Tag: Eva Bartlett

Picking pebbles to live somehow

Eva Bartlett | Inter Press Service

2 March 2010

They come by the hundreds every day to sand dunes and rubble sites to sift for pebbles, stones and sand that can be used in making concrete blocks. They lean into trash bins across the Strip, and wade through piles of rubbish scavenging for plastics, metals, and any bits worth reselling.

They venture dangerously close to the border fence to unlock metal and steel rods from their demolished home heaps. They are Gaza’s recyclers, and in a Strip where unemployment hovers at nearly 50 percent and poverty soars over 80 percent, environmental considerations are far from their minds. They do this work out of necessity.

Yousef, 14, leads two of his younger brothers in their daily hunt for concrete materials off the highway between Khan Younis and Deir al-Balah.

“We live in Khan Younis and it takes about 30 minutes to get to this site. But we stop anywhere along the road to look for gravel,” he says, stooping to sort rocks. One of his brothers works in Gaza’s tunnels, another has no work. “I’ve got five sisters, too. There’re 12 of us altogether, and my dad has no work.”

Like many unemployed men in Gaza, Yousef’s father used to work in Israel, until Israeli authorities closed Gaza’s borders. Now, he infrequently works day labour for farmers when there is work, but the pay is low.

Moatassan, Yousef’s three-year-old brother, piles pebbles onto the donkey cart, adding his bit to the family income. “Each cartful is worth about 30 shekels (eight dollars),” Yousef says. “We can usually do two carts a day.”

He is characteristic of Palestine’s children who become adults all too quickly. “Al hamdilliah, thank God, this is at least some sort of work,” he says, never breaking from his rock sorting.

A few hundred metres south along Salah el-Din road, the soft sand hills are crowded with the day’s sorters. Children jab shovels into the sand, pile it into buckets, and laboriously haul the buckets to piles a hundred metres off. They do this every day, morning to night.

Older women sit, makeshift sieves dancing as they sift the finer sand, likewise piling it into buckets to be carried away. Abu Majed, a man in his late forties, works with some of his children digging and bucketing sand.

“I worked as a fisherman all my life. But after the Israelis started attacking us more on the sea, and prevented us from going out very far, there was no longer any point in fishing,” he says.

Under the Oslo accords, Palestinian fishermen should be allowed to fish 20 miles off the coast. Israeli gunboats impose a limit of three miles, firing and shelling on fishermen who venture near or beyond three miles, or even on those nearer in.

“We were sardine fishers, but sardines aren’t found next to the coast, you need to go out beyond six miles. What could I do? I have six children to feed. So I started selling sand and gravel. This is hard work and I only earn around 30 shekels a day. But it’s better than starving.”

Ninety-five percent of Gaza’s industry has been decimated by the combination of the siege – imposed shortly after Hamas was elected in 2006, and tightened in June 2007 – and by Israel’s winter 2008-2009 war on Gaza which destroyed or badly damaged 700 factories and businesses, according to Oxfam.

The nearly 4,000 industrial establishments which formerly operated in Gaza have ground to a halt, leaving a mere 5 percent of factories operating, reports the United Nations Office for Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA), noting that even those operating do so at greatly reduced levels of activity.

The combination of siege and the war on Gaza led to a loss of roughly 120,000 private sector jobs since mid 2007, according to OCHA.

And while the full closure of Gaza’s borders and trade has become most severe in the last three years, Israeli journalist Amira Hass points out that Israel’s debilitating policy of Gaza border closures has been in place since the 1990s.

But to those scavenging off the roads and in garbage dumps, it’s the stark contrast between just years ago when there was some work and now, when there is none, that is the hardest.

Near central Gaza’s Deir el-Balah, just off the main north-south road, five men work what used to be a 12-man job at the scrap metal yard.

“We work from 7 am to 7 pm, and another shift takes over,” says Mahmoud. “We earn at most 50 shekels a day. It’s not enough – we have to take taxis here and home and are trying to meet the expenses of our families.”

Prior to the siege, working from 7 am to 4 pm the workers would earn 100 shekels. The metal was exported, sold outside of Gaza. Now, the factory owner waits, collecting metal in heaping piles, waiting for the time when exporting will be possible again.

“We didn’t all work this job before. Some of us studied in university, some worked construction. We all had jobs or lives better than this,” says Mahmoud.

“But we take the work because there’s no other option. We need to live.”

The steel, gravel, sand and metals Gaza’s poorest now scavenge for a pittance of shekels used to come from Israel, at a cheaper rate than what it currently sells for.

According to OCHA, one ton of cement now costs 3,400 shekels versus the 350 shekels it cost prior June 2007.

Whereas construction materials made up over 50 percent of pre-siege imports, according to the Palestine Trade Centre, since Israel’s war on Gaza, only 0.05 percent of the monthly average prior to the siege had been allowed into Gaza as of December 2009. The siege prevents cement, piping, wood, glass, steel and metals, as well as all but less than 40 items into Gaza.

Even if there were enough cement, 20 of 29 concrete factories were damaged in the Israeli war on Gaza, along with 39 other factories related to construction, reports OCHA. With over 6,400 houses destroyed or severely damaged, and nearly 53,000 with lesser damages, the need for these materials is great. And the wait has been long. Displaced families continue to rent apartments most cannot afford to pay for, crowd into relatives overcrowded homes, or live in tents.

At a concrete factory using recycled rubble, hand-gathered gravel, and tunnel-imported cement, the prices are high and still at a loss.

“One cement block costs four shekels now. Before, it was one shekel,” says factory owner Abu Fadi. “Now we wait for one week for a pile of pebbles and rocks like this to reprocess into concrete blocks,” he gestures at the mound ready for processing.

“The cement we buy from Egypt is over three times as expensive since it comes through the tunnels,” he explains. “It’s absurd. Now, we pay 150 shekels per ton of gravel. But before, we used to pay people to take the gravel away.”

Gravel and cement quality, availability and prices are just some of the issues.

“Gaza has an electricity crisis now. So that means we can only run our machinery when the power is on. But there are usually cuts for eight hours a day. Twelve hours now. So we sit and wait.”

Down the lane is a small steel recycling shop. Donkey carts unload the rubble-scavenged steel and workers clamp and hammer it straight.

“It’s ironic. The demolished homes create a demand for building material. But at the same time, they provide the rubble and iron needed to re-build,” says Abu Fadi.

Ahmad, 23, quit university to work in the tunnels, bringing roughly 100 shekels a day when there is money. Some days his tunnel brings cement. This day’s cargo is gravel from Egypt. “A 50 kg bag of gravel will sell for 100 shekels in Gaza,” he says.

Sameh finished university and worked for two years before he became unemployed. “I joined my friends finally, gathering rocks and rubble near the border. We can sell one ton for 150 shekels, that’s 50 shekels per person. It’s hard, backbreaking work. I’m sore all over.”

Workers in the border regions suffer more than the strain of their efforts. Since mid 2007, at least 33 Palestinian civilians have been killed by Israeli soldiers, including 11 children, as of August 2009. Over 61 civilians, including 13 children, have been injured, according to OCHA.

Shahin Abu Ajuwa (17) still has shrapnel in both his legs after an Israeli tank fired a dart bomb at him and his cousin Saber, 15, as they collected rocks and scrap metal east of Jabaliya, at the end of November 2009.

“We were over 600 metres from the border. We were in an area where many people go daily to collect metal and stones,” Ajuwa said. “The Israelis always see people working here, it’s normal.”

One of eight sons, Ajuwa has five sisters, and the 10 or 20 shekels he might have earned that day would have gone towards his family income.

“The doctors removed one from my leg, but there are still six more left.”

Some are abducted and detained by Israeli soldiers. Every week, news reports announce more rubble workers have been abducted by Israeli soldiers from within Gaza, including children, many of whom were beyond the 300 metres designated by Israel as “off-limits” to Palestinians.

The Al Mezan Centre for Human Rights reports such an incident on Feb. 10, when Israeli soldiers fired on youths gathering rubble 350 metres from the border. One of the three workers, 17-year-old Mohammed Suboh, was injured in the hand and chest by Israeli gunfire. All three were taken to Israeli detention. Suboh was released four days later.

Will you marry poor me

Eva Bartlett | Inter Press Service

14 January 2010

“If we had money we’d get married right away,” says Samir*, 23. He has found his bride, but not the money to hold the wedding.

The Israeli siege imposed shortly after Hamas’s election in early 2006 has ruled out marriage for many. Palestinians traditionally marry young, between 18 and 25, but more and more now pass their mid-twenties single.

With unemployment levels above 45 percent, and the price of most goods doubled or more, living, and marrying, are becoming unaffordable.

Worsening living conditions under the siege are changing relationship patterns. While salaried work has traditionally been the man’s role, many women have been adding to the family’s income – or have sometimes been the sole provider – by selling hand-stitched embroidery.

Groups such as Oxfam, the Palestinian Agricultural Relief Committee, and other social organisations have provided some of the poorest women with small gardens, sheep, rabbits or chickens to tend for food and for income.

Palestinian women have long been respected for their strength in raising families under the severe conditions imposed by the occupation and by Israeli military activities. That people still marry and have families is inspiring.

Samir is close to giving up. “I work many jobs in order to bring enough money to marry,” he says. “But everything is so expensive in Gaza, and salaries have become lower. It can’t work like this.”

Sameh, 26, had decided he could not marry even before he was laid off work. “I just don’t want to get married in these circumstances. The money I earn in one month isn’t enough even for me alone. If I get married, I would want to be able to buy things for my children. I never want to tell my child ‘I can’t buy you a bicycle, let alone new shoes’.”

Sameh’s elder brothers, their wives and children, and his parents all share the same house, with separate apartments. The severity of the siege means that salaries that covered the needs of the extended family three years back are now stretched. Everyone looks out for additional work.

Mohammed is another in that long list now resigned to staying single. “I used to want to get married, but now I don’t consider it. Since I began working a few years ago, my salary has been low, just 600 dollars. At least 100 dollars goes towards phone costs. A few months ago, my pay was cut by 100 dollars. And now I am out of work.”

It is difficult to manage for himself, never mind a partner. “Years ago, if I wanted a pair of jeans, they were 60 shekels,” he says. “Now, it’s double.

“My parents used to pressure me to get married,” says Mohammed. “But now, because we aren’t a rich family, and they know how expensive weddings and living are, they’ve stopped nagging me. But eventually, I do want to get married, to live with a family. I think I’d like married life.”

The means to marry are disappearing; the pressure is not. Dima’s father died a year ago, unable to leave Gaza for treatment. Now 19, Dima will soon marry.

“There’s so much pressure on us, her extended family,” says Sameh, Dima’s uncle. “Because her father is dead, we all need to help with the wedding costs and also take on the role of her father.”

Dima is fortunate to have the opportunity to get married. Many unwed women feel even more pressure than men, particularly those above 25.

Some women have turned to matchmakers. Many do so without the knowledge of their family. Yet, other women are defying the tradition of marrying young, preferring instead to finish their education and begin their careers.

“I want to work for some years, establish myself, before I think of getting married,” says Noor, a woman in her mid-twenties. “I thought about it last year, but knew I was too young, and wanted to lead my own life first.”

Noor isn’t alone in expressing these sentiments. Leila, in her early twenties, agrees. “Why would I marry now? The situation in Gaza is too difficult,” she says, echoing also the views of her male bachelor peers.

For many who do wish to wed, the foremost reason that marriage is unthinkable is the sheer cost of the wedding. By conservative estimates, average weddings cost 10,000 to 15,000 dollars. This pays for hiring a hall, the parade to the hall, jewellery, clothes for the bride, and housing and furniture for the new couple.

Expenses like jewellery and the parade may seem frivolous, but these are long-held traditions. “Even if I wanted to cut out the wedding parade, I couldn’t,” says Sameh. “It is like an announcement to the neighbours and family that we are married now.” In a region where dating before marriage is not common, heralding the legality of a relationship is important.

“The cheapest wedding hall and party is around 3,000 dollars,” says Samir. “And we can’t hold a joint wedding with a friend; there are too many guests in each party. And besides, women need privacy so they can celebrate unveiled. The husband of one bride cannot be present at the party of another bride.”

Rafiq, 51, says he has finally saved almost enough to marry, after working the last eight years as watchman at an apartment building. “I work six days a week, from early morning till late at night. I still need to save another 3,000 dollars before I can have my wedding.”

Even for those already married, life in Gaza isn’t easy. Saber Zaneen, from Beit Hanoun, is married with two children. He remembers times when life was better.

“Families used to go their farmland to tend trees and enjoy nature. But this has nearly completely stopped, because Israeli soldiers along the border shoot at us, and because they’ve bulldozed and bombed all the trees and crops that once grew here. Now my wife and I just stay home with our kids. Watch television, visit friends and family. There’s nothing else to do.”

Mahfouz Kabariti, 51, is married with six children. He doesn’t feel the pinch of the Israeli siege nearly so much as the majority of Gaza’s Palestinians. But he still notices the difference.

“Before, we were under a different sort of siege: the occupation. But even with the Israeli soldiers and settlers here, it was still better than now, because we could move more freely than now. We could visit Jerusalem, Haifa, Jaffa, Egypt.

“Now, it’s like we are just parts of a machine. It’s a daily routine, we don’t expect yesterday to be different from tomorrow. It is hard for people, especially children, to have any hope. We go to school or work, eat, sleep, watch television, read…That’s it, this is our life.”

The rains

Eva Bartlett | In Gaza

31 December 2009

It’s pouring rain. Farmers are collectively breathing relief, finally able to begin working on their parched land, land deprived water because Israeli bombing, tanks and bulldozers destroyed virtually all of the wells, cisterns, and rain-water collectors of farms in the border regions.

I’m breathing many sighs of relief, because the rain is fresh, brings life, brings a needed feeling of growth…

But the family of Saleh Abu Leila, with their 14 family members crammed into 1.5 tents (half the tent is occupied by a refrigerator) of poor-quality, torn fabric will be sighing with much less relief, as water seeps in through rips and breaks in the tent, floods the door, gradually streams into the tent entrance.

Their focus will be on keeping warm, particularly for their infant just over a month old, and dry, added to the daily worries about where the money for the next tine of baby milk will come from.


We’ve come to interview them, share their struggle with those outside Palestine, re-affirm that for this family and so many others absolutely nothing has changed nor improved.

They have no income, are not refugees –and thus do not receive any UN aide–and have young children to raise.

I try to imagine myself as a child, living in these conditions long term –nearly a year now –and without sufficient nutrition. I try to image having children of my own subjected to this. That is the hardest, most painful thought, one any parent could identify with: the desire to provide for, nourish and bring joy to one’s children.

Despite their great poverty, their unavoidable Palestinian hospitality overrides and I am coerced into sampling some soup: a mixture of cooked greens and lentils, very tasty. I’m acutely aware that this must stretch to feed all their children and the parents themselves, but my refusal and excuse that I’ve eaten is met with insistence that I join them or leave them insulted.

Arafia, Saleh’s wife, mentions that the baby milk she is mixing to heat in a pot of water costs about 50 shekels (nearly $15) every 5 days, and that they must go to the city to buy it.

Together, Arafia and Saleh spend 600 shekels per month for their kidney and diabets medications.

They speak of their situation, which is alone hard enough, living crammed in substandard tents for a year but when considering what they had, it is unbearable.

“I worked in Israel for 14 years. I speak Hebrew fluently, traveled all over Israel for work. I earned good money and we lived well.”

He reminds us that there are many, many others like him, who used to earn a living in Israel but who now are cut off from any source of income, the borders closed and the economy in Gaza shattered by the massacre and the siege.

“We’re living on sand. Look at that mess. This is no life.”

New year in Gaza reopens wounds of old

Eva Bartlett | The Electronic Intifada

31 December 2009

New Year's in Gaza is time to honor the dead. (Eva Bartlett)

For many survivors of the last Israeli war on Gaza, time has not healed their wounds, physical or emotional.

Halil Amal Samouni, 10, still suffers vision problems in her right eye. The shrapnel remaining in her head causes her constant pain and she is unable to concentrate at school.

Her concentration is broken, also, by memories of her martyred father and younger brother, both of whom she saw shot dead at close range by Israeli soldiers during the 2008-2009 winter war on Gaza.

The name Samouni has become well known for the high number of martyrs in the extended family, and for the brutality with which many victims were killed, the Israeli army’s prevention of medical access to the injured, and the thorough and systematic destruction of homes, farms, and civilian infrastructure in the Zeitoun district in eastern Gaza, and all throughout Gaza.

In the wake of Israeli tanks, bulldozers, warplanes and Apache helicopters, the once tree-laden area was left a muddy pitch of rutted earth and tree stumps. Chicken farms were destroyed, along with plastic greenhouses, farm equipment, water piping, and the tens of homes, agricultural buildings and the local mosque.

Many of the remaining houses were taken as military positions, sniper holes bored through walls, soldiers’ excrement, clothing, spent ammunition and food provisions were routinely left among the trashed belongings of the house. Hate graffiti was found throughout homes in the Samouni neighborhood and all over Gaza.

Most horrifying was the targeted shooting of the family — including children — and the deliberate shelling of homes they had been forced into by Israeli soldiers.

Amal Samouni was among the least fortunate of survivors.

When Israeli soldiers came to her home early on 4 January, they shot her father Atiyeh dead at close range, then fired continuously into the room full of family members. Amal’s younger brother Ahmed, 4, was seriously injured by the shooting. Denied medical care, he died the following morning, roughly ten hours after Israeli soldiers prevented medical rescuers from entering the area.

“They killed my dad and my brother. They destroyed our house,” Amal says simply. She has told her story to journalists many times. “But it hasn’t done any good, nothing has changed.”

Zeinat Samouni, Amal’s widowed mother, shows the single room her family of eight are crammed into, cracked asbestos tiling covering the roof.

“The roof leaks. We put plastic jugs on the floor to catch the water,” she says. “And because we can’t buy cooking gas, we cook over a fire instead.”

Aside from their physical discomfort, it is memories of the massacre and fear of a new attack that trouble them.

“I was terrified he would choke,” she says, gesturing to a child she holds. “He was only a few weeks old at the time.”

She recounts the trauma of having another child die in her arms, seeing him shelved in an overcrowded mortuary freezer, and all the while desperately wondering whether Amal was still alive.

“Even now, I’m still so afraid for my children, afraid that another war will come. The UAVs (unmanned drones) are always over us, and often at night the helicopters come.”

In northern Gaza’s Ezbet Beit Hanoun, families and friends of the Abd al-Dayem and Abu Jerrad families gather on 26 December, holding a candlelight vigil in remembrance of their sons, wives and husbands killed during a series of Israeli flechette (dart-bomb) attacks a year back.

The first to be killed in that area of Gaza by the razor-sharp nails was medic Arafa Abd al-Dayem, 35, on the morning of 4 January. Along with other medics, Abd al-Dayem had been on duty in the Attatra region, in Gaza’s north, retrieving wounded and martyred. As the medics loaded the ambulance, Israeli soldiers fired a flechette shell at the clearly marked vehicle, spreading thousands of darts at high velocity. Abd al-Dayem died an agonizing death, his internal organs and lungs shredded by the darts.

Khalid Abu Saada, a medic and the driver of the ambulance, testified to the Palestinian Centre for Human Rights: “The shell directly hit the ambulance and 10 civilians, including the two paramedics, were injured.”

The following morning, the Abd al-Dayem family and friends gathered at a funeral tent erected for Arafa. Israeli tanks again fired flechette shells, striking the gathering multiple times, killing five at the tent, one down the road, and injuring at least 25.

“The pain is still fresh, I still can’t move on since my sons’ murders,” said Sabbah Abd al-Dayem, mother of two martyrs in their twenties.

Jamal Abd al-Dayem, father of the young men, recalls: “It was clearly a mourning house, on the road, open and visible. Immediately after the first strike, the Israelis fired again. I lost two sons. One of them was newly married, his wife eight months pregnant.”

Said Abd al-Dayem, 29, died of dart injuries to his head one day later in hospital. Nafez Abd al-Dayem, 23, died immediately from the darts to his head.

Nahez Abd al-Dayem, 25, survived but retains two darts in his abdomen, one in his chest, with only the dart in his leg removed. Islam Abd al-Dayem, 16, a cousin, died after three days in hospital from the darts to his neck. Arafat Abd al-Dayem, 15, a cousin, died instantly.

Human rights organizations like Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, Physicians for Human Rights, and B’Tselem, among others, have criticized Israel’s use of flechette bombs in civilian areas in densely populated Gaza, where the darts have a “wide kill radius,” and indiscriminately target civilians.

Wafa Abu Jerrad, who was 21 and pregnant, lived down the street from the mourning tents. She was with her husband Muhammad, their two children, and relatives outside their house when Israeli soldiers fired the dart bombs.

Muhammad Abu Jerrad was stepping into the doorway, their two-year-old son Khalil in his arms, when the bomb hit. Wafa dropped to ground, struck by flechettes in the head, chest and back. She was killed instantly.

Sitting outside his family’s tent in the Attatra region, Saleh Abu Leila says, “Everything I worked for is gone.”

Since their two-story home was destroyed by Israeli soldiers during the war on Gaza, Abu Leila and 13 other family members have crowded into two small tents. During the summer, they sweltered in stifling heat. Now that winter is setting in, they are struggling to keep warm and dry.

Over 21,000 houses were destroyed or seriously damaged during the 23 days of Israeli attacks throughout Gaza that finally ended 18 January.

Since the end of the Israeli war on Gaza, Israeli authorities continue to block entry to cement and other necessary building materials. Glass, along with wood, piping and many other items, is considered potentially dangerous by Israeli authorities. The bomb-blasted windows of homes and buildings remain un-repaired one year later; the luckier families making due with plastic sheeting.

A small portion of Gaza’s 1.5 million people can afford to buy the overpriced, poor-quality cement smuggled in through the tunnels running between Gaza and Egypt. For those hardest hit, however, this is out of reach.

Hundreds of families, like the Attars, still remain in substandard shelters, insufficient for winter cold and rains.

Many Gazans do not welcome the New Year, they fear what it will bring.

Gaza massacre reflections

Eva Bartlett | In Gaza

28 December 2009

Home damaged during the winter 2008/2009 Israeli massacre of Gaza. Waiting for repairs.

The anniversary of the first day of Israel’s massacre of Gaza last winter passed yesterday. Palestinians still locked in Gaza couldn’t avoid thinking about that hell, recalling to others where they were when the first strikes hit…what they did, what they thought, what they saw and smelled and heard.

At 11 am yesterday I’m in a meeting, but all of us are aware of the significance of the hour, particularly as the minutes pass towards 11:25, when the slaughter began.

Later, I visit a family in the north, their mother killed, shot at close range by an Israeli soldier as she carried a white cloth, trying to lead the family out of their home. Not an isolated story. How are they? Grim, alive without joy, no expectations except that things will get worse. Mahmoud is a young engineer but is jobless. They are not refugess and so don’t receive UN hand-outs. A charitable association gives them flour, oil, sugar and tea every 40 days. Meat, fish? Impossible.

Near their house, the scent of orange blossoms, though most of their trees were razed by Israeli tanks and bulldozers. The Moawiyya school across the street still gapes with its missile holes in the side and in the roof. The neighbouring houses still gape with jagged, absent walls.

Mahmoud lives just 20 m up the street from the tent encampment in this area of Attatra, where the Attar family are still braving the cold, still rendered homeless, still out of the world’s news and off the radar, still uncompensated, and among those more subject to bouts of fear when the Israeli warplanes and drones fly over. They are able to hear shooting from the northern and eastern borders, as well as the regular Israeli navy shooting and shelling of fishermen on Palestinian waters.

******************************************************************

This morning, at 11:55 I re-notice the roar of F-16s… maybe they were always there and I was again oblivious to them…Sometimes it is a casual, drawn-out, rolling roar, as the warplanes troll the skies. Sometimes it’s a rush, sudden, invasive, low, near.

That’s this one, the one that grabs my attention and makes me wonder: perhaps they just delayed it by a day and a half hour.

There is little rational thinking when such planes swarm above. The notion “Israel couldn’t do it again so soon, not with the world commemorating the massacre” dissapates into “why not, Israel has committed massacres in the past, the world has frowned, and it’s buseinss as usual into the next onslaught.”

But it’s not only me, with just a year’s experience here. Of all, I should be more inclined to think, “no way, not now,” when I know that nearly 1500 people from over 40 countries and all walks of life are on their way to Gaza, and another 500 in the Viva Palestina lifeline are hunger-striking till Egypt relents its complicit denial of entry…when I know that the Palestinian-led BDS movement has surged into vitality, and that strong Jewish voices around the world are condeming Israel’s occupations and war crimes.

12:06

But it’s fighter planes like the one currently above us that mocks rationality and screams “it’s here, this time it’s an attack.”

If I, a passport-holding international who can basically leave when I decide and who hasn’t lost a house, a child, a loved one, hasn’t been burned to the bone by white phosphorous, hasn’t had my livelihood and memories destroyed…if I feel this, imagine how those who suffered worst are feeling, the younger children for whom it was their first massacre, or the older children who know in too great detail the sounds of the different war machines.