by Alresalah
(This is the story of the freed Palestinian prisoner Ayman Qfeisha).

       The prolonged years of age are blown in the wind. They passed like a thundering! My newly-born child dispersed the warmth of the meeting. She was born two months after my detention. Her picture was the most precious possession I had within the dark stony frame of my cell. I recalled back the situations and details, which almost froze in the desolate desert of prisons.
      Narrow is the cell. Restricted are the walls. There were no windows. Life was cramped, in spite of the spacy map of  earth. How would life be within a cell of a three meter square? There, I wrestled glooms thrice. I fought against loneliness. I struggled with my weary body. And I battled against depression. January 10, 2011 was both, pale and gray. That day passed melancholically, since I was moved to Eshel Jail. At first, I slept. Then I dreamed. Later, I realised that the day I was detained is a nightmare. I woke up.
      Prison is not only made of walls and barbed wires. Inside prison live men. There, men are being made. Prisons are universities of experience, not universities of academia. There, certificates of steadiness, patience, leadership, honesty and self-improvement are given. Inside prison the livings are buried dead. It is one of the “wonders of death”.
      The memories of the day, my child visited me in detention, had long pleased me. I was fond of sleeping at night and daylight. I wish I could see her in my dreams. October 18, 2011! Serenity dropped down my heart. At that day, “the world of dreams” came to an end. I could hug my child Sarah. I embraced her between my arms, and grabbed her to my chest. I abridged the year within one sentence. “That year, souls considered life with one eye, while the other one is orphaned”.
       I looked for myself, the moment I was about to walk out of prison. I gathered the fragments of my dispersed heart and mind. Pictures hung on the walls. Letters. And writings I wrote on worn-out papers. I had turned back to the narrow window before the cell door was opened. I remembered all the pinky dreams, which occupied my mind every morning.

My memory is fully occupied with pain

       My humble reader, the abovementioned does not tell the whole story. My memory is fully occupied with pain, as my daughter grew up away from me. I dreamed of seeing her crying, laughing and playing around, the very first moment I was detained. Then I dreamed of driving her to school, buying her stationary, and going back home with her. Today I wish I could share her happiness, as she celebrated her success in high school.
     Today only, I forget about the world of dreams that drained me for long years. I stretched my arms open to continue through the same path. Never had I lost hope. Never had my dreams died in my heart. I looked at my hand watch. I still have some time. With much serenity and calmness, I did wudu. My fellow prisoners were busy. Everyone was praying Allah that we would be freed.
     I joined the lines of the prisoners, who were praying. Reverence prevailed. I almost died out of happiness. I could read hope on the eyes of the awaiting prisoners. Everyone had a dream, living worthy. They all love to live with their families. They all want to live life as it is. They do not look to heaven. They, rather, would prefer the earth.
      I fought both, the worlds of dreams and hopes. A day before I was set free, I laid on my bed for an hour, meditating the ceiling and the walls. My heart was gloomy. Tension circled me. I felt stings. Then I woke up to reality. I embraced the sunshine of  Gaza.(T/P02/E1)

Mi’raj News Agency (MINA)

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