The Wings

By: Talaat skairek

She inscribed the name of Palestine on wall. She ran along roads of the refugee camp. The forces of occupation fire: She reached the house, pant heavily ." What's the matter, Najwa?", her mother asked. She gave [FONT='Garamond','serif']no [/FONT]reply. But sat silently on the wooden chair. She was busy arranging her pieces of colored chalk. " Wash your hands and come to eat", said her mother. Najwa looked at her chalk smothered fingers and laughed. She wished she could fill all the walls if the camp with words expressing her love for Palestine. But the sons of devils emerged suddenly to pursue her everywhere. She remembered how they killed the young boy Urwa who insisted on writing and did not run away. She remembered him and wept. How many times has he taught her to draw the Palestinian flag in colors?!
Through tears, Urwa blurred features ... He was flying in the camp like a bird. She ran after him, wishing to fly like him. "You must have wings if you want to fly", he told her . " How?" , she asked eagerly.
He did not reply. He was busy looking at the children of the Intifada who were throwing stones. " Lend me a feather of your wings", she pleaded. He carried a stone in his beak and put it in her hands. She was glad, and threw it in the air, like a missile. It hit the face of a soldier, who -fell flat on the ground.
Suddenly, he became a snake and began to chase her. She panted, close followed by the soldier serpent. Urwa pounced and carried her on his wings, while the serpent began to spit fire and poison.
"Najwa !", cried the mother once again, " I told you to wash your hands ! ".
" Can Urwa fly like birds?" , Najwa asked . The mother left what she was doing, and came close, scrutinizing her daughter with surprise.
" Urwa fell martyr some time ago. Whatever reminded you of him?! the mother enquired.
" How can he fly?", Najwa persisted.
"Children are the birds of paradise", the mother answered, and went back to her work after telling Najwa to wash her hands.
Najwa was , preoccupied with the necessity to understand this secret. " I can be like him", she murmured to herself. " Everyday I see him in the camp, flying like a bird with beautiful wings"...She looked at the pieces of chalk. I'll draw the flag first
she thought. Then I'll write my song. Then I'll fly in the air. Suddenly, a surprising idea dawned on her. " Why don't I draw large wings?", she stammered. She liked the idea. She got up and began to run. Her mother called her; but she did not answer. She ran through the roads of the refugee camp.
With piece of chalk, she wrote," I love birds and children". Then she began to draw. She was so preoccupied that she forgot everything. She drew one feather after another, coloring them with care and concentration. " I must fly like Urwa", she thought...." together we shall fill the world with songs". She rubbed her hand to get rid of chalk dust. She dug into her pocket for another piece. Now she has to draw the second wing..
Suddenly she heard people shouting slogans, and heavy footsteps moving hurriedly , with hectic commotion. She looked up. The camp children were running here and there. The forces of occupation were shooting in the air, and then firing into the children, while stones were flying in all directions. Stones, bullets, stones, she wished she had finished the drawing of the other wing in order to fly with her stones, pelting enemy troops. She imagined how she would carry the stone in her beak. She liked the picture. Her hand began to move quickly with the colored piece of chalk. The children continued to run, and the wing began to extend and become larger.
Bullets whizzed frantically. Urwa began to hover overhead, clipping his wings. The soldiers came closer, the children came closer, the wing stretched, She looked at the colors and smiled. She stretched her hands.
The whizzing of the bullets became noisier. A child fell to the ground.
The feathers of the birds become filled with blood. She cried, dipped her piece of chalk in blood and wrote on the wall: "Long live Palestine"!
Before stretching her dreams, the shots confiscated her, and threw her, a cold corpse, on the ground.

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The Wings



By: Talaat Skairek






She inscribed the name of "Palestine" on the wall. She ran along roads of the refugee camp. The forces of occupation fire. She reached the house, panting heavily.

" What's the matter, Najwa?" her mother asked. She gave no reply, but sat silently on a wooden chair. She was busy arranging her pieces of colored chalk. "Wash your hands and come to eat," said her mother.

Najwa looked at her chalk smothered fingers and laughed. She wished she could fill all the walls of the camp with words expressing her love to Palestine, but the sons of devils emerged suddenly to pursue her everywhere. She remembered how they killed the young boy Urwa who insisted on writing and did not run away. She remembered him and wept. How many times has he taught her to draw the Palestinian flag in colors?!
Through tears, Urwa blurred features ... He was flying in the camp like a bird. She ran after him, wishing to fly like him. "You must have wings if you want to fly", he told her. "How?" , she asked eagerly.


He did not reply. He was busy looking at the children of the Intifada* who were throwing stones. "Lend me a feather of your wings", she pleaded. He carried a stone in his beak and put it in her hands. She was glad, and threw it in the air, like a missile. It hit the face of a soldier, who fell flat on the ground.
Suddenly, he became a snake and began to chase her. She panted, chased by the soldier serpent. Urwa pounced and carried her on his wings, while the serpent began to spit fire and poison.


"Najwa !", cried the mother once again, " I told you to wash your hands ! ".
" Can Urwa fly like birds?" , Najwa asked . The mother left what she was doing, and came close, scrutinizing her daughter with surprise.
" Urwa fell martyr some time ago. Whatever reminded you of him?!' the mother enquired.
" How could he fly?", Najwa persisted.
"Children are the birds of paradise", the mother answered, and went back to her work after telling Najwa to wash her hands.
Najwa was , preoccupied with the necessity to understand this secret. " I can be like him", she murmured to herself. " Everyday I see him in the camp, flying like a bird with beautiful wings"...She looked at the pieces of chalk. "I'll draw the flag first," she thought. Then, I'll write my song. Then, I'll fly in the air. Suddenly, a surprising idea dawned on her. " Why don't I draw large wings?", she stammered. She liked the idea. She got up and began to run. Her mother called her, but she did not answer. She ran through the roads of the refugee camp.
With a piece of chalk, she wrote," I love birds and children". Then, she began to draw. She was so preoccupied that she forgot everything. She drew one feather after another, coloring them with care and concentration. " I must fly like Urwa", she thought...." together we shall fill the world with songs". She rubbed her hand to get rid of chalk dust. She dug into her pocket for another piece. Now, she has to draw the second wing. Suddenly, she heard people shouting slogans, and heavy footsteps moving hurriedly, with hectic commotion. She looked up. The camp children were running here and there. The forces of occupation were shooting in the air, and then firing into the children, while stones were flying in all directions. Stones, bullets, stones, she wished she had finished the drawing of the other wing in order to fly with her stones, pelting enemy troops. She imagined how she would carry the stone in her beak. She liked the picture. Her hand began to move quickly with the colored piece of chalk. The children continued to run, and the wing began to extend and become larger.


Bullets whizzed frantically. Urwa began to hover overhead, clipping his wings. The soldiers came closer, the children came closer, the wing stretched, She looked at the colors and smiled. She stretched her hands.


The whizzing of the bullets became noisier. A child fell to the ground. The feathers of the birds become filled with blood. She cried, dipped her piece of chalk in blood and wrote on the wall:

"Long Live Palestine"!


Before stretching her dreams, the shots confiscated her, and threw her on the ground, a cold corpse.






* Intifada: Uprise.



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