Stories from the Telephone Lines
Three summers ago, I worked with UNRWA in the Gaza Strip. I was visiting my family and I took a taxi to the UNRWA building and told them I wanted to volunteer. I did.
The people in Gaza are, unfortunately, quite used to the situation and the sounds of war which range from machine gun fire and Apache helicopters, to screaming missiles and exploding bombs. At most, people would hear the sound of a fighter plane and wait quietly for 15 minutes; if they were still alive after those fifteen minutes, they knew someone else was dead. The nature of war and the situation dictates that no one exhales a sigh of relief…
I never got used to that. My return to Canada was traumatic, because I have Palestinian blood and I felt guilty to be among the lucky who live elsewhere. I’ll always carry that guilt.
That, and my academic connection and political writing are as close to war as I’ve ever come. I wasn’t certain what to expect when I started working these telephone lines, but whatever my expectation was, it was the farthest thing from the reality in which I still find myself.
It's one thing to watch the news and ‘see’ those who have been killed, those who have lost their homes, those who are imprisoned within the villages and who have no access to the most basic necessities to survive. It’s another thing entirely to take the call of someone who can’t find their family members because their area’s just been hit.
This Crisis Line has fielded over 31,000 calls, and I have taken anywhere between 100 and 300 daily, depending on the nature of the calls and the day in question. One of the worst days we had was when Israel bombed telephone towers and we couldn’t receive any calls; the silence was terrifying.
If you were doing this, you too would remember every story and name you heard. I won’t ever be able to forget them and I’ll share a few of them with you…
- The elderly man who called me crying because he couldn't find his wife after their village had been hit.
- The elderly woman who called me and begged, begged, begged me through tears to please help her because she was alone and stuck in the South of Lebanon.
- The woman who called me and told me that she couldn't leave Lebanon without her mother, who was dying of cancer at the age of 83.
- The pregnant woman who called me from the South of Lebanon to tell me she couldn’t get out. I was taking her coordinates so that I could, at the very least, contact the Red Cross to see if they had any power to do anything. While on the phone, I could hear the bombs dropping and could hear them getting closer. The line kept cutting up and so I was having a very difficult time taking her information. We were cut off before I could get most of her information, and although I tried to call her back repeatedly for two days, the line never connected.
These are some of the stories…and I don't know if any of them are still alive.
And then there's everyone else; the people who can’t call, who will never be found and whose names we'll never know and whose stories will never be told.
I believe one of the worst phone calls I had to take was from a Lebanese citizen who’d been given this phone number by a neighbour. The man is 87 years old and was terrified and was asking for Canada’s help. He doesn’t have family and has nowhere to turn and was hoping that we could help him. I had to tell him we could not…and instead provide him with the telephone number of the Red Cross. When I told him I couldn’t help him, he started crying and he thanked me. He fucking thanked me and then said “Allah yi7meeki” which means “God protect you”, and I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t say anything because I was crying so hard. I’d lost all decorum and professionalism and couldn’t stop crying or shaking. I took his number down and I tried to call him for several days, but I couldn’t reach him. I keep trying to call him, and as of this morning, I still couldn’t reach him.
For each one of the stories listed above, I had to hang up and walk myself over to the washroom with my head down because I was crying. I had to take a ten minute break after each one of these – and so many others - to recover from having to tell people that I was incapable of helping them.
I often times found myself staring at the release button for too long, scared that if I press it and hang up, that's it. They're gone, there's nothing to hear anymore or hope for. The only reason I manage to press it is because I know there are others waiting to hear a voice on our end.
Most of the time, I feel impotent, seated with a headset on and ending every call with either "bon courage" or "God protect you" and choking on my words because I don't know if these people will be safe, and if they are safe, I know there's others who won't be. And so one is safe for the 100 who are not?
Naturally, there are “good” stories with happier endings; families with whom I spoke last week, and who called back this week to tell me they’re home and they’re safe…and as happy as I am for them, all I can see are the ones who can not escape.
I’ll leave you with a happier moment, which occurred only this morning. I was on the telephone with a father who’d lost contact with his family for several days. He wasn’t capable of speaking with them because the phone lines were not functioning. Since I couldn’t help him directly, I suggested we try a conference; I could at least comfort him by trying to let him hear the voices of his family. Sometimes the phone lines come and go for 10 or 15 minutes and you just have to hope for the best and take a chance.
I rang and his young boy answered. I spoke to his son briefly and explained who I was and that his father was on the line. The father said “Allo, Mohammed?” and the boy said “hi dad!” and then the father started crying. I broke down and couldn’t speak for a few moments to let them know that I would release them and leave them to their privacy. I didn’t have the energy to walk myself over to the washroom to cry…so I just sat here and cried quietly out of happiness, fear, sadness, uselessness…everything and nothing…
At this point, all I can do is wish everyone in all of the affected regions safety.
Some of this blog entry was originally part of an email sent to a small group of people.
The people in Gaza are, unfortunately, quite used to the situation and the sounds of war which range from machine gun fire and Apache helicopters, to screaming missiles and exploding bombs. At most, people would hear the sound of a fighter plane and wait quietly for 15 minutes; if they were still alive after those fifteen minutes, they knew someone else was dead. The nature of war and the situation dictates that no one exhales a sigh of relief…
I never got used to that. My return to Canada was traumatic, because I have Palestinian blood and I felt guilty to be among the lucky who live elsewhere. I’ll always carry that guilt.
That, and my academic connection and political writing are as close to war as I’ve ever come. I wasn’t certain what to expect when I started working these telephone lines, but whatever my expectation was, it was the farthest thing from the reality in which I still find myself.
It's one thing to watch the news and ‘see’ those who have been killed, those who have lost their homes, those who are imprisoned within the villages and who have no access to the most basic necessities to survive. It’s another thing entirely to take the call of someone who can’t find their family members because their area’s just been hit.
This Crisis Line has fielded over 31,000 calls, and I have taken anywhere between 100 and 300 daily, depending on the nature of the calls and the day in question. One of the worst days we had was when Israel bombed telephone towers and we couldn’t receive any calls; the silence was terrifying.
If you were doing this, you too would remember every story and name you heard. I won’t ever be able to forget them and I’ll share a few of them with you…
- The elderly man who called me crying because he couldn't find his wife after their village had been hit.
- The elderly woman who called me and begged, begged, begged me through tears to please help her because she was alone and stuck in the South of Lebanon.
- The woman who called me and told me that she couldn't leave Lebanon without her mother, who was dying of cancer at the age of 83.
- The pregnant woman who called me from the South of Lebanon to tell me she couldn’t get out. I was taking her coordinates so that I could, at the very least, contact the Red Cross to see if they had any power to do anything. While on the phone, I could hear the bombs dropping and could hear them getting closer. The line kept cutting up and so I was having a very difficult time taking her information. We were cut off before I could get most of her information, and although I tried to call her back repeatedly for two days, the line never connected.
These are some of the stories…and I don't know if any of them are still alive.
And then there's everyone else; the people who can’t call, who will never be found and whose names we'll never know and whose stories will never be told.
I believe one of the worst phone calls I had to take was from a Lebanese citizen who’d been given this phone number by a neighbour. The man is 87 years old and was terrified and was asking for Canada’s help. He doesn’t have family and has nowhere to turn and was hoping that we could help him. I had to tell him we could not…and instead provide him with the telephone number of the Red Cross. When I told him I couldn’t help him, he started crying and he thanked me. He fucking thanked me and then said “Allah yi7meeki” which means “God protect you”, and I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t say anything because I was crying so hard. I’d lost all decorum and professionalism and couldn’t stop crying or shaking. I took his number down and I tried to call him for several days, but I couldn’t reach him. I keep trying to call him, and as of this morning, I still couldn’t reach him.
For each one of the stories listed above, I had to hang up and walk myself over to the washroom with my head down because I was crying. I had to take a ten minute break after each one of these – and so many others - to recover from having to tell people that I was incapable of helping them.
I often times found myself staring at the release button for too long, scared that if I press it and hang up, that's it. They're gone, there's nothing to hear anymore or hope for. The only reason I manage to press it is because I know there are others waiting to hear a voice on our end.
Most of the time, I feel impotent, seated with a headset on and ending every call with either "bon courage" or "God protect you" and choking on my words because I don't know if these people will be safe, and if they are safe, I know there's others who won't be. And so one is safe for the 100 who are not?
Naturally, there are “good” stories with happier endings; families with whom I spoke last week, and who called back this week to tell me they’re home and they’re safe…and as happy as I am for them, all I can see are the ones who can not escape.
I’ll leave you with a happier moment, which occurred only this morning. I was on the telephone with a father who’d lost contact with his family for several days. He wasn’t capable of speaking with them because the phone lines were not functioning. Since I couldn’t help him directly, I suggested we try a conference; I could at least comfort him by trying to let him hear the voices of his family. Sometimes the phone lines come and go for 10 or 15 minutes and you just have to hope for the best and take a chance.
I rang and his young boy answered. I spoke to his son briefly and explained who I was and that his father was on the line. The father said “Allo, Mohammed?” and the boy said “hi dad!” and then the father started crying. I broke down and couldn’t speak for a few moments to let them know that I would release them and leave them to their privacy. I didn’t have the energy to walk myself over to the washroom to cry…so I just sat here and cried quietly out of happiness, fear, sadness, uselessness…everything and nothing…
At this point, all I can do is wish everyone in all of the affected regions safety.
Some of this blog entry was originally part of an email sent to a small group of people.
Labels: Beirut 2006
posted by just a girl at 11:15 AM
5 Comments:
I can relate to your sense of powerlessness although it's a tiny scale comparison given your closeness and my distance with the situation. I'm glad you wrote this here for me to feel this with a bit more potency and offer up feeble prayers.
Focus on those you can help. You have helped people in a way that might feel small to you but I'm sure is powerful to them and will be remembered and appreciated. For those we can't help and the suffering we can't erase, all we can do is ask ourselves "How do I want to live my life differently as a result of this." That is how you can honor those that you can't help.
*Hugs*
Maha you've made me cry,. Im happy your there for these opeple and sad youre sad,.
Thinking fo you and wishing you warm thoughts.
T
We love you tons Maha!!!!!!!
maria
Found your blog through GBnet Maha and I'm stunned reading your posts.
The world needs more people like you.
((hugs))
Rhedyn
hi everyone,
thanks for all of the well wishes, the work I did was nothing at all. I'm just melodramatic :)
Rhedyn,
Welcome! Aaaaaaah, gerry butler's officially unofficial home. Lovely place...thanks for finding me & I hope you're having fun over there. I drop in to ogle the new pics ;)
xo
m
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