Asma Kirli

“On September 16, in defiance of the cease-fire, Ariel Sharon’s army
circled the refugee camps of Sabra and Shatila, where Fatima and
Falasteen slept defenselessly without Yousef. Israeli soldiers set up
checkpoints, barring the exit of refugees, and allowed their Lebanese
Phalange allies into the camp. Israeli soldiers, perched on rooftops,
watched through their binoculars during the day and at night lit the sky
with flares to guide the path of the Phalange, who went from shelter to
shelter in the refugee camps. Two days later, the first western
journalists entered the camp and bore witness. Robert Fisk wrote of it
in Pity the Nation:
They were everywhere, in the road, the laneways, in the
back yards and broken rooms, beneath crumpled masonry
and across the top of garbage tips. When we had seen a
hundred bodies, we stopped counting. Down every
alleyway, there were corpses—women, young men, babies
and grandparents—lying together in lazy and terrible
profusion where they had been knifed or machine-gunned to
death. Each corridor through the rubble produced more
bodies. The patients at the Palestinian hospital had
disappeared after gunmen ordered the doctors to leave.
Everywhere, we found signs of hastily dug mass graves.
Even while we were there, amid the evidence of such
savagery, we could see the Israelis watching us. From the
top of the tower block to the west, we could see them
staring at us through field-glasses, scanning back and forth
across the streets of corpses, the lenses of the binoculars
sometimes flashing in the sun as their gaze ranged through
the camp. Loren Jenkins [of the Washington Post] cursed a
lot. Jenkins immediately realized that the Israeli defense
minister would have to bear some responsibility for this
horror. “Sharon!” he shouted. “That fucker [Ariel] Sharon!
This is Deir Yassin all over again.”
― Susan Abulhawa, Mornings in Jenin

“Ce devrait être toujours comme ça quand on aime. Sans condition. Sans juger. Sans établir des critères, des préférences.”
― Katherine Pancol, La valse lente des tortues

“L'amour ne s'apprivoise pas, ne s'improvise pas, ne s'impose pas; il se construit à deux. En tout équité. S'il reposait sur l'un, l'autre serait son malheur potentiel. Quand on court après lui, on l'effraie; alors il s'enfuit, et on ne le rattrape jamais.
L'amour est fait de hasard et de chance. A une bretelle de la vie, il est là, offrande sur le chemin. S'il est sincère, il se bonifie avec le temps. Et s'il ne dure pas, c'est que l'on s'est trompé de mode d'emploi.”
― Yasmina Khadra, Les anges meurent de nos blessures

“هل يفهم الآباء مشاعر أبنائهم نحوهم حتى وإن لم يفصحواعنها؟ هل يفهم الآباء كم نشتاق لهم، وكم هي حياتنا فراغ بلا حدود، حينما نشعر في لحظة وعكة صحية تنتابهم، أننا بلا وطن؟ كثيراً ا أتساءل في غيب والدي. إذا كان يدرك قيمته جيداً، حتى وإ مأتكلم بشكل مباشر معه. وهل يحتاج مرفة ذلك؟”
― سارة مطر, قبيلة تدعى سارة