Notes on Life and Death
I left home in a hurry. I had received news that there would be a pro-Hamas demonstration in Lisbon. The banner read: “Glory to the martyrs of the Palestinian resistance!”. I had not prepared any questions. If the demonstration went as expected, I would have all the material I needed without even opening my mouth. For the first time, I saw expressed in ink what I had heard other protesters murmuring under their breath: “Long live Al-Qassam!”.
Summer evenings were a thing of the past. The afternoon was cold and windy. My blood was pulsing. I have no vices; adrenaline is my drug. In a moment, I would be face-to-face with apologists for terrorism. It would not be the first time, but it never gets easier. What if, for some reason, they knew who I was—that I was writing a post for The Times of Israel? Still, I tried not to think about it.
I was taken aback to see that this group of “activists” made no attempt to hide their political affiliations: Hamas, Islamic Jihad, PFLP, Popular Resistance Committees, Hezbollah, and Ansar Allah. What a fine group of lads. Fortunately, they left no room for doubt. I could finally write what I had previously been unable to due to a lack of evidence: that these groups are not pro-Palestine, but anti-Israel. All this hatred, this gut-wrenching rage, in the name of peace…
I pictured them with eyes bulging, frothing with hatred, as they screamed, “Death to the IDF! Death to Israel!”.
The date was the 7th of October. The clock read 7 p.m. I left Marquês de Pombal station expecting to find a raucous crowd. Instead, I was met only with the city’s usual monotony. Cars flowed as ever; tourists filled every inch of the pavement. To my astonishment, there was not a protester in sight. I waited a while longer, in vain. It was only when I returned home, disappointed, that I realised the announcement of the demonstration had caused such an uproar that it had likely been cancelled.
No one, myself included, could comprehend how such inhumanity could exist. To call the barbaric act committed by Hamas “resistance” could only be the product of a polluted, sadistic, and tyrannical mind.
It was then that I remembered another demonstration I had also witnessed. Less than a month had passed since the attack. Hundreds of people had taken to the streets to protest against the “Israeli occupation.” As night fell, one participant shrieked that she did not recognise Israel’s right to exist. The veins bulged from her forehead, so distorted was her figure. The monument in memory of the Bnei anussim, who perished in 1506 as victims of another massacre, had been vandalised.
I returned home that night with a knot in my stomach. I did not know what to write, nor how to write it. It was as if I had been transported to another plane of existence. I had the sensation of seeing, in that short span of time, the entire history of the Middle East unfold before me, so vivid and so turbulent. The car horns and megaphones echoed in my ears like a drum that would not let me sleep.
I chose not to send the text to my editor. Tell me: what should I have written? What was there even to write when, right before my eyes, were people who, to show their disapproval of the Israeli government, celebrated the deaths of children, women, and the elderly?
If that ever happens to me, it will mean that I am dead, and that nothing will remain of me but the skeleton of someone who, in life, gave precedence to hatred over love.
