Fragment of 'Who will pay for the 20 years we lost?' by Yousef Maher Dawas
In the morning, my father received a phone call. “Good morning,” he said. (...) Had he said it out of habit or perhaps because he was grateful that none of us had been killed that night?
“One moment and I’ll be right there,” he added, and without a moment’s hesitation leapt up and ran out of the house. (...)
After a few hours, he came back. I was relieved to see him walking into the house again. But something wasn’t right. His body was hunched and he was walking like an old man. I could see dry tears in his sorry eyes.
“Our trees in the fields have been turned to ash.” His words were heavy and they fell from his mouth. An awkward silence gripped the house before he added, “I planted those trees, I nurtured them and watered them with my own hands. Week by week. Month by month. Year by year. I saw those leaves and branches grow.” He took a heavy breath and continued in a lower tone while trying to hold back his tears. “These trees were older than you, Yousef.”
My family will replace the trees destroyed by Israeli missiles, but we cannot reclaim the years spent nurturing them.