“No, please don’t kneel,” my cousin Saja implored tearfully, embracing me tightly as she witnessed my reaction to the news. Overwhelmed with emotion, I collapsed to the ground, my knees giving way beneath me.
Saja’s visit on December 8 carries a profound weight, coinciding with the relentless bombardment of Gaza by Israel that commenced on October 7, 2023. It was on that fateful day that I learned of the tragic demise of my mentor, Refaat Alareer, aged 44, who was ruthlessly silenced on December 6 for his unwavering commitment to unveiling the truth about the Palestinian people and their plight in the besieged Gaza Strip.
In 2019, he guided me in crafting my inaugural poem, which I later recited at the poetry fair held at the Islamic University of Gaza (IUG). His encouraging words, “I’m proud of you, Amna. You rose to the occasion,” resonated with me.
By 2021, he had elevated me to the status of a “colleague” and supported me during my initial foray into teaching at the IUG. “Congratulations, Amna. You will be instructing an English prerequisite course,” he messaged me.
In the preceding year, he stood by me as I embarked on my first training endeavor. Together, we curated the training materials, with his message of approval, “Outstanding work. You have exceeded expectations,” spurring me on.
As November drew to a close, his concern for my well-being was palpable. Despite my reassurance of safety, the unstable internet connectivity hindered me from sharing my narratives with the world. “It’s alright; prioritize your safety,” his message conveyed.
Come December, his messages fell silent.
The news of Dr. Refaat’s untimely passing plunged me into a day of inconsolable grief. The notion of his fall during the conflict shattered my preconceived belief that he would emerge as a witness and a pivotal narrator at its conclusion.
Throughout previous Israeli offensives on the coastal enclave, he meticulously chronicled and disseminated the stories, conversations, anxieties, and aspirations of the children. Following the cessation of hostilities, he would gather his pupils and trainees, urging us to amplify the voices of Gaza’s afflicted — the children, the youth, and the women whose narratives demanded to be heard.
‘Progress. Time is slipping away’
The realization that Dr. Refaat would never grace us with his presence or guidance, nor compile the stories we penned into a new volume, has haunted me since December 8. Seeking solace, I revisited a poignant anecdote involving Dr. Refaat.
In 2022, we were slated to journey to Spain for a training program alongside colleagues, yet he departed prematurely, before our joint arrival at what was meant to be our destination.
On the morning of July 18, Dr. Refaat awaited me in a vehicle to accompany me to the Rafah Border Crossing, the gateway to Egypt, en route to Spain via Cairo Airport. We navigated through various halls, his demeanor light as he shouldered only his backpack, assisting me and our comrade with our luggage.
He ensured our well-being, completion of requisite formalities, and adherence to the correct route. His presence exuded reassurance, and we deferred to him for guidance, his distinctive tall stature and agile movements making him easily identifiable.
To while away the time during our journey from the border to the Egyptian hall at the opposite end of the Rafah crossing, he regaled us with anecdotes, even concocting multiple scenarios for the expedition to stay prepared. “I might head back home, leaving you to travel solo,” he jestingly remarked.
Six hours later, the jest metamorphosed into reality. We received word that Dr. Refaat’s visa application had been rejected.
“Sent back,” he messaged.
“I’m not despondent,” he murmured, articulating the profound ache within him. “What transgression did I commit?” he lamented, questioning the rationale behind barring an academic from traveling.
Clad in a light blue shirt and grey trousers, he leaned against the dilapidated chairs of the hall, sharing his anguish with a friend whose elderly mother had encountered a similar fate. Silently, I bid him farewell through tear-filled eyes.
“Forge ahead. Time is slipping away,” he urged us to proceed with our journey to the airport, waving from a distance and nodding affirmatively.
We pressed on. And he departed.
The trek from the hall to the airport proved arduous, as we found ourselves reflexively searching for him, awaiting his directives. Amidst the throngs in the hall, I sought his familiar gestures, the only recollection being “sent back.”
Observing the unimpeded movement of travelers in and out of the airport, a pang of sorrow gripped me for his thwarted voyage and for my loss of his companionship.
Yet, I drew strength from his bequest — his hat, three dates to sustain me, a charger, some currency, and a plethora of narratives.
‘You must endure, to recount my tale’
Each passing day since December 8 has been enveloped in remorse, grappling with the reality of my continued existence juxtaposed with Dr. Refaat’s premature demise. It wasn’t until weeks later that I grasped the profound lesson from 2022 when he departed unexpectedly.
“If I must perish, you must endure/ To recount my tale.”
Under the watchful gaze of the full moon casting its ethereal glow into the room, I found solace in my internet-connected phone, allowing me to peruse Dr. Refaat’s renowned poem, “If I Must Die.” Tears welled in my eyes as I scrolled through the verses, now disseminated globally and translated into 39 languages.
My sorrow overflowed. Leaning against the cool wall, surveying the slumbering visages of my kin, I could almost hear Dr. Refaat’s voice echoing the poem, breaking the silence as though I were seated in the 2019 poetry lecture hall, captivated by his gestures and enraptured by his elucidation of the wordplay in the poem’s denouement.
Through these verses, I felt as though Dr. Refaat, even in death, was addressing each of his students through his immortal words, myself included. I realized that though he had departed, his poem endured, offering me reassurance, guiding my hand, and emboldening me to embrace life — and literature.
‘Knowledge is the bane of Israel’
As the year 2024 loomed on the horizon, I sat aimlessly bathed in the muted moonlight. By the close of 2023, I would have completed my MA program save for the audiovisual translation class that Dr. Refaat had intended to impart. The future I had envisioned now seemed like a cruel jest in the face of unrelenting loss.
Arching my brows in astonishment, laptop cradled in my arms, I delved into archived files on my PC in search of one of Dr. Refaat’s literary works. Upon revisiting an article he penned a decade prior, I found the answer to my lingering query.
“Knowledge is Israel’s greatest adversary. Consciousness is Israel’s most despised and dreaded adversary.”
In that 2014 article, “,” he pondered the rationale behind Israel’s assault on the Islamic University of Gaza, where he imparted literary wisdom. He mourned the obliteration of his office, a space where he engaged in enlightening discourse with countless students.
It is now March 2024. The cherished university lies in ruins, a testament to Dr. Refaat’s unwavering dedication. His voice silenced by violence. There will be no spring semester, no audiovisual translation course. Only the relentless specter of death persists. Yet, I have gleaned a vital truth from Refaat’s teachings and the enduring power of his words: they immortalized him.
No force on earth can strip me of his inspiration, I resolve within. As long as I draw breath, I shall recount his tales and the ceaseless narratives of my city, subjugated and silenced, in the luminescence of his stories. With a sigh, wiping away my tears, I recollect how Saja steadied me on that poignant day, whispering, “They cannot bring us to our knees.”