will it last?
Will it be harder than the previous ones? Will we survive? Which of our
loved ones is going to be lost?
Hanna shouts my name, saying I need to wake the kids up for the suhoor.
It is 3:30 a.m. Monday, 7 July 2014. A date to remember.
Thursday, 10 July 2014
Last night, while my friends and I were watching the second semifinal
between Netherlands and Argentina at my friend Ayman’s place in the Kasasib
area of the camp, another group of men were doing the same in a small café
on the beach of Khan Younis. Their café was called Sahar Al-Layali, which
means “staying up all night.” Like us, they were smoking shisha, cheering
for their favorite team, complaining about big players making obvious
mistakes, putting their hands on their heads at near misses and close calls.
They could hardly have been thinking about that gunship out there in the
darkness, watching them, or the anger it stored, as they cheered and shouted
at the match. They could hardly have imagined its maw, the gaping mouth of
its gun turret, salivating with hunger for their souls.*
Six of them were killed instantly, another fourteen maimed. Their blood must
have covered the sand all around the café, then slowly started to trickle
down to the sea. The red charcoals from the top of their shisha pipes must
have blown up into the night sky, then descended, still flaming, like
falling stars. By the morning, three of the injured had joined the dead.
They never lived to watch the final of the World Cup. None of their favorite
players will ever hear about their death.
I wake at around 9 a.m. to the news that over thirty people were killed in
the small hours of the night. The casualty rate grows steadily every day.
More people are killed by single strikes in groups; in fives, sevens, nines.
Individuals aren’t the targets, but residences, family houses. They’re
bombed until there’s nothing left.
Around midday, a thunderous detonation shakes the house. It seems a car has
been destroyed, very close to Saftawi Square, east of us. Three of the
passengers were killed. The fourth is in a critical condition.
A few hours later, Hanna, the kids, and I decide on a way of making the most
of the few hours of electricity we have left, as a family. We gather round
the TV for a few hours to watch cartoons: SpongeBob SquarePants and Gumball.
You need to forget about the world outside, or at least pretend you have the
superpower of forgetfulness. About an hour later, an explosion rocks the
building from the east, the flash lighting up the room a split second before
the sound. A moment later, a thick cloud of sand is gliding across the
lounge from the window behind us. An orange orchard it seems, a hundred
meters away, has been attacked. The trees flew into the air then fell on top
of each other, a jumble of broken boughs. When I inspect the damage later
that evening, I see that several tons of sand seem to have been removed from
underneath the orchard entirely. Part of it now coats the floor and
furniture of our lounge.
It feels, right now, as if we are all living in a cloud of slow-moving sand:
we inch forward through it, nervously, not seeing a yard in front of us, and
when we come across a pile of orange trees, scattered at our feet like an
assassin’s victims, we know that we are lucky. They were mistaken for us.
Death is so close that it doesn’t see you anymore. It mistakes you for
trees, and trees for you. You pray in thanks for this strange fog, this
blindness.
Yasser asks me if I can go out and buy him an ice cream from a shop he knows
has opened on Saftawi Square. “It’s closed,” I tell him.
“Will it open after iftar?” he asks.
I promised to take the kids to this shop; it’s a new branch of a chain of
Jabalia ice cream stores run by the Abu Zatoun family—another promise I have
to break. Yasser then asks, “But you’ll take us when the zanana† stops?”
“It’s a deal,” I say.
As I tuck him in later that night, I can tell he’s keeping his ears peeled
for the moment when the whir of the drones stops. He falls asleep, the shop
stays closed, the drone hovers.
* The victims of this attack were later reported to be Mohammed Khalid
Qanann (twenty-five) and his brother Ibrahim Qanann (twenty-four), Mohammad
Al-‘Aqad (twenty-four), Suleiman al-Astal (fifty-five), Hamdi Kamel Sawali,
Ahmad Sawali, Ibrahim Sawali, Salim Sawali, Ahmed al-Astal, and Musa
al-Astal (ages all unknown).
† Onomatopoeic word for “drone” peculiar to the Gazan dialect.
[3]
Excerpted from The Drone Eats With Me: A Gaza Diary by Atef Abu Saif (Beacon
Press, 2016). Reprinted with permission from Beacon Press.
Atef Abu Saif was born in Jabalia Refugee Camp in the Gaza Strip in 1973. He
is the author of five novels, including A Suspended Life, which was
shortlisted for the 2015 International Prize for Arab Fiction. He lives with
his family in Gaza.
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Links:
[1] http://www.alternet.org/authors/atef-abu-saif
[2] http://www.beacon.org
[3]
https://www.amazon.com/Drone-Eats-Me-Gaza-Diary/dp/0807049107/?tag=alternorg
08-20
[4] mailto:corrections@xxxxxxxxxxxx?Subject=Typo on This Palestinian
Writer's Diary From Gaza Should Be Required Reading
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Published on Alternet (http://www.alternet.org)
Home > This Palestinian Writer's Diary From Gaza Should Be Required Reading
This Palestinian Writer's Diary From Gaza Should Be Required Reading
By Atef Abu Saif [1] / Beacon Press [2]
July 11, 2016
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The following is an excerpt from the new book The Drone Eats With Me [3] by
Atef Abu Saif (Beacon, 2016):
Sunday, 6 July 2014
When it comes, it brings with it a smell, a fragrance even. You learn to
recognize it as a kid growing up in these narrow streets. You develop a
knack for detecting it, tasting it in the air. You can almost see it. Like a
witch’s familiar, it lurks in the shadows, follows you at a distance
wherever you go. If you retain this skill, you can tell that it’s
coming—hours, sometimes days, before it actually arrives. You don’t mistake
it. برح . Harb. War.
I’m sitting in front of Abu Annas’s house with three of our friends—Tarik,
Sohail, and Abdallah. Abu Annas has been a headmaster for fifteen years now
at the camp’s Ahmad al-Shokairi High School, although I’ve known him since
the First Intifada. He lives just a two-minute walk from my father’s place,
in the same refugee camp I grew up in. The night is warm. Two shade trees
stand in front of the house.
Abu Annas and Tarik are playing backgammon, from time to time breaking away
from their game to contribute to the wider conversation. The sound of the
dice rattling against the wooden board always mesmerizes me slightly. I’ve
never played backgammon. I merely love the spectacle of dice bouncing along
the wood and ricocheting off the back board. An aging blue Sony radio sits
between us, playing a classic Fayza Ahmad song. “Oh Mother, the moon is at
the door, lighting candles. Shall I lock the door or open it?” Abu Annas has
kept the radio in good condition since the 1970s, still wrapped in a brown
leather casing it came with.
All five of us around the table were born in wartime—as Gazans, you don’t
get much choice about it. The crowded refugee camp we grew up in, known to
Gazans as “Jabalia”—once a field of tents, then a forest of shacks, now a
jungle of high-rise apartment blocks crammed tightly together—has been beset
by wars for as long as we’ve all been alive. Since 1948—before that in fact,
since the British mandate began in 1917—Gaza has barely gone ten years
without a war; sometimes it’s as little as two between each one. So everyone
carries their own memories of conflict: wars stand as markers in a Gazan’s
life: there’s one planted firmly in your childhood, one or two more in your
adolescence, and so on . . . they toll the passing of time as you grow older
like rings in a tree trunk. Sadly, for many Gazans, one of these wars will
also mark life’s end. Life is what we have in between these wars.
Tonight, another one is starting. SMS news updates interrupt the evening’s
conversation, with innocent little pings, more and more and more frequently
as the night progresses, as we flinch to read them, more and more nervously.
The last sustained attack on the Strip was back in November 2012 and lasted
for eight days. The one before that—dubbed “Cast Lead” by the Israelis—ran
from December 2008 to January 2009 and lasted for twenty-three days. How
many days will this one last? How will it compare to previous assaults?
These are the questions I want us to be discussing, but for Abu Annas, at
least, it isn’t even certain that war is coming. “It will only be a small
incursion,” he says, “a limited one.”
Zohdi, Abu Annas’s second son, who is also my barber, prepares the shisha
for all of us. When I see him I reach up out of habit and feel my hair and
stubble: it’s only been three days since they were last trimmed. Zohdi’s
shop is right beside Abu Annas’s house and seeing him appear in the doorway
with a flash of steel in his hand makes me think I’m about to feel razor
against skin. Then I see that it’s just the steel tongs for the charcoal.
Tarik, a veteran workers’ rights activist, leans over the shisha to blow on
the coals, saying that all indicators point to war. Sohail is more skeptical
about it. Sohail spent much of his early life in Israeli prisons, having
been a local PLO leader in the camp, and served in Fatah’s secret militia
during the ’80s. He insists that we are already in the holy month of Ramadan
and that full-on war, at least, will have to be delayed until the end of the
month, although a controlled “escalation of tension” may be a feature of the
next few weeks. Abdallah, who holds a PhD in psychology, shares this
reading.
Me?
Well, I tell them, I can smell it. I sense it drawing in. As it turns out,
it has arrived already, before we even started this conversation.
At around 9 p.m. this evening, a drone attacked a group of people near Beit
Hanoun, two miles north of Jabalia Camp. No one was injured. Half an hour
later another drone fired on three people on the street in the western side
of Gaza City. At the time, these were reported as one-offs, the way bad
traffic accidents would be. Such things happen now and then—usually a lot
more than half an hour apart, of course, but two drone strikes don’t make a
war. This is what the radio calls an “escalation in tension.” Then the
presenter goes back to his scheduled program on youth problems in Gaza. His
guest for the discussion starts to discuss the despair that hangs over so
many young people, especially with regard to their futures; how trapped they
feel being unable to travel, study, or make a career outside of the Strip.
Then suddenly, at about 11 p.m., the guest is cut off and a nationalist song
starts playing. The mood on the radio changes completely.
A few minutes later, Abu Annas’s mobile pings with information on a third
attack. “Two young men killed in attack in Bureij Camp.” We look at each
other. This is no “escalation in tension.” A moment later, the war
introduces itself properly. We hear an explosion, some way to the north,
echoing across the city. Hearing a bomb in real life, for the first time in
a couple of years, is like having a PTSD flashback. It jolts you to exactly
where you were two years ago, five years ago, four decades ago, to the most
recent, or very first time you heard one. As the noise of this new explosion
subsides it’s replaced by the inevitable whir of a drone, sounding so close
it could be right beside us. It’s like it wants to join us for the evening
and has pulled up an invisible chair.
Because it’s Ramadan and we have to be awake for the suhoor—which at this
time of year is around 3:30 a.m.—we spend most nights staying up, talking,
smoking shisha and eating Ramadan specialties: sweets and pastries like
awama, kenafeh, and baklava. Being the height of summer, it’s also far
better to spend this time in front of the house, under a tree, than sweat it
out indoors. When we first sat down tonight, scores of boys passed us
singing Ramadan hymns and beating on plastic boxes, turning them into drums:
nice hymns, the same ones I used to sing at their age. It’s a tradition that
starts three days before Ramadan and runs all the way to Eid; I imagine it
makes any Palestinian man—devout or not—warm with nostalgia to hear them.
But now the street is empty; the sound of the explosions has grown louder.
Everyone prefers to be inside. Tarik suggests that we go too, but Abu Annas
insists: “Don’t worry, it’s normal.” We know it’s normal, but we have to go.
Hanna, my wife, rings me saying that the explosions are everywhere, I need
to be with her. Her voice trembles: “The kids are sleeping.” I know she is
afraid to be on her own right now.
Tarik drives me back quickly. I live in the Saftawi district, to the west of
Jabalia Camp. All the inhabitants of the districts around the camp originate
from inside it. Jabalia is the largest refugee camp in all of Palestine,
home to over one hundred thousand Gazans in only 1.4 square kilometers. It’s
probably most famous as the setting of countless confrontations between
occupying Israeli forces and Palestinians, in particular during the First
Intifada, which broke out in its narrow streets. Now, with its increased
population, it has spawned new districts around its outskirts: places like
Alami, Tel Azaatar, Salaheen, Beir al-Na’aja, and Saftawi. In many ways
these all belong to the camp; they are its children.
Tarik is worried that a war in the summer, especially during Ramadan, will
be hard on the people. Before dropping me off, he reminds me of our meeting
tomorrow, two hours before sunset. Every evening, since the start of
Ramadan, Tarik and I have driven out to a small farm his family owns to the
west of Beit Lahia, where he grows fruit and vegetables. We spend the last
two hours of sunlight there, before iftar (literally, the “breakfast”). The
hardest hours of fasting are those last ones just before the iftar, so it’s
good to have a distraction.
I smile at his reminder.
“What if this is war?” I ask.
“This can’t be war.”
Inside, I find Hanna perched on the edge of the sofa, listening to the news,
rigid with worry. Even her eyes tell me, “This is war.” I make coffee and
set out a few pieces of katayef for when the children wake. With Hanna, I
begin the same conversation that every single adult in Gaza is having right
now with someone else: What if this really is war? How long will it last?
Will it be harder than the previous ones? Will we survive? Which of our
loved ones is going to be lost?
Hanna shouts my name, saying I need to wake the kids up for the suhoor.
It is 3:30 a.m. Monday, 7 July 2014. A date to remember.
Thursday, 10 July 2014
Last night, while my friends and I were watching the second semifinal
between Netherlands and Argentina at my friend Ayman’s place in the Kasasib
area of the camp, another group of men were doing the same in a small café
on the beach of Khan Younis. Their café was called Sahar Al-Layali, which
means “staying up all night.” Like us, they were smoking shisha, cheering
for their favorite team, complaining about big players making obvious
mistakes, putting their hands on their heads at near misses and close calls.
They could hardly have been thinking about that gunship out there in the
darkness, watching them, or the anger it stored, as they cheered and shouted
at the match. They could hardly have imagined its maw, the gaping mouth of
its gun turret, salivating with hunger for their souls.*
Six of them were killed instantly, another fourteen maimed. Their blood must
have covered the sand all around the café, then slowly started to trickle
down to the sea. The red charcoals from the top of their shisha pipes must
have blown up into the night sky, then descended, still flaming, like
falling stars. By the morning, three of the injured had joined the dead.
They never lived to watch the final of the World Cup. None of their favorite
players will ever hear about their death.
I wake at around 9 a.m. to the news that over thirty people were killed in
the small hours of the night. The casualty rate grows steadily every day.
More people are killed by single strikes in groups; in fives, sevens, nines.
Individuals aren’t the targets, but residences, family houses. They’re
bombed until there’s nothing left.
Around midday, a thunderous detonation shakes the house. It seems a car has
been destroyed, very close to Saftawi Square, east of us. Three of the
passengers were killed. The fourth is in a critical condition.
A few hours later, Hanna, the kids, and I decide on a way of making the most
of the few hours of electricity we have left, as a family. We gather round
the TV for a few hours to watch cartoons: SpongeBob SquarePants and Gumball.
You need to forget about the world outside, or at least pretend you have the
superpower of forgetfulness. About an hour later, an explosion rocks the
building from the east, the flash lighting up the room a split second before
the sound. A moment later, a thick cloud of sand is gliding across the
lounge from the window behind us. An orange orchard it seems, a hundred
meters away, has been attacked. The trees flew into the air then fell on top
of each other, a jumble of broken boughs. When I inspect the damage later
that evening, I see that several tons of sand seem to have been removed from
underneath the orchard entirely. Part of it now coats the floor and
furniture of our lounge.
It feels, right now, as if we are all living in a cloud of slow-moving sand:
we inch forward through it, nervously, not seeing a yard in front of us, and
when we come across a pile of orange trees, scattered at our feet like an
assassin’s victims, we know that we are lucky. They were mistaken for us.
Death is so close that it doesn’t see you anymore. It mistakes you for
trees, and trees for you. You pray in thanks for this strange fog, this
blindness.
Yasser asks me if I can go out and buy him an ice cream from a shop he knows
has opened on Saftawi Square. “It’s closed,” I tell him.
“Will it open after iftar?” he asks.
I promised to take the kids to this shop; it’s a new branch of a chain of
Jabalia ice cream stores run by the Abu Zatoun family—another promise I have
to break. Yasser then asks, “But you’ll take us when the zanana† stops?”
“It’s a deal,” I say.
As I tuck him in later that night, I can tell he’s keeping his ears peeled
for the moment when the whir of the drones stops. He falls asleep, the shop
stays closed, the drone hovers.
* The victims of this attack were later reported to be Mohammed Khalid
Qanann (twenty-five) and his brother Ibrahim Qanann (twenty-four), Mohammad
Al-‘Aqad (twenty-four), Suleiman al-Astal (fifty-five), Hamdi Kamel Sawali,
Ahmad Sawali, Ibrahim Sawali, Salim Sawali, Ahmed al-Astal, and Musa
al-Astal (ages all unknown).
† Onomatopoeic word for “drone” peculiar to the Gazan dialect.
https://www.amazon.com/Drone-Eats-Me-Gaza-Diary/dp/0807049107/?tag=alternorg
08-20https://www.amazon.com/Drone-Eats-Me-Gaza-Diary/dp/0807049107/?tag=alte
rnorg08-20
https://www.amazon.com/Drone-Eats-Me-Gaza-Diary/dp/0807049107/?tag=alternorg
08-20[3]
Excerpted from The Drone Eats With Me: A Gaza Diary by Atef Abu Saif (Beacon
Press, 2016). Reprinted with permission from Beacon Press.
Atef Abu Saif was born in Jabalia Refugee Camp in the Gaza Strip in 1973. He
is the author of five novels, including A Suspended Life, which was
shortlisted for the 2015 International Prize for Arab Fiction. He lives with
his family in Gaza.
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Report typos and corrections to 'corrections@xxxxxxxxxxxx'. [4]
Error! Hyperlink reference not valid.[5]
Source URL:
http://www.alternet.org/books/palestinian-writers-diary-gaza-should-be-requi
red-reading
Links:
[1] http://www.alternet.org/authors/atef-abu-saif
[2] http://www.beacon.org
[3]
https://www.amazon.com/Drone-Eats-Me-Gaza-Diary/dp/0807049107/?tag=alternorg
08-20
[4] mailto:corrections@xxxxxxxxxxxx?Subject=Typo on This Palestinian
Writer's Diary From Gaza Should Be Required Reading
[5] http://www.alternet.org/
[6] http://www.alternet.org/%2Bnew_src%2B
