My Novel of My Novel Part Two

Description

Sometimes I stop myself and say: You, Sahar, what are you doing, and what have you done? You dedicated your literature and your work to a complex political issue, forgetting that political literature does not last or endure! Who will remember you and read your literature when the issue is resolved or fades away, and its memory is lost and forgotten by people? But then I return and remember the early days of the occupation and the thousands of villagers displaced from their lands, with their donkeys and dogs, with their hunger and nakedness, they came from the west of the city in droves, by the thousands, to take shelter under the branches of the trees and fill the olive groves with their helplessness and the crying of their children, and what followed of uprisings, clashes, arrests, land confiscations, house demolitions, and repeated massacres and defeats. I say to myself: There was nothing we could do. You did what you did, Sahar, and you couldn’t have done otherwise. Any literature that fails to capture all this pain, blood, and tears is not literature at all, but rather a lack of manners, selfishness, cowardice, and a blatant disregard for conscience and feelings.