beyond these walls she is waiting for me
I have allowed myself to take in the death of thousands of estranged siblings in Palestine. I have sobbed and said out loud as many of their names as my mouth can fit. There is an endless list of martyrs since October 7 and I have mourned their deaths for months now.
For the first time in my life I have learned what it feels like to mourn the deaths of people I’ve never met. I have never stared at death this long and from this angle. I have cried at her. I have asked, when will the list end? I know death and she knows me. It’s just that she is showing me another angle of her stare.
I am not sure yet if this side of her is merciful.
I am not sure.
I just I wish I could hold every Palestinian who’s lost a loved one without being able to say goodbye.
7:30 AM
I’ve woken up to a few missed calls and a text from my sister telling me to answer Mom’s call.
The moment I read this text I know why.
My abue Ofelia is no longer with us.
My mom tells me that my grandma passed early this morning. I am confused because it is still early morning. I then remember home has a different time zone. It’s almost as she had passed once I woke up.
I understand the words my mom is telling me. I understand death and that my grandma, my Catholic and stubborn grandma, who let go my of my dad and gave him for adoption, who made enough space for her long-lost tree branch to be reattached to her;
my
own
abuelita
Ofe
has passed.
And I am here, on the other side of the wall, wishing this was a nightmare. Not sure from what moment I wish this was a nightmare.
I wonder.
Do I wish my whole migration story was a nightmare or just this morning? Is the nightmare the absence of grandma’s love for a decade or just for this moment?
I don’t know.
I can barely open my eyes. I understand death and that my grandma is gone.
I understand. I just can’t seem to let my body feel it.
I have stood along Gazan survivors and understood the death of their loved ones. I have seen how they die and how their lifeless bodies look through my phone screen.
I wonder if my grandma’s face looks the same. Today, I can no longer really feel their pain.
I have chosen to only act without sensing my pain, and I know this is not the best idea.
I can’t believe I am capable of this.
Living without feeling is like a dream.
I know that if when I feel it, it will kill me— or at least a huge chunk of me.
Today, it is only them—who left their home without saying goodbye, that understand me best. I have always wish to go back home.
For eleven years, I dream of going back and in my dreams nothing has changed.
Not even a little bit.
Not even Mama Ofe’s eyes, not even her wrinkles, nor her hair, nor her hands who’ve worked since age five.
In my dreams I am home again and nothing has changed.
Not even the feeling that home will always be home; that grandma will always be grandma.
I am dreaming today. I say sorry to Mama Ofe that I could not wake up all day. She would have woken me up if this was true.
Mama Ofe is not dead. I can’t imagine home without her.
Let me sleep forever so that I can dream of home with her. I know that beyond these walls she is waiting for me.
I know that beyond walls our lives are waiting for us. As if nothing had changed. Let me dream of home.
Let Palestinians go back home.
Let me go back home.
Let us see our muertitos* in the land that birthed us so that we finally trust that la tierra** will take (care of) them.
Let us live without borders.
Let us live.
*our dead ones
**the ground/Earth
