Two Years Ago
It was the middle of the night. And I knew that my body was preparing for labor. It felt like, what I imagine the ocean feels like when there is a hurricane coming. My womb swelled with energy. The baby’s movements were frequent and more painful. And I was suddenly filled with fear and dread. I labored through the night, denying myself the truth of my being in labor. The following day I was restless, and anxious. So anxious I felt I could hardly speak to anyone. I was out at sea, waiting for the hurricane but denying myself the truth of its coming. That evening, I could hardly sleep and the pain in my body grew and there was no denying then that I was in labor. I paced back and forth in the kitchen, swaying with the pain in my body, trying to become one with the storm until sunrise, until the sun peeked through the curtains and the children began getting out of bed. Devin found me pacing there still in the kitchen. We did not speak, because he knew, and then shared in my fear and my dread. It had been three years since our last child and it felt like eight years ago when we first became parents. We were scared all over again.
We left the children with my mother and left to the hospital. There, I begged for an epidural knowing deep inside me that it was too late. As they went to pierce my back with the needle I felt a familiar, unrelenting pressure and started screaming to everyone that I had to push.
The baby was born at about eight in the morning. The hurricane in my body had settled. The fear lingered but it drifted in and out, there wasn’t enough room in my being for fear with a tiny baby at my breast, with all the hormones surging to support my body in its next stage of giving life.
Two years ago today, I gave birth to my son. It is nap time, he sits in my lap trying to fight off his sleep. Whining, and fussy. Then he slowly but surely nestles his head into my arms and falls asleep. I open instagram on my phone to pass the time.
And I see images of starving children in Gaza. A baby, about my baby’s age is emaciated and lethargic. A corpse of a child. I gasp, and then hold my breath and close my eyes to the image. I open them once again, and take that in. And kiss my sleeping baby on the head. I close the app and open up TikTok instead.
Gaza’s Womb
On my screen, the images of a newborn baby who has just been taken out of his dead mother’s womb is being surrounded by grieving family members. And I take that in. What it means to be alive inside your dead mother. Who was murdered by an occupation that has gone on for 75 years. And I take that in. I think of the sacredness of the womb. Where life gestates, where time grows new meaning. If we could time travel it would be in a womb. We all once resided in our mother’s mother’s womb. All the way back in time to the beginning. To the Great Cosmic Womb. The Womb where life first gestated. Where the Universe expanded, expanded and brought us forth, into existence.
That baby’s mother traveled through all of those wombs, in spite of the occupation’s deliberate attempts to eradicate her people. In spite of their oppression, in spite of their greatest ally’s blood money and their support and their weapons. That baby’s mother carried that baby through displacement, endless bombing, war. Carried that baby until her death. That baby came into the world through their mother’s dead and lifeless body. That mother gave life in spite of her murder, her death. She gave her last breath to fill her baby’s lungs. And I take that in, and I can’t help but wonder how long her baby will survive out of the sacred space of her womb. Without her smell, and the sound of her voice, without nourishment and nutrients, without milk or formula to ease his hunger. When I gave birth to my first daughter, every feeding was a terror. My uterus contracted like a clenched fist full of rage. It was a fire that would only stop if she stopped eating, but I fed her anyway. She would fall asleep at the breast and I would nudge her tiny lips with my knuckle to wake her up. So she could eat, and I would feed her with my uterus on fire. When my milk supply would dwindle I took to the internet desperate for answers, for old and new remedies to grow my supply so I could feed my baby. I would drink water, and mother’s milk tea with lactation cookies so I could feed my baby. I have seen mother’s wrapping dates in cloths to let their infants suckle on to ease their hunger, to slow their starvation. The absolute distress that I feel witnessing such unfathomable pain will reside in my body forever.
My oldest son’s neurodivergence makes eating an entire new landscape to navigate. At every meal, I am in agony watching how little he eats. And when I ask him what sensory input he is receiving from each dish I am trying to remember what foods are triggering, what textures his mouth hates — ground beef feels like rocks, gravelly but also chewy, soup is too watery, noodles are just weird. It seems the only food he can tolerate are refried beans, because they are soft, they don’t have too many seasonings and if you eat them with tortilla chips you get the right amount of crunch and saltiness. Every meal there is full plate of uneaten food, or slightly picked at. We discuss it with his therapists and we try to find ways to help. And yet, the most triggering part of it all, is knowing he has the privilege of having any kind of neurodivergence, any eating difficulty is met with concern and empathy, and there will always be food or something nourishing so he doesn’t starve. I imagine my child in Gaza, with no food. I imagine trying to feed him animal feed and dirty water and know that he would rather starve to death than eat anything. My child would starve and he would die. Like many of the children are dying and starving in Gaza.
Our Children
The Children of Gaza are our children too. The babies come from the collective womb of the universe. Every tiny body meant for a soul, are being ripped from our collective bodies. They suffer and we suffer and the earth suffers. We will always suffer from the great loss of these innocent children and all of the wombs it took for them to get here, to be murdered at the hands of such evil oppressors. They have taught us, that war’s greatest weapon is the death of a people’s children. That if you kill what is most precious to the people it is much easier to wipe them out.
Over the past couple of days we have witnessed the student uprising in college campuses across the United States, young adults who grew up watching school shooting after school shooting while politicians sent their empty thoughts and prayers and did nothing to protect them. These kids knew death so closely and as adults have decided to put their lives and their bodies on the line to protect these children who are not being protected like they once weren't.
We have learned, that no one really gives a shit about children. That they do not matter unless they grow up to be workers for the ruling class. Those are our children and tonight when you put your babies to bed, and you read them their favorite book and kiss them goodnight, do not forget about the babies in Gaza.
We must continue our fight, we must continue to escalate our fight, no matter how risky. Just like Bisan and Hind have advised us. We must continue, until Palestine is free. When Palestine is free the world will be ready for rebuilding with the help and wisdom of our children for they must inherit the world soon enough.