PANDEMIC & MAY DAY: REMAKING THE WORLD

How America’s first English poet

pulled a vision of compassion & hope

from the ruins of transatlantic “plague”

          Wishing you and all the best possible May Day 2020! This missive marks the 393^rd anniversary of Thomas Morton’s 1627 Maypole Revels at Ma-Re Mount (or, Merrymount), the notorious event which, at its core, looked sympathetically right into the teeth of Native New England’s horrific pandemic of 1616-18. With sympathy and ceremony, poetry, orations, drumming, music and dance, feast, home-brew, trade, intermarriage and “worse practices” (according to “Pilgrim” William Bradford), those days bequeathed us a serious vision for healing and new community.

          Some say the most uncanny thing about “Mine Host of Merrymount” was that, after multiple banishments for his “crimes,” Morton just kept coming back to America, “the land he loveth.” In a like way, his life and writings in New English Canaan (1637) keep coming back to speak to us with his practical common sense, good-humored compassion and hopeful spirit.

        More and more, the global Coronavirus lockdown is a singular opportunity for working people to think about their lives and the changes they’d like to see in the running of the world. In the first place, how often in the norms of yesterday did our own best interest directly intersect with benefiting others? Do we see what a mega-powerful principle that is for accomplishment? So curious: being cut off from each other reveals our connections and invites us to build more.

        As in the American-foundational decades of the 1610s-1620s, pandemic is shattering every norm of what seemed, yesterday, “natural” or at least inevitable. Money, privilege, careless consumption and brutal power stand never more naked in front of the dire need for new arrangements. We can be sure that, when so much confined human energy steps into the world again, we’re either going to slide back into “More Of Same Only Worse,” or step forward into healthier, happier (more just and humane) relations.

        That was the choice facing the all-but-homeless Thomas Morton and his company, facing Native New England, and the future of America alike. What was to be done, and how can their choices and results help us?

        “Give me the right point on which to rest my lever,” said Archimedes, “and I can move the world.”

 

          How did this horror strike Northeastern America, and how did the consequences shape our foundational days?

         In the first century of contact between Old and New England (1500s-1600s), Europe was climbing out of a Dark Age decimated by catastrophic Middle Eastern Crusades and waves of bubonic plague. The Renaissance revival of ancient learning and the Bible-driven Protestant Reformation struggled to define the new human world(s) facing everyone. But the continent’s urban conditions—cities overcrowded by new business-driven economics, and appalling norms of sanitation—kept all kinds of lethal microbes active in waves of circulation.

 

          By the close of that century, a yearly average of 250-350 English ships were taking fishermen, explorers and fur-traders to American shores. These were tiny-vessel voyages only for the rough-and-readiest men. But by and large, they were secular, sensible and seasoned enough chaps to know that, beyond their beach-camps for trade and drying cod, it was tens of thousands of Native Northeast peoples who would arrange or refuse most contacts. In the entire U.S.-Canadian Northeast, the total population was at least 200-300,000 people.

 

          Native Northeast life-ways had always intertwined caution with hospitality, gift-giving with trade, and friendships and alliances with mutual need and respect. As on all multi-ethnic frontiers, not a few Native and English people went further, and saw their affections become transatlantic children.

         In effect this made family of trading-partners, entangling them on common grounds for resolving transatlantic rights and wrongs. At the same time, moving generally south in records and traditions from Beothuk and Miqmaq Nova Scotian shores, and towards Abenaki Maine and the Massachusetts, their intimacies carried waves of European diseases, against which Native Northeast peoples had no defense.

 

          Bubonic plague, smallpox, measles, scarlet fever, diphtheria, chicken-pox, various kinds of flu: in Native New England, these multiple and still-uncertain pandemics were Wesauashauonck, or Wesauash-aumitch. As regional historian Nanepashemet expressed it, the deaths of 9 out of 10 Massachusett and other people (“or some say, 19 out of 20”) from 1616-1618 struck with effects “like a nuclear weapon” on every aspect of Native life: family and intertribal connections, collective memory and tradition, daily and seasonal food-production, and their age-old skills of survival and living well.

          Thus, when Plimoth’s “Pilgrims” arrived in late 1620, they found only the ruined village and bones of the wholly-annihilated Patuxet Wampanoags, of whom Tisquantum or Squanto was the last known survivor: the living had been unable to bury so many dead. Not far to the north near the site of future Boston, there was almost no one left to work the vast rich acreage of “three sisters” agriculture (corn, squash and beans) called Massachusetts Fields.

         As a small Plimoth boat or shallop hunted trade-connections up the tidal river called Missituc or Mystic, they found more plague-devastation, and heard of a “Great Squa Sachem” struggling to hold their survivors together—facing also opportunistic corn-stealing raids by north-country Miqmaq, who were both traditional enemies and blood-relatives. The 1619 battle-death of Mystic’s Sachem Nanepashemet had made Plimoth’s new friend, Wampanoag Sachem Massasoit, one of the area’s high authorities.

         So it was that, just before Thomas Morton’s 1624 arrival on Massachusetts Bay, the surviving local people called Neponsets moved from old inland homes near the river’s waterfalls to a more “distanced” and defensible land-form on the Bay—the state’s oldest historical site, called Moswetusett Hummock (shown below).

         And there on the beach was/is a 30-foot-high formation of very hard volcanic puddingstone that some called Weeping Rock (or, Squa Rock): the clear uncanny profile of a woman, who probably “wept” when winter-melts and runoff-rain rolled down her face. Ahead, many clues converge on this as a powerful place that shaped the land’s new human relationships. 

 

          In the Plimothers’ first three American years it seemed that mass-murderous pandemics had burned out at least for a while, and that “God” had done wonders to “clear the land” for their dreams of possessing all of it. Yet, the devastation’s destabilizing consequences kept on hurting everybody’s hopes for some kind of peaceful coexistence.

         Southern New England’s Narragansett (more cousins bound by both feud and intermarriage) wanted at least their share of European trade. They used their only-temporary advantage of healthy numbers to encroach on Wampanoag hunting-grounds and trade-prerogatives. So, the latter’s Sachem Massasoit quickly orchestrated Plimoth’s first treaty for Native amity and trade, a deft stroke making allies of English guns (slow and hazardous, but with a fearsome effect).

         Yet in less than a year, mutual machinations and misunderstandings fed fear among English and Natives alike. Plimoth set most of their manpower to building a fortified wall around themselves. And because this took labor away from farming and food-production—besides offending their “allies”—their second winter found them forced to hunt up supplies among Native villages.

 

         Almost everywhere, they found Native corn-trade to keep them alive—but, with it, both appeals for help as village families kept on dying, and angry reactions to English offenses and their own seeming indifference. Rumors and real mutual threats kept pushing the old New England ways of brinksmanship—and by March 1623, Plimoth resolved on the “preemptive” murder of outspoken Massachusett leaders. (The fine-tooth details are in Good News from New England and Other Writings on the Killings at Weymouth Colony, and in Time Line 3 at Ancientlights.org.)

 

         The aftermath of terror that killed or scattered even more Native New Englanders also crippled Plimoth’s crucial trade, as American furs and other goods were still obtainable only with Native consent and help. As that dark year waned at Plimoth, an outsider ship’s captain noted that “by God’s goodness, [Captain Myles Standish had] brought away the head of the chiefest of them. And it is set on the top of our fort, and instead of an ancient [flag], we have a piece of linen cloth dyed in the same Indian’s blood. [It] was hung out upon the fort when Massasoit was here. And now the Indians are most of them fled from us….”

 

          Such was the bungled situation when outdoorsman, attorney and Renaissance man Thomas Morton arrived on Massachusetts Bay in June 1624, aboard the Unity. His vessel’s name is a first little wink of the uncanny noted in his days by many historians. No one made more of that—as if mere facts were speaking enchanted allegory—than Nathaniel Hawthorne, whose “The Maypole of Merrymount” saw “jollity and gloom…contending” there for the soul of an America to come.

 

          Indeed, something like an experiment played out here. As we saw, the first imperfect transatlantic century had evolved “a mixed language” (Morton) and “cautious coexistence” (Colin Calloway). Then came Plimoth’s “reformist” approach to frontier relations—decidedly evangelical toward an American “New Israel,” with the short-fused “martialist” Myles Standish at the cutting edge. What made this an historical test-case was that now, right in the midst of the same Native people(s) hurt so badly by pandemic and Plimoth, Morton brought back and prospered by those original transatlantic ways. One approach worked imperfectly, and the other brought mutual rancor, damage, division, death, and decline.

          Different choices, different possibilities—that was Morton’s “woke” edenic blasphemy (that people create their destinies). He’d have none of a Biblical fatalism that a “fallen” human nature lacked what it needed to make the world a garden.

          There’s no doubt that Morton was a front-line colonizer, and wrote in part to call in more Englishmen. But the soul of his actions we’ll see, and the title of his book New English Canaan, went to reject any one-sided notion of America as “New Israel.” Like a lawyer presenting evidence (which he was), he argued that Difference was not divesture of human rights. Like ancient Canaan, America was inhabited, by sophisticated people(s), and well-being with an honorable conscience had to recognize it—even, learn from it.

         If Morton sang loud in his third chapter that because of pandemic, America was thus “made so much the more fit for the English,” he quite uniquely pricked that bubble quick, likening Native people to the innocent Jesus at bone-strewn “Golgotha,” and with a note in his margin: “2.Sam.24.” And there was The Bible’s King David praying that God relieve his people of a plague: “These sheep, what have they done? Let thine hand…be against me, and against my father’s house.”

         Canaan then presented 17 more chapters (the first full third of the book) detailing Native New England’s ancient and civilized life—they were and are “still here”—while the rest of the work bore out his simple and crucial American watchword: “Respect.”

         We are coming to terms as Morton did with complexities which, addressed with compassionate intelligence, could issue in positive new ethics and values.

          Who was this guy?

          When any man seem like to prove an enemy to their church and state, the first precept in their politics is to defame the man at whom they aim. And then, he is an holy Israelite who can spread that fame broadest: like butter upon a loaf, no matter how thin, it will serve. —New English Canaan Book III

         Was Thomas Morton, as legions of patriot-historians hastened to claim, a man with “absolutely nothing to be said in his favor….a lawless, reckless, amoral adventurer…a reckless libertine, without either morals or religion…saturated with revelry and scoffing”? Let’s a look:

          Sensibility—Born about 1576 in England’s wild West Country, he grew up where the land was dotted with ruins of pre-Christian cultures and the social rule was hospitality first, before ideology. While England’s new “financialized” economy bred droves of homeless starving people who “fur-nished the gallows with poor wretches,” Morton’s youth gave him rugged outdoorsman’s skills, Classical readings, exposure to first reports by American explorers, and then training in common law in the midst of London’s boisterous Inns of Court. There, poetry, plays, masques and spectacles kept tongue half-in-cheek against lawless authority, moral hypocrisy, and the self-wrecking stupidity of entitled arrogance.

          Habits of Mind—“I will go the surest way to work first, and see how others are answered in the like kind.” This was a man who, first, observed, and then experimented, processing his results. He came to America prepared to look, listen, compare and learn from peoples already well-along in getting along. Native New Englanders set aside feuds to share and “revel” in nature’s seasonal bounties: pre-Plimoth visitors raised maypoles and danced in funny costumes to fetch fur-traders down to the beach. And they were unafraid to share out “strong waters,” guns, and even themselves for a bargain.

          Adaptability, Innovation—Morton’s first bad examples were two-fold. One involved fellow-Englishmen who’d been told, by their betters, that class (money) would always bind their lives to servitude. On Massachusetts Bay by June 1624, he and “thirty servants” were all but abandoned by so-called backers: soon the youths under indenture-contracts were being sold off as labor in Virginia’s murderous tobacco-fields.

         Morton, knowing both the law and the aristocrats who desperately wanted fur-trading profits, arranged for every willing man to stay and build in place as his “consociates” and equals. This did not please the “betters” at nearby Plimoth, already strapped for labor in their fields and in the wall-building works of their “needless” (Morton) militia. The man, said Plimoth’s Bradford, “would entertain any, how vile so ever, and all the scum of the country would flock to him.” In these early-American contexts, the ancient nature-praising maypole long raised by “common” people was on its way to becoming a liberty-pole.

          Morton’s other early outrage put the true Native masters of this landscape on a best-possible equal footing, by trading guns (with training and supplies) for their permission to plant, and for trade in furs and resources. The so-called soul of the objection from Plimoth and in King James’s edict was that guns “spoiled the trade”: meaning, the sky-high profits snookered from Native peoples by giving them baubles or cheap tools while their furs became choice clothes and hats. Grant the indeed-heroic “Pilgrims” every ounce of pathos: Native New England owed them and England not one thing.

         As we saw, Sachem Chikatawbak’s Neponset and other Massachusett bands had suffered horrific losses. As Morton got to know them in their households and his own (which he called “nine persons, besides dogs”), it seemed no wonder that they wanted post-pandemic power to intimidate other feuding tribes and the decidedly “martialist” English at Plimoth. From contact came confidence and courage—not to mention a more-equal economy and alliance with mutual benefits.

         The complaints from Plimoth received no answer, because Morton’s costly guns were shipped through the wishes and the winks of high-rank aristocrats. He and his consociates went on doing better round “Merry-mount,” smiling perhaps that royal edicts were not (thank God and English lawyers) statutory law—and likely amused at Plimoth’s pleas for help from a king they reviled as tyrant. At last when James died, Morton answered them: “The king is dead, and his displeasure with him.”

          So—Some key qualities driving this frontier’s more-equal prosperity? Cosmopolitan or “renaissance” education, traits of scientific method, love and seasoned respect for Nature and human differences, generosity, fair and tolerant social arrangements, adaptable creativity, earned confidence, courage. Looking today for sound past examples for the future, we must not miss one more trait with positive results.

         (It calls for an inference born from a dozen little Morton clues, but it does have company in comparative reverse. One day, Massachusetts’ future first puritan governor, John “city on a hill” Winthrop, got lost two miles from his house. Unnerved, he holed up in a Native wetu or home that he found by chance. And when a Native woman came knocking, he refused to let her in.)

          Compassion—We’ve seen Morton’s subtle but steadfast defense of Native humanity. Most likely, he too went walking one day up the Bay shore, toward Chikatawbak’s people at Moswetusett. And something, it seems, struck him deep—the likely sight of a Native New England woman weeping, perhaps at Squa Rock, for so many kinsmen and children lost by no fault of their own. Long and loud laments at family graves were an old custom.

          She is the figure Morton inscribes at the heart of what happened next—the 1627 May Day Revels at Merrymount, raised amongst “all comers” to celebrate and promote a well-being earned in just three years. They raised these days as a powerful multi-media message of “medicine” and healing hope to such a grieving woman and her kin.

          While this woman’s grief and predicament are wrapped in Classical myths by Merrymount’s “Poem” (nailed up as a maypole manifesto), she is not ventriloquized into an easy fake welcomer of English intrusion. She is asked to respond to the sweetest proposal that Merrymount’s men (who “wanted wives”) could muster, stuck where they all were—in a little love-story that decides the destiny of whole peoples  (a “little epic” or “epyllion”). Imagine Morton stepping into the sunny center of a great hilltop Unity Circle (Native people often gathered by “significant land-forms” to hear orations), and here is a modern version clarifying what he had to say:

Rise, riddle-readers, and unfold

what means this whirlpool, death, beneath the mould,

when woman, solitary on the ground

sitting and weeping her kinsmen is found?

Now, New World attractions will acquaint

Old England with the tenor of her plaint,

and bring forth heroes, to the sound

of trumpet loud—and so these shores are found

so full of versatile hands, that the bold shore

presents this woman a new paramour,

as strong as Samson, and so patient

as Job himself—guided thus, by Fate,

to comfort her, so fair and unfortunate.

I do profess, by Love’s great mother,

that here’s a wise fool’s choice for her, none other—

although she’s sick with grief, because no sign

till this our Revels heals her race and mine.

Healing masters, come! I know right well

that all our labor’s lost if she should fall.

‘Tis doom no mortal ever can withstand.

Yet, Love’s own equal power points this land

with proclamation that the first of May

at Merrymount shall be kept holiday.

          Here we are, he says, each and all of us and our cultures stricken, grieving. If we want to live, we have to choose new unities, new ways that build on our compassion for each other…

         And if people didn’t get it, now (selected/modernized below) came the hand-holding dances measured out by May Day’s “Song”—laced with enticements to let down one’s guard, join in and become a community. The formula was in the first word of each verse: Make-Nectar-Give-Give. And “Nectar”? Plain drink and the erotic (all-connecting) cosmic ambrosia.

[CHORUS:]  Drink and be merry, merry, merry boys,

let all your delights be in marriage joys.

Yo! to marriage, now the day is come:

around the merry maypole take a room.

*

Make green garlands, bring bottles out

and pour sweet Nectar freely about:

uncover your head, and fear no harm,

for here’s good liquor to keep it warm. 

So drink and be merry, merry, merry boys…

*

Nectar is a thing assigned

by the Deity’s own mind

to cure the heart oppressed with grief,

and of good liquors is the chief.

So drink and be merry…

*

Give to the melancholy man

a cup or two of it now and then:

this physic will soon revive his blood

and make him be of a merrier mood….

So drink and be merry, merry, merry boys…

*

          CLICK HERE to listen to the full original “Song” with modern music.

          The best proof that all this was working, and would grow, was Plimoth’s assault on Morton’s household within a year. So after his May Day peak began the arrests and torments meant to break him, 20 years of hounding by gangs of holy half-wits and military Keystone Cops. Plimoth’s good ol’ Injun Expert, Myles Standish—to Morton, “Captain Shrimp”—just wanted to kill him, but his sage superiors took a less-obvious tack, and marooned him on a rock miles out to sea (off the continent completely). Somehow, he made it back to England.

         Another year and Morton was back (1629) in the Massachusetts, “not so much as rebuked.” Yet as he stood watching on the hill, June 1630 brought waves of new Puritans to the Bay. Sneering at his “unsanctified” offers to find them good water and hunt up meat for the famished, their first order of Boston Business was to burn and scatter Merrymount, hoist Morton “a man they never saw before” out of the country in a cow’s harness (that is, sore-unwilling)—and, to outlaw “cohabitation” and “unsupervised” trade with Native persons. 

          In the next few 1630s years, “plague” returned to kill many more Native New Englanders, including Chikatawbak. Within a decade (10 years to the month of May Day), the Puritan colonies launched (and sorely bungled) a war of extermination against the Pequots. The day that declared their war is now “Connecticut’s Birthday.”

         As someone remarked, Massachusetts Bay made a good lawyer angry and let him live. But that—how Morton won in high English courts and pulled the chartered ground out from under “New England”—is another story and, sooner or later, a feature-film.

         This is ours. Merrymount’s uncanny enchanted allegory of Unity-vs.-Catastrophe is a practical and visionary road-map: our best Archimedean point for the leverage to move, save, and remake the world in the image of our life-loving souls. Merrymount was destroyed because it was working. In the midst of today’s frightened, already-proven scams and dead ends of holy nationalism, it’s Merrymount—not 400-year-old walled-up Plimoth, or Boston’s masters of lawless legalese—that stands as the founding “city on a hill” for “all comers,” whose light can really guide a humane way forward.

         Nothing is more clear than that our founding patriarchs and their pious-imperialist misleaders have betrayed their own people(s) who do the work, for money and the power to control us in a sickening cage. No crime they won’t commit; no lie they won’t tell; no living thing they won’t destroy for a delusionary dollar, leaving most people a handful of dimes.

         The secret of prosperous equality is not Profit (Take More Than You Put In), not the walls and guns holding off the consequences.

         The secret is in plain sight: Make-Nectar-Give-Give. You bring something to the feast, and it comes back to you redoubled.

 

         What we are living, or trying to survive thanks to so many pseudo-saintly “reformers,” is chrematistics, or Profit At Any Cost. Yet, with new understanding of where we have been snookered—from a model that worked into one that doesn’t (without constant lies and delusion-reinforcing violence)—we are going to remember and build the original eko-nomia: “the conduct of a household to the benefit of all.” A dynamic steady-state fit for freedom on a finite planet.

         Native or Indigenous peoples, for whom the whole world is alive, are still here and waiting on the hill—more than waiting. What was done to them first is now done to every citizen far from the top. Yet as Noam Chomsky points out, around the world rushing headlong toward more “growth” and disastrous development, it is Indigenous peoples most urgently warning, organizing and working for another way. This after 5 centuries of decimation, degradation, and on-average status as their nations’ poorest communities.

         The definitions that erase Native peoples, the “reservations” created to crush them with hopeless poverty, go on posing them as supremely “Other”—a symbolic status, to terrorize any nonbeliever inside The Colony. (“A token of what you shall get,” said Morton, “if you be one of them they term, without“).

         This goes on in our own C-19 pandemic. The malignant narcissist currently in the White House posts a portrait of Injun-Killer Andrew “Trail of Tears” Jackson over his desk. Native Northwest peoples request protective equipment for their struggling clinics and receive, “by mistake,” body-bags. About half of American states, in reporting the demographics of infections and deaths, let Native “ethnics” fall into a blank “Other” category, rendering their higher proportional illness and deaths invisible—except to them. (The Guardian April 24, 2020.)

 

         The healthier, more equal, happier way taken from us just keeps coming back. Uncanny: you’d think life and letters are trying to tell us something more than “Believe, Obey, Get Back To Work, Keep Paying and Keep Quiet.”

         The Change that pounds at the door of our crumbling house is in every single person’s interest. My own best interest—in these old/new many-sided lights, what a lackluster reason to live and act in life’s favor! Open the door. Walk out into the garden planted with your own two daily hands.

             

         Meantime, as the planet revs up International Workers Day, Revel-Up your May Day any way you can. Observe, commune with land, sea, creatures and stars, with books and music, listen, talk, meditate, envision—and get ready to act. It’s not so far ahead that our best energies will roar to live more than ever. This time, we cannot let a walled-up, violent, greedy, overstuffed minority stand any longer in the way of our next leap.

         We will join hands again. Time to rise like a renaissance to our own greatest human endowment, power and potential—compassionate creative (r)evolution.

In March 1923, 300 years to the month when Myles Standish murdered several and beheaded one “recalcitrant” Masssachusetts, a bolt of lightning struck “the world’s tallest historical monument” in honor of the diminutive captain, not far from Plimoth—and blasted its head off.

 

 

BILL MILLER’S ‘PICTURES & WORDS’ DELIVERS NEW TRUE WESTERN HERITAGE

HAMAS & ISRAEL: FOR PALESTINIANS, TWO ROADS TO NOWHERE

Jihad/”JoJo,” Muhammad, Dina & Lina Ismael of Deir al Balah: photo by Ghada Ismael

Dina & Lina rest at home-at-last back in Deir al Balah

“Terrorism is a bad lawyer for our people’s case.” Where do the Palestinian people really stand between Hamas’ militant tyranny and Israel’s racist brutality?

PLEASE BEAR WITH TECHNICAL FLAWS DUE TO CONDITIONS IN GAZA

APRIL 21—(Muhammad’s birthday)

“Hello, Dear Brother and Sister, we are all well and hope the same for both of you. A friend has watched our program and he told me, “it’s so powerful and so honest.” We are safe now, but last night was so horrific that we got no sleep: Israeli tanks advanced deep inside eastern Deir al Balah, and they were roaring—one Israeli Merkava is a loud tank, but many of them are many times worse. This was not the first time our house has shaken from top to bottom. They passed very close to us, but fortunately they withdrew by early morning.

“Tell Angie that all three of our young ones are saying her name all the time, they love her so much. Sunday would be a perfect day for me to make a new program if that is possible. But lately and right now we have a very poor internet signal, and we keep the house totally dark at night. Perhaps an afternoon will come soon when we are allowed to talk.”

RISKS & RETURN: MUHAMMAD’S FAMILY OPT FOR HOME, MARCH 2024

Like many Palestinians driven from their Gaza homes into a 5-month ordeal of hunger and terrorization, Muhammad and his family (above, Muhammad, wife Ghada, son “JoJo” and 2-year-old twins Lina and Dina) decided to leave the horrors of Rafah for their original home in Deir al Balah (above left).

In two days they walked a 13-km. gauntlet of bullets and total uncertainty, finding “moderate” damage to their home and almost 200 neighbors killed in the fighting there. Now they try to resume the “normal” struggle for life in conditions worse than before this war—scarce food and water, no electricity, no medicines—but, like thousands of Palestinians making the same choice, they are at least HOME and mean to live each day together, whatever comes next.

Here begins a new page of Muhammad’s messages:

MARCH 13, 2024—

“Hello, dear brother. I am sorry for the delay since my last message, but our situation was terrible in the last two days. Israeli tanks advanced suddenly into our Balah surroundings, bombarded some houses, and then withdrew back inside Israel. Now it is calmer and the situation is better. We are well, and the children feel better than they did during our days in a tent in Rafah. If you would like to make a new program with Zoom, I am totally ready. Please convey our greetings to Angie—we love you all, dear brother .”

MARCH 19: “We will live or die together, in our home”

MARCH 25—

“Good evening, dear brother. We hope you and Angie are in good health. I am sorry for the delay of my messages, for we had an internet problem [here in Deir al Balah] over several days. Today they fixed the problem, although internet speed is very very slow. I am eager for making a new program, but let us wait some days until the speed becomes better. We are well, day by day, and thinking of you and Angie many times. The food we manage to find is not much of a reward for people who are fasting 15 hours each day of Ramadan. In the coming days I will photograph one of our meals. We still fight courageously against anemia, and I can see that we are achieving good progress. We are well, dear brother, and sending our LOVE and kisses to you and Angie .”

MARCH 31—

“Hello, dear brother. We are as well as possible, enjoying a few warm and sunny days. The children are well also. Recently I managed to find and buy a good amount of protein, as I bought 12 cans of Moroccan sardines (of course labeled NOT FOR SALE). So we are doing our best in the fierce battle against anemia.

“I am so sad for the destruction of my publisher’s office and store. Israeli tanks have shelled Al Kalimah publishing house, the publisher of three out of my five books, including the recent one Fedayee & The Sea. In this destruction I lost hundreds of copies of my books, and this is a big psychological and economical loss for me. As you see, brother, our books have become ashes, alas.”

JoJo, Muhammad, Lina and Dina—photo by Ghada Ismael

APRIL 11—

Young JoJo sports his new haircut for the holy days of Ramadan

“Hello, dear brother and sister. Our poor internet has prevented me from writing all these recent days. Last night we got almost no sleep: it was a noisy night, as Israeli tanks conducted a big penetration into eastern Deir Al Balah, not far at all from our home. The entire sky was crimson and the air was burning—we are lucky that white phosphorus wasn’t used this time.

“We hope that you and Angie and our sister Vicky of Sitia are well, happy, and in good health. Today [the final day of Ramadan, called Eid] is supposed to be a holiday and religious festival. But we spent the day weeping our losses, for our murdered loved ones who have become martyrs. It was a bitter day.”

Muhammad’s late elder brother Ahmad, murdered by Israeli artillery-fire

APRIL 12—

“Hello, dear brother. The Israelis’ murder rate has been accelerating in recent days: 153 Palestinians were killed on the day before yesterday, and 122 more were murdered yesterday. It seems that any ceasefire is looking really like an illusion and mirage! Today, meanwhile, our good friend and brother Tawfiq [whose entire family has been murdered in Israeli attacks] has phoned me, and when I conveyed your encouraging words to him, he responded with tears. I am happy that we will try making a new program on Saturday. Tell Angie that Ghada, the children and I are looking forward to seeing her on Zoom this weekend. We love you so much! “

CLICK BELOW FOR OUR NEWEST PAGE & PROGRAM:

“HAMAS & ISRAEL: FOR PALESTINIANS,

TWO ROADS TO NOWHERE“

‘FROM RAFAH—PLACE OF DECISION’

The Ismael family of Gaza, now sheltering in Rafah: Dina, Muhammad, JoJo, Lina, and Ghada

Here begins a new page of messages from Muhammad, starting with his new article ‘From Rafah—Place of Decision.‘

These nights of Palestinian refuge in Rafah are full of noise and dread, as we hear the roars of Israeli Merkava tanks and Achzarit armored personnel carriers approaching, as artillery shells and bombs pummel and shake the sandy earth. Pillars of black smoke climb the sky all around us. At night the sky becomes a crimson hell.

Until this year, Rafah was a modest city of 300,000 people on a spread of wild land between Egypt and the Levant, Africa and Asia. Like ancient Canaan, Palestinian Rafah was always a frontier gateway for conquerors from the Pharaohs to Persians, Greeks, Romans and Ottomans. This year, Rafah may again decide people’s lives for generations.

If I dig deep under my family’s plastic rain-leaky tent of refuge here, I might find a dagger or spearhead from ancient battle. In 217 BCE, the armies of Ptolemaic Egypt and of Greek Seleucides after Alexander collided on these sands, and shook the whole Near East. Both deployed mighty human waves, and used elephants as a weapon to break lines like modern tanks. Appalling slaughter ended in Ptolemaic victory.

Now, as Israeli forces struggle to control the ruins of Gaza City and Khan Younis, Prime Minister Netanyahu declares Rafah will be next, and decisive. Since last October, 1.4 million civilians have come here for a promise of safety. Rafah is our family’s third forcible relocation: I was born in Gaza to a family of exiles here since the Nakba of 1948. Now all at once we endure wet winter, overcrowding, hunger, disease, bombardment and terror of what may come. The bone-crushing elephants have returned, bellowing night and day and not far off.

To this moment no worldwide warning has dissuaded Netanyahu. Our watchwords are fear, perplexity and anxiousness: we don’t know where to run or how to survive direct attack. Our weary minds blur in dazed wonder that we may find ourselves in Sinai desert, out of our ancient land completely—perhaps, if the world gives apartheid Israel its way, forever.

My wife and little son put their hopes in their prayers, that we will live together or die together, but never be separated. We know people already struggling back northward, to die if need be among thousands of relatives killed on their scorched home earth. The lips of my exile-elders say aloud that death is better than more of this life. Sometimes in cautious secrecy I meet my best friend, whose entire family were killed: we meet and he says nothing. Every night, in the plastic tent beside our own, a widow sings her prayer—“Please, rain food not water, my children are starving.”

There is nowhere to go. Humane evacuation is impossible. Hence, one question: whether the world stops apartheid Israel, or their attack brings a staggering Palestinian massacre.

Evidence before the International Court of Justice shows Israel and the United States driving all of this, as they have driven us first—into an impossible corner. At last, and for his own reasons, President Biden brings a United Nations motion that could save us. For a future we can scarce conceive right now.

What world will come? Off in the rainy Rafah darkness, the elephants stomp their iron feet and bellow flame. Next door the widow wails.

—Rafah, February 20, 2024

*************

“ISRAEL’S [ECOLOGICAL] CRUELTY BY DESIGN,”

An interview with Joshua Frank on the natural/ecological consequences of apartheid Israel’s assault on Gaza, Counterpunch Feb. 28, 2024

*****

FEBRUARY 28—

“Good evening, dear brother. I hope you and Angie are well, happy, and healthy. Unfortunately, we are not receiving any of the world’s humanitarian aid for free, as it was given. When we walk to the market to buy our food, we see everything marked with a “NOT FOR SALE” label, but we must indeed pay money for anything. This is what Hamas and their merchants of war are doing to us. At the same time, the Israeli army is butchering innocent people constantly, killing children and women in cold blood: a novelist friend of mine has named them ‘professional killers.’ 

Water Purification tablets from Ireland and canned “chicken luncheon meat”—labeled “Not For Sale” but, indeed, arrogated and sold at prices no one can afford by Hamas and individuals. Photos by Muhammad Ismael in Rafah

“You know they have two sorts of ammunition. The concrete ammunition is their bullets, shells, and rockets, while the spiritual ammunition is their bloody part of Old Testament, especially the book of Joshua. We are being massacred by the both kinds of ammunition. 

“Below, I send you a lyric poem of mine that comes from a longer short story I have written. Please do edit it for better English as you see fit, and share it with our friends or wherever you think it is appropriate. A friend of mine designed and produced this image including its text:

“Well, in spite of all the hardships, we somehow remain well, dear brother, and we send you all the LOVE of our hearts.”

MARCH 1—

“Hello, dear brother . Let me say, I love the harmony in the image between the photo and the poem. You have inspired me…

“I do not know if you have heard about yesterday’s massacre in northern Gaza. Israeli tanks attacked crowds of people while they were waiting near a highway roundabout for both trucks and airborne parcels of humanitarian aid. About 200 people were killed and 700 others were injured. It was such an awful scene, I am told that many of the bags of white flour for our bread spilled and broke open onto the road, where they were splashed with blood and fragments of flesh. It seems that the only word is horror.”

MARCH 3—

“Good evening, dear brother. I am sorry for the delay of my message, but I was busy all the day, because I volunteered with some men here to fix damaged tents for widows and elders. It was an exhausting day, but I delighted so much with the results. I am so happy to know about your dream [seeing that my late sister is well and happy now]. It gave me a huge amount of energy, I shared it with Ghada [Muhammad’s wife, whose brother was killed], and will share it soon with [my close friend] Tawfiq, who has lost his entire family. I think Tawfiq needs to hear of it, because he is about to fall into despair.”

MARCH 7—

“Good morning, dear brother. We hope you and Angie are well and in good health. I am sorry for this long delay between messages, but we had severe problems with our internet. We are well and our children are healthy. There are now big waves of evacuation from Rafah to central Gaza, with many families around us dismantling their tents and moving northward. We have started to think about this option because, day after day, it becomes more clear that Israel’s military is going to attack Rafah, and with no mercy. Moving from Rafah is a risky adventure, and so is staying here. But we should make a decision before the weekend comes. We love both you and Angie very much .”

MARCH 8

Muhammad & his family walked a harrowing 13+ km. from Rafah back to their home in Deir al Balah—and suddenly yesterday he wrote to request a conversation on Zoom! Here it is, in 2 parts:

FROM HERE ON THIS ALMOST-HAPPY DAY WE BEGIN A NEW PAGE, COMING SOON!

FEB. 2024—PALESTINIANS CLING TO LIFE ON THE EDGE OF DESERT EXILE

6-year-old Jihad “JoJo” Ismael outside the plastic tent in Rafah where he, father Muhammad, mother Ghada, toddler-sisters Lina and Dina, and 1.3 million Palestinians cling to the last square meters of their homeland.

HERE BEGINS A NEW PAGE OF MESSAGES FROM MUHAMMAD ISMAEL:

MUHAMMAD’S LATEST MESSAGE (January 31)—

“Good morning, dear brother. Today the weather is sunny, a good opportunity for our tent to dry, and for us to charge our flesh and bones with some warmth. Right now, there is no Israeli ground invasion in Rafah, we have only artillery shelling the eastern parts of the city. Also, however, the United Nations Relief Works Agency (UNRWA), the Red Cross, and other international associations have been alerted and ordered by Israel to evacuate the city. People here are afraid of what is going to happen in the coming days, they are very anxious about their fate. Tell Angie, please, that her tears for our situation are more precious than pearls. We are all so very tired of this life, we wish we could really rest, but we are strong with the tireless support from you, Angie, Vicky, and all the other friends around you. I will keep you updated with our latest news. JoJo laughed from his heart when I told him your message about your cats sending him and his sisters a great big “Meeoww!” We are well, dear brother, and we all send you our LOVE and kisses.”

FEBRUARY 3, 2024—from The Guardian (UK):

“…Deadly attacks were reported early on Saturday in the overcrowded Gaza border town of Rafah as international mediators readied a new push to seal a reportedly tentative truce deal between Israel and Hamas. Powerful explosions were heard in Rafah shortly after midnight, with the Hamas-run Health Ministry later reporting 14 people killed in two strikes in the town. The ministry said more than 100 people in total were killed across the Gaza overnight….”

• Rafah is a “pressure cooker of despair,” said the UN humanitarian office, as Palestinians flee south today. It said hostilities in Khan Younis had forced more people to flee to Rafah in the south of Gaza. “Thousands of Palestinians have continued to flee to the south, which is already hosting over half the population of about 2.3 million people … Rafah is a pressure cooker of despair, and we fear for what comes next,” said Jens Laerke, a spokesperson for the UN agency.
• Israeli forces will continue their Gaza military campaign to Rafah, the Israeli defence minister, Yoav Gallant has said, despite the huge numbers of Palestinian civilians there.

AND NOW WE WAIT FOR MUHAMMAD’S NEXT POSSIBLE MESSAGE. STAY POLITICALLY ACTIVE AND DEMAND HUMANITARIAN ACTION FROM YOUR GOVERNMENT!

FEBRUARY 3—

“Good morning dear brother, I hope you and Angie are well and in good health. Today the weather is sunny, and we are enjoying the sunshine. Nothing is new here in Rafah, except the increasing worsening of our humanitarian situation. I have emailed you an article that I wrote recently: it is a humble article written with my humble English. I hope you will read it, correct its errors and help it to reach the world’s readers.”

Whisper to The Broken Pillar

   I am living these days inside a plastic tent in Rafah, beside the border of Egypt and the Sinai Desert. I am living a very strange life, as I sleep in the day, and stay awake all the night—to guard my wife, my son and my two small daughters from the attacks of wild dogs, to thwart raining leakage inside the tent, and to alert my family from any nearby shooting, shelling, or sudden advance of Israeli tanks.

   Night in winter is a curse: winter night is too long, too cold, and too depressing. I have no light inside the tent to read a book, no electricity to listen to the radio, no internet to see news or social media. All I can do in the 13 hours of night is cry on the ruins of my memories and sink into nostalgia.

   Weather these days is coldly cruel, it is raining heavily, and storms are hitting our tent with no mercy. The main pillar of the tent has broken many times, it’s a poor piece of a stick and cannot withstand wind pressure. After each break I repair the pillar, silently, without saying a word, and without any raging reaction.

   I cannot blame the pillar, cannot get angry with it, because I am broken and collapsed the same way. I lost everything in the ongoing war. Life in my eyes became nonsense. I lost my only brother, my brother in law, my closest friend, my cousin, my neighbors, too many people whom I love, and the house of mine in Deir al Balah which has been bombarded. 

   I am no better than the pillar, we are equal and the same, both broken. I have decided to befriend him, and I whisper to him in my gloomy nights.

   I whisper to him about the burial of my brothers. This war left not one single blank square meter in all of Gaza’s cemeteries, and so I wandered many hours with the dead bodies of my brothers searching for a grave, but alas I could not find any place for them. Finally I found a narrow second-hand grave: we buried the two dead bodies in it, and they were crammed in and pressed together like sardines in a can.

   I whisper about the famine in northern Gaza strip, as Israeli tanks are blocking every road so that no food supplies can reach people of the north. They are really starving, eating the fodder of animals, grass of the orchards, and the flesh of cats.

   On the way of my evacuation to Rafah I met a man who was carrying a little newborn infant weighing maybe 3 kilograms or 6 pounds. She was a girl four days old, looking like a rugby ball: both of her legs were taken off by shrapnel of an artillery shell. I asked the father about her, and he told me, “She is well, and she takes in a lot of milk!”

  We have a harsh water crisis. Drinkable water is so rare that people are collecting raining drops into their bottles and pots. Most of the water that reaches us is dirty and polluted, and it is causing epidemics of disease among thousands of children. The most recent estimates show that more than 8,000 children in Gaza are afflicted with hepatitis.

   For more than three months, we eat only one meal per day, and most of it is junk food free from any nutritional value. Countries claiming to help us are in reality throwing us their garbage: we are obliged to consume their expired canned beans and beef because we have no other choices.

   Almost all of Gaza’s children are suffering from anemia. Newborn babies cannot have their regular vaccines. Cancer patients are deprived of their chemical or radioactive treatment. Shelves of pharmacies are totally empty. Hospitals of Gaza are performing surgery without anesthetic, and patients are screaming from pain.

   The smells of blood and death are diffused everywhere. Thousands of dead bodies are not yet retrieved: they are dissolving beneath mountains of blasted rubble. Other bodies lie abandoned in open wild areas. Israeli tanks are hindering their better treatment, and our dead people are becoming meals for crows and dogs.

   The Israeli army has bombarded us with insane amount of explosives: the impact of this equals 4 times the Hiroshima bomb. This causes and will continue to cause us a real environmental disaster: Israeli missiles are injecting their poisons into our soil and underground water. Thousands of tons of fatal chemicals have been injected deeply under our feet. They will rise up again and invade our bodies through the vegetables we eat and the water we drink. No doubt, in the future this will lead to rates of cancer even higher than what we faced in the prison of Gaza before this war began last October.

   On the way to Rafah, I volunteered to carry a 93-year-old woman on my shoulders. Her mouth was very close to my ear, and she whispered to me, “Son, I lived through the Nakba of 1948, and that was a small episode compared to what is happening now. This is the real Nakba, not the one I remember in 1948.”

   To the pillar of our pitiful tent, I am whispering the same fact. What is happening now has never happened in the history of the Palestinian people. This is more bitter than all our previous catastrophes of 1948, 1956, 1967, 1982, and more—for now we cannot imagine more than a single day at a time, let alone what people in normal life call the future. In addition to blaming Israel and its savage army over this genocide, I will blame our corrupted Palestinian leaders, and those militias who conducted proxy wars for the sake of others beyond our borders.

—-Muhammad Jihad Ismael, February 1, 2024

####

The Ismael family’s tent of plastic sheeting outside Rafah as Israeli bombs fall close by

FEBRUARY 5—

“Hello Brother—Many Thanks to you for your efforts to publish my “Whisper” article in English and in Greek translation by our dear friend Vicky [Chatzopoulou, of Sitia, Crete]. We may have to wait before another such effort, because today I began to feel unwell and my right eye has become blurry. I am writing this message with one eye (like Moshe Dayan and his eyepatch). Meanwhile, I do not think either Al Jazeera or Electronic Intifada will accept and publish “Whisper” because they belong to the dictator media which do not accept criticism of Hamas, and as you see, I am criticizing Hamas in the closing paragraph.”

FEBRUARY 6—

“Hello Dear Brother Jack and Angela! We are as well as people can be in our situation. I could not be more happy to see people’s many responses to the “Whisper” article. Tonight the weather is very warm here in Rafah, air raids are targeting everywhere around us, and more than 20 persons have been killed from last night’s dusk to this moment. These people are some of at least 400 Palestinians killed in just the past 12 days, since the UN’s International Court of Justice ruling warned Israel, on January 26th, to end their genocidal actions.

“Well, with a great sigh from my heart, I can say that fortunately I begin to feel better today, as a pharmacist gave me some eyedrops that have been a great help. So, thank you as always for your efforts, your friendship and support. This also includes a special salutation from my father and mother. We send you our constant love and appreciation!”

FEBRUARY 8—

“Hello dear brother, I hope you and Angela and all our friends are well. We and the children are healthy. Yes, brother, the situation here in Rafah is very very bad, people are so scared, anxious about their fates, about what will happen in the coming days or weeks. Also here in Rafah we have a horrible spreading of diseases, fatal diseases such as cholera and hepatitis. So, we are keeping the children inside the tent, and strengthening their immunity with the lemon & citrus that we can obtain. Of course, brother, we are all doing every possible procedure of safety—washing our hands often, not touching our eyes or mouths—in order to avoid the spreading diseases.

“Last night was so cruel in Deir al Balah [where Muhammad’s former home stands—or, no longer stands]. 14 Palestinian people were killed by Israeli bombing, including my own father’s cousin and his only son. They were innocent people, not warriors, and their home was bombed while they were sleeping. The father, Nafez Abdel Jawad, was a good man who worked as director and programs preparator at Palestine TV of the Palestinian Authority. His young son’s name was Muhammad Abdel Jawad.

“Tell Angela that her words are calming us and giving us tranquility. I am longing to go back to work on our meetings and video programs. If God grants me survival and life after this war’s end, we have a lot of work to do together. Have a good day, dear lovely brother and sister . I will write you our updates whenever I can, and we are sending you both our hugs and always-strong LOVE .”

FEBRUARY 9—

“Good evening, dear brother. Right now, this moment, we are huddling together under very fierce shelling on Rafah. All the people here are anxious and waiting their obscure fate. It looks like the battle of Rafah is going to be a turning point—it may cause our exile to Sinai or our return back to the central Gaza strip.”

FEBRUARY 11—

“Hello dear brother! I am sorry for the delay of my response. I faced big difficulty in finding electricity to charge my mobile battery. We are well, our spirits are high, and the children are in good health. Can you imagine that last night we did not sleep one single second? It was a very cruel night, the sky was crimson all the night hours, and the shelling was unstoppable. We are waiting to know what is coming next!

“We started this morning to prepare our handbags for any sudden movement or expulsion from this place, and we are ready to dismantle our tent within 10 minutes. Egyptians are declaring that they will not allow us to cross their border. If this is true, the Israeli army might push us back to the central and northern Gaza strip, where there is nothing but devastation and nothing that people need to survive one day. We are ready for all the possibilities, we are only waiting to see what will happen. For now, this moment, we still have insane artillery shelling on the eastern parts of Rafah, in addition to shelling from Israeli boats on the western parts of Rafah. We will be alright, and we send our LOVE and kisses to you and Angie .”

FEBRUARY 12—

“Hello dear brother. I think you have heard what happened recently in Rafah. More than 100 Palestinians were killed by Israeli bombing of this supposedly safe place, another group of at least 100 were also killed but are not yet retrieved from the rubble of destroyed buildings. Last night was so cruel—we could not sleep for one single second. Israeli media started to mention today that all the people now in Rafah will be allowed to move to Deir al Balah [the location of the Ismael family’s home], Zawayda village, and Nuseirat camp [where Muhammad’s grandparents first arrived in exile from their home village Shaphir in 1948]. We are waiting to hear an official confirmation on this, and I will provide you with all possible updates. You and Angie are contributing with a big role in our survival right now, later I will tell you why. We LOVE you both more than words can express .”

FEBRUARY 15—

“Good evening, dear brother. Today, from morning until dusk, I was busy with my mother. Beginning last night, she was screaming with pain from problems with her teeth. Today I took her to a prehistoric dentist—yes, prehistoric, for he is working without electricity and without anesthetic. Meanwhile, the general situation here in Rafah is calm, but everyone here is sure that there will be an invasion in the coming days. Food here is limited and bad in its quality: we are eating the junk food that comes to us, and food from rusty cans bearing dates that are just about to expire. All we can do is to stand by, prepared for movement at any time and in any direction, and to keep dreaming of salvation and a better future.”

FEBRUARY 16—

“Hello, dear brother. We hope that you and Angie are well and in good health. We are as well as can be and the children are healthy. My mother is feeling better and her dental pain is shrinking. Nothing is new here in Rafah except that, unfortunately, the humanitarian crisis is getting worse and worse. There is an almost complete lack of food and medicine, sick people are dying due to the lack of medical treatment, women are giving birth inside their tents of refuge because hospitals are not reachable. Maybe we are lucky that it is winter right now, for here we have some Mediterranean wild herbs like khobbiza and hmasees growing each January and February: thousands of families are relying now on these herbs in their food (they cook them). JoJo asked me to share this photo with you. Have a good night, dear lovely brother and sister .”

Muhammad’s son Jihad or JoJo visits the market in Rafah, February 16. He wanted to share the wonder that his “aunt” Angela’s name was on a box of sweets!

FEBRUARY 17—

“Hello, dear brother—Today I read for Jojo your words about his handsomeness [that when he goes back to school all the girls will sigh and follow him home], and he laughed so much! Laughter is something rare in our situation here. Every day we hear about new losses among our friends and relatives. The wife of my father’s cousin was murdered yesterday: she followed her husband and son, who were killed a few days ago.

“I am happy to know that people are sharing my “Whisper” article, and so glad to hear of the intention of our friend Mr. Dennis Cerrotti to make a podcast program reading and talking about it. Brother, we are well and sending all our LOVE.”

FEBRUARY 18—

“Good evening, dear brother. We remain as well as possible and the children are healthy. Today I bought them three pieces of Egyptian cake which you saw in JoJo’s photo, called “Angela.” They enjoyed the cake and felt so happy because they have had nothing sweet since December. Even sugar is rare here at the market, and if you find it, it cost 20 dollars U.S. per one kilogram.

“My old engineer friend and your brother Tawfiq is well, he is also here in Rafah, and his family’s tent is about 1.5 km from ours. I met him last week, but we do not meet too much because both of us are cautious in our movements. I will convey to him your gentle words of care and, for sure, he will be very happy and relieved to know that he and his loved ones are also not forgotten by the world. I think voices are rising in favor of our human being! We love you more than words can express.”

CLICK HERE for new page, ‘From Rafah—Place of Decision’

CHRIS PFOUTS REMEMBERED—Part 2 of 2 (Newfound Letters!)

This month (January 2024) I found a few long-saved but overlooked letters from my fellow-writer friend Chris Pfouts—plus a travel-article he published in American Motorcyclist about his May 1990 visit with me in Crete—and I hope that Chris’ many friends will find this and enjoy these pages’ fresh sense of his life and inimitable personality.

(BTW, I repeat the hope that someone in possession of Chris’ literary properties may find and let me know about the typed manuscript for his unpublished novel Music From A Cement Piano. That work was undoubtedly Chris’ masterpiece, it deserves a world of readers, and I hereby commit to the work and expense of making it available, if good luck brings it to light. Write to me at jpd37@hotmail.com.)

WE HAVE MAIL! LETTERS from CHRIS PFOUTS

[First found letter below is undated by Chris: best estimate is Spring 1986, when I was living in Crete with then-fiance “S” or Susanna in Chris’ salutation.]

Dear J & S:

Sorry for not having writ sooner but I must plead terminal busy-ness and even more terminal insanity. This goddam Indian project [see photo below] has not only sapped a great deal of my strength and time, but also drained me of some three grand over the last three months, maybe more like four grand, and if you think being broke is bad, lemme tell you that going broke is worse. Currently scrambling hard for any loose buck I can glom by any means whatsoever. Still some many hundreds from the end of the damn bike.

But what a beautiful baby it’s gonna be when it’s done. Holy Shit! Got these incredible parts and pieces and weird old 1940s and 50s custom motorcycle odds and ends for that rare ambience of a real 50s machine—plus a smattering of truck and car parts just to round out the whole. A motorized riot zone is the idea, an ape-hanger/sissy-bar chromed-out piece of big noise. A suicide shift flathead switch, and don’t tug on my cape. A chopper, you understand, in the truest sense of the word. And incorporating a state of the art front brake and a 1957 Pontiac fender badge. Says “Chief” in ’57 script.

The Indian Motorcycle Company began production 2 years before Harley Davidson circa 1901-1953: models included the Scout, the Chief, and the Springfield. Chris bought a rusted wreck on the cheap—“it looked like somebody had used it for an anchor”—and, as a true “rocket scientist,” rebuilt his Indian from scratch.

So that has been and is a tremendous goddam project, with ends in sight in certain key places but far from the bright lights in others. Such a simple machine…I can’t imagine the years of headache and ass-ache that go into restoring a car.

Anyway, that’s giving me hives of anxiety, like where’s the rest of the money coming from. I want this bike so bad. It actually overshadows (but only a little) the fact that last night, I got myself an agent. Yes I did, a literary agent named Ethan Ellenberg. He responded to a query letter I sent, describing [his novel] Birdsong Street, and he felt that it might be satire and that satire is impossible to sell. I didn’t know how to respond to him, and drafted a real snide letter that Melissa [Chris’ life-partner at the time in New York City] thankfully canned. I then sent him a hundred pages of BS (no cute jokes) and a note saying that it ain’t satire, even if I don’t know what it in fact is. Except that I like it.

He liked the first hunski, loved it, and called me back. Cardinal rule with agents: bad news comes by mail, good over the phone. Anyway, we had a face-to-face and I took him the rest of BS and all of Cement Piano, plus a 50-page fragment of Tidal Wave Cafe [another of Chris’ missing fiction manuscripts]. He’s agreed to look at it all and let me know in a couple of weeks. What he basically said, about 15 times over, was that I got talent. He called me a “magical realist.” I think that’s more than fair.

He indicated that he’d send BS around to the most likely places (Grove Press, Vintage Contemporaries) but he didn’t hold out much hope for it making a sale. I differ with him on that but agree with him that it has a serious plot problem: lack of one. He tried to kick me into really examining this big wicked world and trying to lasso in a story where things happen. Where characters develop or backslide and events transpire relating to a beginning, middle, and end. I think this is good advice. He’s willing to work with me, invest his time in me, read anything I write, and he claims a good track record at coaching authors into sellable books.

This ain’t to say I gotta write a Jackie Collins bodice-ripper or a spy novel. Ethan thinks that there are a zillion editors out there hungry for a voice that this (my?) generation lacks, and I’m inclined to agree. For some reason Ann Tyler keeps jumping to mind, but I can’t say why. Her stuff is all family-bound, and if I liked families I’d probably have one.

I haven’t sat down to write—really write—since about June, and this is the beginning of March a year later. Tired maybe, or more correctly, weary. Needed a kick in the ass like I never needed one before. See I’m not so hungry now, with the job scene higher on the satisfaction level and all.

I could maybe do what he is urging me to do, bring it closer to the real world. I’m sure the fuck gonna try, because here’s a chance to work with someone who believes in me, and who can correct my chronic lack-of-plot problem and even worse lack of sales problem. I think I can develop without compromise.

Anyway, BS will be sent around to all the usual suspects and cross your fingers for it. Light a candle. Sacrifice a goat. Maybe I’ll sacrifice a goat. I’m pretty fuckin’ jazzed, only I wish it was unconditional enthusiasm for BS. However, I think that in the long run this might be even better. I’m goddam tired of writing books that nobody but you-all and me and mine read, and that Matt [a mutual NYC friend of ours] calls porn. I do this to communicate, and it isn’t communicating to many people when it isn’t published.

So, wish for the best. Melissa says Hello, and we hope you dug the matches [an original book of matches featuring boxer Jack Dempsey’s New York Restaurant on the covers]. Found a few old ads for Dempsey’s restaurant too, in my staggerings.

Love and all the best from both of us—-Melissa and Chris

****

USPS-dated September 15, 1986

273 West 10th Street, 1RW, NYC NY USA 10014

Dear Jack & Susanna:

Best news first. I landed, out of the clear blue firmament, a job as editor of Iron Horse magazine, an internationally-sold full-color monthly targeted to the outlaw biker. This is real magazine work. You can buy Iron Horse at almost any newsstand. We’re talking a real gig here. Full editorial control, along with choice of bikes to feature, parties and runs to cover, tattoo features to run, and I don’t know what all else. Among the fringes, though, are Iron Horse credentials, which will get me into any bike happening in the country, and probably free beer besides. In this market, which is Tits, Ass, Harleys and Tattoos, there are only four magazines: Easyriders, which is tops in the field; Iron Horse at number 2; Outlaw Biker, a newcomer and number 3; and Biker Lifestyle, which is for the kid with a chain wallet and big dreams.

I can’t fucking believe it. And, it pays 20 grand, plus benefits. Since this happened and I gave notice at the lawnmowing place, I’ve been in heaven, calling all my biker friends (and I have quite a few, never having fallen away from that scene), calling tattoo-people, calling everyone. I tell you, I’ve shuffled through almost 35 years of life wondering where was the place for me, where was the job where a combination of sleaze, mechanical expertise, an intimate knowledge of motorcycle history, and an unrelenting hatred and distrust for the square world would be assets. Here it is, and I’m one happy dude. My gentle editorial touch won’t be evident until the January [1987] issue.

As a business expense I’ll have to buy a Harley, which is what I wanted anyway. It simply won’t do to be seen on a Japanese bike. And a Harley guarantees me, if I want it, a patch (membership), in the Hywaymen Motorcycle Club in North Jersey. I’ve known the Prez and ranking members for years. No trouble, no prospecting, just in. Biker Pfouts. “Tophat” is my handle, and it’s a long story as to how I got that name. Your friend the outlaw biker. Altogether, this is looking real good, since my dual dreams of youth were to be a Hell’s Angel and an editor.

Middle news: I bought a 1955 Dodge telephone truck for $300. It’s been sitting since some time in the 1970s, am working on a slow revival. Actually, now I don’t want it, and I think I’m going to sell it back to the old man from whom I bought it. Need the $$$ for a Harley.

Lower-case news and non-news: Birdsong Street [Chris’ novel following his attempts to publish Music From A Cement Piano] came back from Writer’s House Agency with a terse “No Thanks” letter. I ran it over next day to the woman, the only agent, who has read all three of my novels. She sent me a note right away telling me that she was glad to hear from me, looked forward to reading it, and so on. Hey, I’m on a roll, who knows? A little editorial gig, a little high-powered literary representation, a little Harley in the parking garage, and The Kid could be looking at some dream fruition. You betcha. I’m ready for the lecture circuit.

If there are any Harleys in Crete, write me with the details and maybe we can make a feature out of it. Would need pictures too. Actually, might need entire bike if for sale and cheap enough. I’ll send the money. It wouldn’t be the first bike I got from overseas—my other Harley came from Australia, by boat, in a big box.

Melissa says Hello from her command post in my bed, taking a short break from the orders and demands that she otherwise issues while supine. I have to go now and run over to Jersey to work on my car, and try to make a deal with the old man who has my truck.

Later—-Chris

New editor of Iron Horse Chris reveled in several business trips to Western European countries. At a party in Holland, he overheard some racist remarks about African Americans and replied, “Yeah, now tell me about all the soulful original music of yours that has changed the world as theirs has….”

****

Chris visited me in Crete for 2 weeks in May 1990, and we motorbiked all over the island. By December he published “Touring Atlantis” about his trip in American Motorcyclist. Below is the first full page, then the complete transcribed text, and Chris’ own photos and captions.

Is it real or was it always a myth?

Atlantis was first mentioned in Plato’s Timaeus. He described it as a grand, once-flourishing island civilization that sank into the sea after allowing itself to degenerate. From Plato, the story was eagerly carried forth. Something about this “lost continent” struck an adventurous chord in all of us, providing fuel for millions of treasure-hunting daydreams. Even today, travelers and scientists search for the lost Atlantis.

What they don’t know is that Atlantis is alive and well. It’s located at 35 degrees north latitude and 25 degrees east longitude—in the Aegean Sea south of Greece. Its current alias is Crete, and it’s one of the world’s great unsung places to ride motorcycles, offering magnificent beaches, mountain scenery, terrific smooth roads, inexpensive lodging, fantastic food and cheap bike rentals.

OK, I’ll admit that Plato located his Atlantis in the Atlantic Ocean west of Gibraltar, while Crete is noticeably east of the rock—practically as far east as Turkey. And of course, Crete hardly qualifies as a continent, since it is only 150 miles long and 25 miles wide [at its narrowest point]. But let’s allow for a few small errors on the philosopher’s part, if only because maps then weren’t what they are now. The fact remains that the similarities between the legendary aqueous end of Atlantis and the factual fall of the Crete-based Minoan empire are just too close to ignore.

About 3000 B.C., the early Minoans arrived on Crete, probably from Egypt [although new DNA studies source these peoples in Europe and Anatolia]. The civilization they founded was in full bloom by 2,000 B.C., with magnificent palaces [or rather, ceremonial centers] at the ancient cities of Knossos, Phaistos and Malia.

“The ruins of an ancient Minoan palace [sic] at Knossos, just outside the present-day city of Iraklion, became famous in Greek mythology as the home of the Labyrinth of the Minotaur. Among the treasures of Knossos is a 4,000-year-old throne, the oldest in Europe.”

In contrast to such extravagant structures, Minoan homes were built on a more human scale, with easy living in mind. They even offered that hallmark of modern civilization—indoor running water. Minoans worked gold and bronze flawlessly, and were the undisputed heavyweight champions of Mediterranean shipping at the time. That time came to an end in about 1,400 B.C., when the volcano at Santorini, a nearby island also inhabited by Minoans, erupted. The resulting earthquakes and tidal waves flattened the mighty palaces and washed away whole villages. The civilization of Crete disappeared underwater, if only for a short time.

What remained of Minoan civilization was wiped out by opportunistic Mycenaeans, the forerunners of the classic Greeks. After that, Crete was conquered by one nation after another over the centuries. Even in recent times, the Nazis captured the island in the first successful large-scale use of military airborne troops. Down through history the vote has been unanimous: Atlantis is a mighty desirable piece of real estate. And these days, it’s especially desirable for motorcyclists.

Chris did the driving as we shared this rental-bike over hundreds of delightful Cretan miles. Chris: “Instead of proclaiming ‘Dangerous Curve’ or ‘Caution,’ Cretan road-signs come right to the point.”

Bikes are the staple of the Cretan transportation diet. Almost everyone rides or has ridden. Little kids zoom around on mopeds: old ladies putter by on scooters: the cities swarm with teenage bucks on customized Honda 50 step-throughs (you wouldn’t believe how many ways there are to trick out the venerable step-through 50, including mag wheels and performance exhaust systems). The enthusiast crowd lopes along on vintage BMWs, either singles or boxers. Occasionally, you even hear the distinctive sound of a hot-rod multi.

The happy surprise for American riders is that car drivers, truckers and pedestrians are all used to bikes on the road, so you can move through traffic with much less fear of the driver who just didn’t see the motorcycle, officer. In fact, Cretan drivers regularly see bikes that I found nearly invisible. A lot of Cretan bikes are run at night without one or both lights. After seeing many half-lit or unlit bikes passing cars in complete darkness, I felt weighted down with safety gear just having a headlight, tail-light and turn signals!

I came to Crete knowing almost nothing about the land, the people, or even the exchange rate. My friend Jack Dempsey was living in the beachside hamlet of Amnisos. He was putting the finishing touches on the Great Cretan Novel he’d been writing for the last nine years [titled Ariadne’s Brother, and it took 15 years!], but he was kind enough, and burned-out enough, to take a break and show me around his adopted home.

Our mount for the tour was a Suzuki DR125, a miniature Paris-to-Dakar styled four-stroke enduro machine. The rental, from General Motors (no fooling), was 2,700 drachmae—about $18 per day, including insurance. The American dollar is worth about 150 drachmae. Gas was our responsibility, which was not exactly a crushing burden on such a small bike. I hadn’t ridden such a lightweight in years, my own mount of choice being a 1948 Indian Chief, but the next step up, a P-to-D styled 250, cost another thousand “drach” per day, and I didn’t think it was worth it. The 125 was kind of anemic on mountains, but mostly it did OK.

Crete is hospitable to American travelers for several reasons. First, Cretans drive on the right, as God intended. Second—and the vacation-enhancing value of this cannot be overstated—you do not get dysentery or even the trots from the local tap water.

The maximum speed limit on Crete is 70 kilometers per hour, or about 45 mph. But no one pays the slightest attention to it. The roads and highways are smooth and well-maintained. Cretans are, regrettably, very free with their trash, and feel no guilt at dropping it down whatever hillside they happen to be standing on. But in our two weeks, I never saw a scrap of garbage on a paved highway, no any orphaned mufflers, hay bales or tree branches. Nothing—not even gravel. Off the road, the riding was just as pleasant. We spent nearly a full day on unpaved farm lanes, winding through the olive groves after taking a wrong turn out of a small village. Upholding the American Touring Credo—never ask directions, never turn around, never look at a map—we pressed on. Pavement couldn’t be far. It turned out to be a lot more enjoyable than whatever we missed because we were lost.

Photo by Chris during one of our up-country back-road lost rambles, when we stumbled upon a paradisal plot of wild crimson paparouna or “rock roses” mixed with daisies and other fragrant flowers.

However, getting lost isn’t easy. The paved highways are well-marked and you can get anywhere just by following the signs. My favorite was the official road sign that warns of a hazard ahead: it consists of a big black exclamation-point. Look out! I thought the signs were so great that I often forgot about their intended meaning. Quite a few times we steamed into corners going way too fast.

The unofficial hazard markers are much more effective. These consist of roadside shrines indicating spots where either a fatal accident occurred or a near-miss happened. In the first case, the shrines honor the dead. In the second, they praise whatever saint engineered the life-sparing luck. Mostly, the shrines are peaked steel boxes with glass windows on three sides. Inside you find framed icons, an incense burner and bottles of fluids [olive oil or wine], often including a Coke bottle or Windex.

“Small roadside shrines are dedicated to people either killed, or spared, in automobile accidents. They often contain photographs and religious articles.”

It was the beginning of May, and the summer sun was not cranked up to maximum baste. In summer, Crete’s beaches simmer in Mediterranean heat, while the island’s mountainous areas, which means most of Crete once you get away from the coast, offer refuge. But in spring, the lowlands are perfect and the mountain roads can get downright cool.

As we crossed the spiny ridge of the island from Iraklion headed to the ruins of Phaistos, [not far from] the south coast, we passed near an 8,000-foot mountain, the highest point on Crete. The temperature dipped into the 40s and I stopped at a farm-supply store to buy some work gloves. I could barely get my frozen fingers to peel off the 400 drachmae to pay for them.

About 50 miles later, we returned to the summer weather at the ruins, which are not as interesting as those in Knossos. Knossos is partially restored, so you can get a good idea of the scale and intricate beauty of Minoan construction. Phaistos requires a bit more imagination.

From there, we headed to the beach at Matala. Located on a gorgeous white-sand bay with sparkling sapphire water, Matala is noted for its high cliffs peppered with deep caves. During World War II, the Nazis used these caves as natural pillboxes. In the 1960s, hippies used them as natural apartments. Over the long haul, it is the hippie heritage that stuck with Matala, and today the beach is a comfortable pocket of lazy hedonism. We parked the bike to have a taste of the atmosphere and a cold drink. Before walking down to the beach, I tucked my new gloves down between the gauges and the handlebars. When we got back, the gloves were gone. Jack was embarrassed at having brought me to a place where some scurvy running dog would commit such a vile act. I didn’t care that much: after all, it was warm in Matala.

For the record, the Great Glove Heist is the only street crime I even heard of in Crete. The rental agent had told me that the Suzuki was provided with a chain and lock and solemnly instructed me to use them whenever the bike was out of my sight. When I got to the motorcycle, I discovered that the security system consisted of decorator’s chain, the kind we hang swag lamps from, and the type of padlock used to protect a teenager’s diary. It would have taken a special tool—maybe a nail file—to breach this anti-theft system. Throughout my trip, it remained untouched.

“Motorcycles are the favorite mode of transportation for many young people, including these two young girls out for a spin on their Honda 50 through the streets of Iraklion.”

We awoke one morning in a pension house, a small boarding-house hotel, right on the water in the resort town of Sitia, located near the northeast tip of Crete. It was a typical Cretan tourist room: clean and bright, with comfortable twin beds and a bathroom down the hall. It cost less than $10 American. We walked out into the warm early sunshine in search of breakfast. To a hungry American, breakfast in Crete is a disaster: a bit of sweet bread and a thimbleful of thick, gluey coffee. In most places, you can substitute “American” coffee, which goes under the brand-name of Nescafe no matter who makes it. Nescafe has a lower viscosity and is generally a better bet. But if you’re accustomed to greeting the day with hearty ham and eggs, forget it.

That morning in Sitia I was damn hungry, and a triple helping of sticky bread plus four gulps of coffee just made it worse. As if to taunt me, several restaurants bragged that omelets were their specialty. The only problem was that omelets aren’t served for breakfast in Crete. The restaurants start serving them at noon, right when your American appetite (still spiteful over the lack of breakfast) is thinking about a real lunch. I was already thinking about lunch before breakfast ended.

Jack was hot to visit the ruins of the palace of Zakros that day. We had three hours to kill before anyone would sell us any real food, so we loaded up and headed into the mountains. At the town of Palaikastro we veered beachward to view some smaller Minoan ruins. Here, the little dirt bike really showed its value, since the pavement stopped at the edge of town, about two miles from the water. The Suzuki headed through the ruts without a complaint.

The ruins at Palaikastro do not represent the remains of a palace. More likely, this was a farming or trading outpost. But, like most of the ruin sites on Crete, there is a small admission charge to visit them. As we pulled up, a man and a woman sat idly in the ticket booth while their goat, tethered outside, munched grass. The big attractions, Knossos and Phaistos, get 500 drachmae a head, about three bucks and change. At Palaikastro, they wanted a hundred drachmae.

The ruins were little more than foundations, partially excavated, revealing the small, ordered rooms the Minoans favored. Humble ruins, they were. But without the intrusions of modern cities nearby, I finally got an appreciation of how their world must have looked. The beach was a few hundred yards away, a paradise arc of ivory sand with a tall bluff rising above one side. The 4,000-year-old foundations were on a rising knoll with a good view of the water. It didn’t take much imagination to populate the gentle hillside with strong handsome people in Minoan costumes, and to picture an incoming ship on the blue ocean. The Minoans knew good land when they saw it.

We left the ruins in peace an took a road south toward Zakros. The pavement quickly led us into some of the most rugged mountains we’d seen, and we climbed through a series of switchbacks and hairpins. After about an hour we began to descend toward the town. Again, the Minoans had chosen a stunning location. Zakros is located on a sweeping smile of sand flanked by mountains.

By this time, my hunger was raging out of control, and I was disappointed to see that [Kato, or “lower”] Zakros is a very small town. But its business district, located right at seaside, had just what I needed, a friendly taverna. We took a seat under the thatched patio roof and ordered what I had come to think of as the Greek feast: souvlaki, a Greek salad and beer.

Cretan souvlaki is the real thing, chunks of fresh lamb roasted on a stick. It has nothing to do with Athenian souvlaki, which is molded meat-food resembling dog leavings. In most Cretan tavernas, the souvlaki is about the size of a fat cigar, so I was used to ordering four or five to fill me up. Jack asked for the same. The cook, an old lady with a gold tooth, came out and told us in Greek that we couldn’t possibly eat that much. Jack said we were starving. I patted my belly. She made us follow her to the kitchen where she displayed her version of souvlaki: a stick 18 inches long with about a pound of meat speared on it. We scaled down our orders immediately.

I’ll never forget that meal, and I say that not as a cliche but as reverential fact. We were pleasantly shaded from the cloudless sky, the only customers in the place. The food was super, and our view was of the bike parked at the edge of the sand with the sparkling Aegean behind it. Forget the five-star restaurants you’ve heard about: that food and the atmosphere couldn’t be duplicated at any price.

I admit that I was already pretty impressed with Crete prior to Zakros. But there, in that taverna on the water, I became truly enthralled with it. And later, on the beach at Vai, I fell completely under the spell of ancient Atlantis. Vai appears at the far northeastern corner of Cretan maps with little palm trees. It’s the only place on the island where they grow. And they grow there in abundance, practically to the shore.

For me, Vai was paradise. It wasn’t just the beach, which was soft and warm and perfect, just like nearly all Cretan beaches. And it wasn’t just the food shack with its shaded chairs, cool drinks and rich food. There’s something powerfully mystical about Vai, a special quality that dances just beyond understanding. It seemed to me that if Neptune were to walk ashore to pay us humans a visit, he’d do it at Vai.

I picked up a small smooth black stone there, which I’ve carried ever since. Who knows, it may be a remnant of the volcano that doomed Minoan culture. For me, though, it is a part of Atlantis—not just a myth, but a reality to which I need to return.

Someday, before it sinks again.

A winter rainbow over Amnisos, photo by Jack D

****

BONUS!

OUTSTANDING MEMORIES OF CHRIS

by his ol’ biker friend Michael G. Hendrix, at COLDFURY.COM,

plus

See and Buy all of Chris Pfouts’ BOOKS

SURVIVAL & WAITING FOR PALESTINIAN DESTINY 2024

January 1, 2024 = 86 Days of Genocidal War in Gaza, driving Muhammad’s family and millions of Palestinians into a few bombed-out square miles of Gaza Territory. For the Ismaels, forced from their home in Deir al Balah to Khan Younis, from there to the edge of the Sinai Desert in Rafah, and now to a “tent camp,” their daily norms have been thirst, starvation, illness and sheer terror as Israeli weapons rain down destruction. Muhammad’s messages resume with this new page.

Lina, Muhammad, JoJo, Dina and Ghada Ismael 5 months ago in their new home

“…DECEMBER 26—

“Hello brother, I hope you are well and healthy. Today with the dusk, my close friend Tawfiq’s family have arrived here in Rafah, while tomorrow my larger family is supposed to come also. History is repeating itself—for tomorrow my father, who is 75 years old, will walk from Deir Al-Balah to Rafah, just as his mother walked from our ancient village Shaphir to exile in Gaza in 1948. Happily, today I learned from Tawfiq that, according to some eyewitnesses, our former and beloved home in Deir al Balah is still standing on its foundations, with only some minor damages…”

JANUARY 1, 2024—

“Good morning ( Kalimera ), dear brother . I hope you are having a sunny day, the winter sun is so brilliant and so healthy. We are sitting here in the schoolyard at Rafah to enjoy the sunshine. Somehow we are well and the children remain healthy. Of course, brother, when this painful suffering is over we will do a lot of things for the memory of Saleem al Nafar. Right now I am perplexed, as I cannot believe that he really passed away with all his innocent family. Unfortunately, their bodies are still not retrieved, they sleep under hundreds of tons of rubble. Saleem was Palestine’s best poet, he has a huge number of followers in the Arab world, his last book is supposed to be published next month in Cairo—and I am so sad that he will never see or touch this book. Nothing new here in Rafah, as we go on waiting for an unknown fate. But despite all the hardships, we are strong and still doing our best to keep ourselves alive. Please eat well, sleep well, be happy and smile all the time. We are all sending you our big LOVE and kisses .”

Poet Saleem al Nafar (3rd from left) shares in discussion of Muhammad’s groundbreaking 2023 book Fedayee & The Sea, a record of Palestinians fleeing the atrocities of 1948 by sea.

MUHAMMAD’S YOUNGER BROTHER AND BROTHER-IN-LAW MURDERED BY ISRAEL’S BLIND ARTILLERY BOMBARDMENT

JANUARY 3, 2024—“Hello dear brother. Yes, we are weeping all the time for our painful loss of my younger brother Ahmad. He was so brave, powerful, and strong, I predicted this in his character when he was little child, that’s why I nicknamed him ‘Abu Sakher,’ or Father of the Rocks. Ahmad was a genius, speaking fluent English: he studied engineering, and he worked as a freelancer through the internet. Ahmad’s birthday was December 25th and he was murdered on December 31st. He was 26 years old. Recently he wrote on Twitter, expecting his death: ‘We have been dying slowly for the past few days, watching our loved ones being obliterated left and right while waiting for our turn. It seems we have to witness all the insane horror and imagine new ways of death every hour, before we really die. Although we are facing a total genocide, somehow we are feeling stronger than any human being on the planet. And that is something I will take with me to the grave.'”

Muhammad Al Alem—“He was my brother-in-law (my sister’s husband). He was 29 years old, with two children (a boy named Hassan 4 years old and a daughter named Juri 2 years old ). Muhammad studied law, he worked as a water supplier (bringing people water to drink). Muhammad had been an orphan since his childhood, and now his two little ones also are orphans.”

JANUARY 5 2024—

Hello dear brother, we hope you and Angie are well, healthy, and happy. Today, we are going to leave this school shelter in Rafah and move to a camp of tents. We are told that there is no internet service in that area, so please do not worry about us, we will be OK, but there will not likely be any messages from us. In the meantime, we LOVE you all and send our hugs and kisses .”

JANUARY 11—

Dear brother, here you see Jojo beside our tent in Rafah near the Egyptian border. Our situation is not good, it is cold and raining here, and last night we slept over wet ground. While the fighting is some distance away, we do have some food and water, and we are well, dear brother. I will send you more photos and news when I have access to the internet again. We are sending our LOVE and kisses to you, Angie, and our dear friend Vicky too. “

It is now 11 days since Muhammad‘s last message on January 11th. Meanwhile Israel’s military has killed dozens more Palestinian civilians, demolished Gaza’s main university, and their minister Ben Gvir (convicted of racism in Israel) tells news media that “Everything is ours”: that Palestinians might like to “migrate voluntarily”—to Scotland.

The total blackout of phones and internet in Gaza can only mean that Israel does not want the world to see what they are doing now. Perhaps Muhammad’s family–if they are lucky—have been “relocated” already into the Sinai Desert not far from their last known location in Rafah.

Over 2 million refugees huddle there today: Al Jazeera cameras show supply-trucks waiting “as far as the eye can see” as Israel slowly searches each one for dangerous items such as chocolate (and if any are found, the entire truck is disqualified). Reports describe spreading hepatitis and jaundice, desperate hospitals with no antibiotics or anaesthetics, scarce poor food and worse water.

Please support South Africa’s case against Israeli genocide in the ICJ, make your human voice heard, and keep the Ismael family (along with all their people) in your heart. But, what is done is done: the Joint Terror State of USrael will never, ever wash so much needless blood, suffering and destruction from their hands.

Israeli white phosphorus (an outlawed weapon) burns in the courtyard of Muhammad’s beloved former home in Deir al Balah, Gaza. Photo by Muhammad Ismael October 2023

JANUARY 26, 2024—

“Hello dear brother 💙, internet service was cut off all the previous 14 days. We are living in our tent in Rafah (somewhere in the wilderness between the urban city and Egypt’s border). We have lived and still are living this tough and bitter life, but we are lucky that our children Jojo, Dina, and Lina are in good health. We are doing our best to keep ourselves alive and the children warm and healthy. I will write you more after I charge my mobile battery, it is approaching 2 %. We are all sending our LOVE and kisses to you and Angie 💕💞😘❤♥💖.”

JANUARY 26—

“Good evening dear brother, we hope you and Angie are well and in good health. I am storing in my mind a very huge amount of information and details about our current tragedy: after this war ends we will need too many meetings and video-chats in order to present all of it. We are so grateful for the Irish people, because they sent us big amounts of purification tablets: we add one tablet to each gallon of our unclean water and it makes it pure, healthy, and drinkable. Wheat flour has become available, also milk, oats, macaroni, and lentils. We were lucky also to find good thick jackets for our little daughters Dina and Lina. Most simply, we are taming our pains and trying to adapt ourselves to our ordeal. We will be careful, dear brother, and we love you and Angie more than words can express .”

JANUARY 27—

“Good morning, dear brother, we hope you and Angie are well and healthy. Today, bulldozers and rescue teams are supposed to start working in Saleem [al Naffar’s] neighborhood [to the north in Gaza City]. We hope they will retrieve the bodies of Saleem, his wife, his son, and his three daughters, in addition to Saleem’s brother (named Salamah), his wife, and his five children. [Our page here of Saleem’s poetry, Visions of Hope, has our #1 readership around the world this week.]

“I am so proud and so happy with your work on WordPress, so many Americans (like the beautiful Burmahl family) are taking it a reliable source for what is happening in Gaza. I have sent you photos from outside the tent, but we prefer not to take photos of the inside. We are sending our LOVE and kisses to you and Angie .”

JANUARY 29—

“Good morning, dear brother. We are so anxious about the recent news that we listened to this morning through Israeli radio. They are threatening that the ground invasion of Rafah will come soon, within a few days. I do not know whether this will really happen or not, and if it does, I do not know where we shall go. Some other depressing news reached us from [our former home in] Deir al Balah, that our house was hit with three tank shells. I do not know whether our house is damaged or not. But, do not worry about us, brother. We are powerful like the camels of Sahara, who can challenge thirst, hunger, heat, and thorns of the way.

“Yesterday Jojo was asking me with his innocent-thinking imagination, ‘Papa, are you talking with uncle Jack? Is he still alive in this war and shelling? What happened to his cats?’

“We are sending our LOVE and kisses to you and Angie .”

JANUARY 31—

“Good morning, dear brother. Today the weather is sunny, a good opportunity for our tent to dry, and for us to charge our flesh and bones with some warmth. Right now, there is no Israeli ground invasion in Rafah, we have only artillery shelling the eastern parts of the city. Also, however, the United Nations Relief Works Agency (UNRWA), the Red Cross, and other international associations have been alerted and ordered by Israel to evacuate the city. People here are afraid of what is going to happen in the coming days, they are very anxious about their fate. Tell Angie, please, that her tears for our situation are more precious than pearls. We are all so very tired of this life, we wish we could really rest, but we are strong with the tireless support from you, Angie, Vicky, and all the other friends around you. I will keep you updated with our latest news. JoJo laughed from his heart when I told him your message about your cats sending him and his sisters a great big “Meeoww!” We are well, dear brother, and we all send you our LOVE and kisses .”

MUHAMMAD’S MESSAGES CONTINUE (HOPEFULLY)…

PALESTINIANS WAIT THE UNKNOWN, NOV. 11th—HUNGRY, TERRORIZED & TRAPPED

PALESTINIANS NOW, PART 2 of 3—SURVIVING APARTHEID ISRAEL’S NATIONAL POGROM

Muhammad, Lina, JoJo, Ghad and Dina Ismael—They have lived their entire lives in the great genocidal prison called Gaza, and have never known one day of true freedom. What will happen to them now?

MUHAMMAD’S MESSAGES FROM KHAN YOUNIS, AS OF OCTOBER 31

“Hello brother and sister, I am sorry for delay in my response. I was busy because I volunteered with other men here in the school [shelter] to extinguish a fire that broke out in our surroundings very close to the school fence. But we are all well, brother, fighting every moment for our survival and existence. Ghada and the children are sending their Love and kisses.

“These days we have terrible shortages of food. We have one meal per day, and mostly it contains junk food. We are providing the children other things to eat during the day, such as biscuits, potato chips, and popcorn. Of course their anemia is returning and getting worse again, so in this war’s aftermath we will have to continue our battle against it for their health and futures.

“The death toll of our Palestinian people is approaching 8,500 killed, injured people are exceeding 22,000, and displaced people (like us) now exceed 1 million. Other several thousands of killed people are not retrieved yet from beneath the rubble.

“Thank you for your idea to make a program while I cannot take part as we usually have done. Lots of people around the world are thirsty to know the truth about our situation, and soon I will provide you some things to say for me. In the meantime, your LOVE is giving us mighty power and big hope. We are sending a collective hug to you and Angie .

“Good morning, brother Jack and sister Angie . I hope you are well and healthy. Today is the 26th day of this war that is actually an apartheid pogrom against all Palestinians. We are somehow still well and safe. Ghada and the children are still sleeping (they began to sleep around 3 am, it was an horrific night). Yes, brother, you have to make the solo program as soon as possible, I know this will need hard efforts, but I know how much you are ‘Fedayee’ [a fellow to our people] and a strong man. I am ready to help you with anything you need. I will send you later today some good photos, and am ready to do anything you want me to do. Israeli media are very, very annoyed with the big shift of public opinion in the USA—they are so worried and so perplexed for these changes in American perspective. I will tell you immediately when we have the Western Union offices open again, unfortunately they’re totally closed now. I will be waiting eagerly to read your new WordPress updates. We LOVE you, dear brother and sister .

“Hello brother , as you asked for the solo program, I can send some effective photos about this war and bombing of Gaza. However, here in this school-shelter, it is risky to take photos. Hamas intelligence members are banning this, they are wandering among us, some of them disguised or camouflaged, and monitoring everybody in search of any potential spy for Israel. Also, I prefer not to show you our current appearance: we are looking like Auschwitz prisoners.

“Fresh statistics: The Palestinian death-toll from the beginning of this war to right now: 8,725 people killed, including 3,642 children and 2,197 women. Total number of injured people is approaching 25,000. None of that yet includes hundreds and possibly thousands more Palestinians still buried under the rubble of destroyed buildings. We do not have the machinery or other means to dig them out, but we know they are underneath, because the hideous smell of death is everywhere. And, just awhile ago, we listened to very sad news about a huge massacre at Jabalia camp in the northern Gaza strip.“

NOVEMBER 2—

“Good evening, dear brother and dear sister . We are still well and safe. Today the children each took a shower under the running water of the UNRWA tanker. It’s a lorry tanker that comes many times every day to provide refugees of the school with water. Today the death toll has exceeded 9,000 and injured cases has reached 27,000. These are horrible and shocking numbers .

“May the Lord bless you brother and sister . Almost 800 people were killed today. Around 5pm the Israeli air force conducted a new massacre at Buraij camp, and 400 people were killed in the raid. I cannot bear listening to more news from radio, every day we hear the list of names of relatives, neighbors, and people we know being killed. My grandfather was expelled from Shaphir, my father was born on the way to Gaza (in the shadow of a sycamore fig tree), and currently Israel wants to expel us from Gaza into the desert of Sinai. We are perplexed, confused, and never have the ability to think of how our tomorrow, our future and fate will look. We simply hope to return to our sweet home in Deir El Balah—we are all so wrecked, so tired, and thirst to rest.

“Good afternoon dear brother and sister . My extended family members (parents, brother, sister) are still staying in their house in the coastal area between Deir el Balah & Khan Younis: their location is more secure and calmer, but they are hosting inside the house another 28 refugees, while some relatives & friends have evacuated Gaza city for the south. Unfortunately, our family was unable to join them, because the direction of artillery-shelling and phosphorus attacks had pushed me into one option, escaping for a while to the house of the sister of [my close friend] Tawfiq [a mechanical engineer Muhammad’s age].

“Tawfiq himself is well, but he is deeply in grief because he lost 14 of his relatives in the air raids.

“Saleem al Naffar, our mutual elder friend [a prominent poet featured here on WordPress], is now trapped in Gaza City [surrounded today by Israeli tanks and forces]. Saleem did not evacuate. He is a mad adventurer, and I am so worried about him and his family, but unfortunately I cannot make contact with him.

“I wrote Tawfiq an s-m-s message telling him your warm words and sadness. He has lost his uncle’s wife, and also I think two or three cousins with their wives and children. Tawfiq is a kind friend, he highly admires you and loves you. For Saleem, as we wait and hope for news of him, please do go ahead and share some of his work here.”

Palestinian poet Saleem al Naffar, the “mad adventurer” and Muhammad’s close friend and mentor, has been murdered along with his entire family in the Gaza City home which they refused to leave—killed by an Israeli airstrike around December 9th. See Muhammad’s words about it under Dec. 11th below.

Departure

Earth is yawning,

spreading her wings,

soldiers are babbling,

siege coming closer.

Mirrors will go extinct:

soldiers will depart

without one word.

***

Life

Knives might eat

what remains of my ribs,

machines might smash

what remains of stones,

but life is coming,

for that is its way,

creating life even for us.

               ***

NOVEMBER 5—

“Hello, dear brother and dear sister . We are well and safe. Israeli tanks are spreading deeply into the depth and length of Gaza strip. The humanitarian crisis is getting worse and worse, we’re drinking sour water, sea water is more sweet than this water. But despite all the hardship, we are going to fight for our survival and existence. Ghada, and children and I are sending our LOVE and kisses to you and Angie .”

NOVEMBER 6—

“Hello, dear brother and sister . I am sorry for delay, we had no internet access in the recent 24 hours. We remain well and safe. We still have the water crisis, it is a very cruel and painful problem. Ghada and I are squeezing some lemon drops and adding some sugar to the water in order to make it lemonade, which helps the children to drink it because it is not clean water. Yes, brother, it seems that the Israelis are trying to push us out into Sinai, some people here are believing this. For myself, I am confused and perplexed and cannot predict what is going to happen. Today, a good man (I think he may be a barber) has volunteered to make a nice haircut for JoJo, and he really looks like a cinema star.

“Yes, brother, the majority of people here are thinking that the Israeli army will arrive here and drive us out through the Rafah gates. We are a small part of these people, so their fate will be ours too. If Israelis push us out into Egypt, we will go there, of course. Believe me, brother, I am not worried about where we will be, but about our safety. I want Ghada and our children to be safe and not harmed, this is everything we wish and are looking for. And, we are hearing about the huge demonstrations and protests around the world—this is good and gives us power & better spirits.

“Several Israeli politicians have declared that this war will be “different” and will be an “historic turning point.” We will see what will happens in the coming few weeks. Ghada has received sad news just now, that one of her three close friends has been killed in the artillery attacks. I have told her your and Angie’s warm and sympathetic words, and she thanks you for them.”

NOVEMBER 8 (after 2 days’ multiple breaks in Gaza’s internet/phone links)—

“Hello brother, today we received 5 cans of food (1 can per 1 person) and we are feeding our little ones. Today for the first time our school/UNWRA shelter received a truck half-full of supplies. The cans included corn, ground beef, tuna, and beans. The situation is getting worse and worse, especially with the increasing number of refugees who evacuated the northern area of Gaza City yesterday and today. Just a while ago, we met with the UNRWA representative here in Khan Younis about several issues. We desperately need more and cleaner drinking water, more canned food, and blankets, because the children start to feel cold in the nights. He promised us to help and to do his best.“

NOVEMBER 10—

“Hello, dear brother and dear sister . We are well and safe. Here are the latest and best statistics I can find about the war casualties here in Gaza Strip. Number of people killed, 11, 225. Number of people injured, 27, 992. Number of children killed, 4,518. Number of Israeli raids on our health sector’s infrastructure, 317. And, 251,000 houses are either partially or completely destroyed.

“About the feelings and attitudes of [my wife] Ghada and [my son] JoJo: Ghada is very sad and depressed after the shock of her close friend’s death in an artillery attack. She is worried about the coming of winter, and trying to find comforters for the children. And all the time she is worried also about her mother and father, who are trapped (like Saleem) in Gaza City. JoJo misses his kindergarten so much, but he has made several friendships here with children of the shelter.”

NOVEMBER 11—

“Hello, dear brother and dear sister . We remain well and safe. I am sorry for the delay of my messages, our internet is very very deadly slow. Our children are well, the little twins Dina and Lina too. They suffered from some illness (vomiting & fever) due to the consumption of unclean water, but now they are OK and healed. Of course, this situation has brought back their anemia, but whenever this war ends we will immediately provide them with healthy food and supplements. Don’t worry about them, brother and sister, they are playing and singing every day.”

NOVEMBER 13—

“Good evening dear brother and dear sister . We are well and safe again today. A very small quantity of aid is arriving at our school shelter, but it’s OK, we are adapting ourselves to the system of one meal per day. And we are happy that the children’s psychological situation is becoming better—they are playing and singing too with the other kids here.

“We are happy to see all this solidarity and all these marches around the world. On land, in the Gaza City battle, the Israeli army is smashing Hamas fighters and achieving massive success. The Israeli tanks have occupied the largest and most prominent streets in the city. I only hope this war ends soon, because next week there will be heavy rains, and I am worried about the people who are living here in tents. They will sink in the rains and the mud.

“Your continuous unstoppable support is the real MIRACLE which makes us powerful and able to withstand all this pain. We LOVE you more than words can express.”

NOVEMBER 15—

“May the Lord bless you, dear brother and dear sister . We are keeping well and safe. Today we have received new canned tuna (gift from the people of Japan). I made a primitive fire (in the Paleolithic way), Ghada used it to cook a handful of rice, and then we enjoyed eating the rice with tuna. We are feeling warm, and it’s OK. In addition to the two blankets we have, I am trying to find or acquire a third one.

“We are talking almost each day through messenger or mobile sms with my brother Ahmad or my mother, they are well, and they are hosting a lot of refugees evacuated from the north. I am proud of them because they are doing this goodness and helping other people. I conveyed your message of healing and hope to [my friend] Tawfiq, and he appreciated it so much with big love and admiration, although he is depressed and psychologically affected by his family’s terrible losses. Also, right now we cannot get the children tested for their levels of anemia, but when this war is over we will compensate with good food and medicines. In the meanwhile, Ghada, the children and I are sending our LOVE and kisses to you, Angie, and to your tribe of 20 cats! “

NOVEMBER 18—

“Hello, dear brother and dear sister . The internet service was cut off for the last two days, but some little fuel was delivered and now it works again. We are all well. The last night was so terrible, so difficult, the sky was raining shrapnel over our school shelter, and thick black gas was infiltrating our windows. Yes there’s a severe shortage of food, UNRWA has declared today that its warehouses will very soon be totally empty. How are you? We love Crete and Cretans (our relatives), we appreciate their support, and all the worldwide support. Ghada, the children and I are sending our LOVE and kisses to you and our princess. “

NOVEMBER 19—

“May the Lord bless you, brother and sister . I am sitting with Ghada, talking together, having some rest after this long day of hardship and fighting for survival: the children are sleeping. We are well, dear brother. Today I talked on Facebook Messenger with our mutual friend Vicky (the noble Cretan woman): she is a brilliant person and a real sister. Tomorrow evening, we have a new meeting with the UNRWA representative, and we hope he will bring us good news and some solutions to our countless crises here. We’re all sending big hugs to you and our princess.

“Good evening. It is raining here in Khan Younis, and the weather is stormy. We are sitting around with each other, while the children are watching cartoon movies. One hour ago, we finished our meeting with the UNRWA representative: our meeting was fruitful, tomorrow they will bring our school 200 blankets, more amounts of canned food, panadol, and aspirin, also medicines for diabetes & hypertension for people who have these chronic diseases, plus some bottled water, soap, and shampoo.“

NOVEMBER 22—

“Hello brother and sister—We have some sort of good news here, tomorrow at 10 am (Palestine time) we will have the beginning of a 4-day humanitarian ceasefire. We will not be able to return to our house, but the killing will stop 4 days and we will get a good amount of food, medicine, and clothes. We LOVE you and Angie more than words can express.”

NOVEMBER 25—

“Hello dear brother , I am sorry for this delay of days. Today is the second day of our 4-day humanitarian cease-fire. I can tell you frankly that it is a fragile and vulnerable cease-fire, because it is full of violations. We have an increasing flow of aid trucks, but they are simply not enough, we still need thousands of tons more aid. The Italians have sent three trucks, so today I volunteered to work 11 hours continuously, distributing the aid from them: bottled water, baby diapers, infants’ milk, blankets, and soap. My brother Ahmad, my old friend Tawfiq, and two young women were helping me. It was another exhausting day but full of achievement, as we received two more trucks of the Italian aid. We distributed macaroni, canned beef, hazelnut & chocolate biscuits, wet-wipe tissues, and bottles of juice for the little ones.

“I hope this horrific war will end soon. But we are well, dear brother: Ghada and JoJo, Dina and Lina slept well and deeply last night. They and I are sending you our LOVE and kisses.”

NOVEMBER 29—

“May the Lord bless you dear brother . I am sorry for such a long delay between messages, but yesterday was a tough day. We were busy with the death of one of my cousins. He was injured in an airstrike two weeks ago, and yesterday morning the hospital announced his death. Even so, we are well, brother. Today is the sixth day of our prolonged ceasefire, people are receiving more amounts of food, clothes, and blankets, and this is good. We LOVE you all.”

DECEMBER 1—

“Hello dear brother, I hope you are well and in good health. We are well, and safe, although we had an internet problem, because today in the morning the ceasefire really ended. Now this moment we are hearing horrible artillery shelling on eastern Khan Younis. Many people have been killed, and also fierce strikes are coming from the sky. Yes, brother, it looks like this wave of the war is targeting the south and Khan Younis in particular. We are still in the same school shelter, with a fair amount of food and water (we benefited from each moment in the ceasefire to gain our essential needs as much as we could). Going by what we see, we expect that the worst is coming, but we will do our best to survive and hold onto our hope. Always I remember your words, that we are warriors of Love. And we LOVE you, brother, more than words can express.”

DECEMBER 5—

“Hello dear brother, I am sorry for the delays in my messages, but we have almost no internet, it comes for a few minutes and then disappears. We are well and doing our best to survive. Tanks have infiltrated inside Khan Younis, they are close, only a few hundred meters away from us. The situation is so terrible, Israel’s bombing does not stop for a one single second. But, do not worry about us, dear brother, we’ll be OK . Fearing another internet cut-off, I’ll shorten my message. Please convey our appreciation to each person asking about me and my family. Big LOVE and much kisses to you and Angie.”

DECEMBER 6—

“Hello dear brother—I cannot find words to describe these recent days of constant bombing of the people here in Khan Younis, it is a very very terrible situation. Yesterday was horrific, as the bombs from Israeli jets came down only 100 meters away from us. I was in the corridor in front of the classroom where we have a little family space for shelter. When a bomb exploded so close to us, I inhaled a lot of smoke and fell down unconscious for some minutes. But I am recovering now, and I will be OK.

“The Israeli army is acting in peerless savagery. I will be OK, and fortunately, Ghada and our children were not harmed: they were inside the closed classroom and I was in the open-air corridor preparing some food for our meal. When the bomb struck just outside, in one second I was sinking in a thick black gunpowder cloud. Well, always you are giving us enormous power with your replies and actions. You are the real brother, and we all LOVE you.” .

DECEMBER 8—

Hello dear brother—We are well and our children are healthy. Fierce clashes are taking place now in Khan Younis. Tanks are stationing in the northern and middle parts of the city, they’re trying now to infiltrate into the southern area. The roaring of Israeli tanks is very noisy, their Merkava is the noisiest tank in the world. They are rolling deep into these overcrowded streets. And now today we are alerted to move more southward toward Rafah and the gates of Egypt’s Sinai. The UNRWA will guarantee a secure evacuation by its vehicles. We don’t know when exactly this will happen, maybe tomorrow or after tomorrow. The most important thing to me is that our children are well and not harmed. I hope we will soon find salvation from this hell. We are all sending you our big LOVE and kisses!“

DECEMBER 11—

“May the Lord bless you dear brother. Yes, right now everything is going exactly as you predicted. A second NAKBA is coming. Of course, brother, I am acting with wisdom and calmness and doing my best to keep us alive and together. I will keep you updated with news of our coming journey of Exodus to the gates of Egypt at Rafah.

“I am so tired, dear brother, and my heart is crushed, I cannot dry my eyes. SALEEM AL NAFFAR is assassinated. The Israeli air force has bombed his house, and Saleem, his wife, and his children were all killed. His home was targeted, this was not a random accident. When we published his three poems on your WordPress page, Saleem could not sleep from happiness, he was very happy with our translations of his work. All of Gaza’s and the West Bank’s intellectuals are sad and angry at his assassination. This is so painful for me, I cannot afford even more pain like this.“

Muhammad Ismael (2nd from left) and poet Saleem Al Naffar (3rd from left) at the publication event for Muhammad’s book Fedayee and the Sea published last summer.

DECEMBER 12—

“For me, Ghada, and our children, this is our first day here in Rafah. We moved this morning to a UNRWA school located here. I do not know what the next step is, to which destination our next evacuation will be.“

DECEMBER 18—

“Kalimera dear Jack, Angie and Vicky—Unfortunately we have not had any internet service in the recent five days. We remain well here in Rafah. The fighting is still continuous in Khan Younis. We do not know what comes next after they finish the battle there, and we do not know what will happen if they attack here in Rafah: maybe we will be thrown out into Sinai. We are all sitting now in the shelter’s schoolyard to enjoy the winter sun, and we are all sending you our LOVE and kisses.”

DECEMBER 24—

“Hello dear brother, I have been trying to write to you for a week now. I was just preparing a new message to you but suddenly the internet was cut off again. The internet here in Rafah is the worst in the whole Gaza territory. The recent days have been cruel and bitter because of the cold wet weather (especially at night), and there is also another shortage of food. In general, however, we are well, and our children are healthy and playing with their toys. Even so, the Israeli ground invasion is expanding into new areas, and approaching particularly the suburbs of Deir al Balah, where our old home is (or now, is not: we do not know). I am waiting for my larger family and my close friend Tawfiq’s family to arrive here, they are supposed to evacuate tomorrow and come here to Rafah.”

DECEMBER 26—

“Hello brother, I hope you are well and healthy. Today with the dusk, Tawfiq’s family have arrived here in Rafah, while tomorrow my larger family is supposed to come also. History is repeating itself—for tomorrow my father, who is 75 years old, will walk from Deir Al-Balah to Rafah, just as his mother walked from our ancient village Shaphir to exile in Gaza in 1948. Happily, today I learned from Tawfiq that, according to some eyewitnesses, our former and beloved home in Deir al Balah is still standing on its foundations, with only some minor damages. Generally we are well, the children are healthy, and we have learned some Greek words from our Cretan friend Vicky: JoJo, Dina, and Lina are saying “Kalimera” or “Good Morning” every day when they get up . We are all sending our LOVE and hugs to you and our princess. “

DECEMBER 30—

“Hello dear brother , I am sorry for the delay of my message. We are well and the children are healthy. Yesterday, my father’s family joined us here in Rafah. Their spirits are very low, I am trying to raise their spirits especially after I myself have become familiar with homelessness. I am happy & proud, however, that our English text about Saleem has become a reference for all the people who are talking and writing in English about him. On the other hand, the corrupted oligarchs of the Palestinian Authority are pretending to weep and mourn for Saleem: in this photo below, they share in a consolation event for him in Ramallah.”

 

January 1, 2024 = 86 Days of Genocidal War in Gaza, driving Muhammad’s family and millions of Palestinians into Rafah on the edge of the Sinai Desert. CLICK HERE to stay with them daily in Part 3…

*****

Muhammad’s and Ghada’s son Jihad, aka JoJo, aka “Hollywood”—and twins Lina and Dina. If they were Israeli children in such conditions, you and we would struggle for their futures too.

LINKS TO INTERNATIONAL REPORTS ON PALESTINE

Because US/UK/Israeli “news” sources

parade fake facts that count on ignorance,

fake experts who mouth government screed,

mindless melodrama with zero context,

wholesale ignorance of/contempt for International Law,

and blood-soaked blessings

on a second ruthless racist ethnic cleansing,

here is a gathering of international reportage

for anyone without time to wade and sift

their way through the river of racist lies.

ONLY FACT BRINGS JUSTICE,

ONLY JUSTICE

BRINGS PEACE.

BREAKTHROUGH NEWS INTERVIEW WITH A HAMAS REPRESENTATIVE:

https://www.patreon.com/posts/hamas-rep-will-91415177