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Please begin with an informative title:

I was going to sit on my hands, try my hardest not to write a diary about the situation in Gaza...but I cant now.

I tryed to think of how I would write without taking a side, or be harsher to one side than the other, knowing that where I come from, and what I read shows the horrors of war committed on both sides, and the puppets, the proxies, the enablers, and the blind supporters who salivate like Pavlov's dogs when the dinner bell about Israel rings for thier treat...but, as you can see, I cant any more.

I would imagine, the well oiled paper tiger machine (megaphoners is what we call them) would also have its minions in the social media, blogs, and even in the Daily KOS ready to attack the truth, ready to divert from the topic, and ready to mislead, and ready to fall on the sword for thier 'side'

So, not wanting to get caught up in the 'who shoots first' diversion, I thought to bring my point in another way.

Please read under the curly thing.


You must enter an Intro for your Diary Entry between 300 and 1150 characters long (that's approximately 50-175 words without any html or formatting markup).

I was born in Malaysia.  

My grandparents were workers on a plantation.  I only knew my grandmother.  I want to tell you a story from her life...and try to do it in her words.  

She is the person who I would say above all others who formed my outlook on life.  I have made many mistakes, misjudgements, said wrong words, but the deepness of self reflection is what I learned from her...the gentle hands who tucked my limbs in when I prayed, the strong wrinked hand from work who rubbed the tracks of my tears, and formed the shape of my smile...and yes, sometimes,  those sharp smacks of attention I needed to refocus and regroup are still with me.

A story from her life...

One day she tells me, the soldiers came.  The men were working, and we were in the houses doing the chores.  They came, not many, but were armed with guns.  They gathered us together, going from house to house until they found everyone there.  Some of us had small children...the soldiers took the children, and sent those women into the fields to gather the men.

When everyone was together, they seperated women and children from the men.  We were all put into one house and the men, we dont know where they took them.  After a while, the soldiers began to question us about our political leanings.  Some of those things, we didnt even understand, but they told us that we are part of it anyway.  

They would not let us 'relieve' ourselves in private, and some of us just 'let go' because we didnt want them to see us in that way.  When the children became hungry and began to cry, the soldiers would threaten us to quiet them, or they would burn down the house with us in it.

(there is a part here I will leave out, to protect the diginty of my grandmother and the other women)

In the morning, the soldiers fed us a nice breakfast.  They gave those who wanted it, a paper and pencil, and let us write a letter to our husbands and sons to tell them we are alright.  For those who could not write, the soldiers allowed others to write for them.  We were then allowed to go into our house, and get some clothes and personal items, soap to bathe and so on.  I was allowed to leave the letter (my grandfather's name) in the house so he could find it and feel better.

There was time to bathe and get dressed.  It was uncomfortable because the soldiers watched us, but I was desperate to be clean, and I didn't care any more because nothing could be worse than what we had experienced with them before now.

They told us that our town would be burned down, and that we had to leave it.  They would drive us in thier lorries to another town, a larger one outside of the plantation, and leave us.  They told us that the men would follow, and meet us in the town, but it depended on how co operative we were, in doing what they asked.  

We co operated with them.  They helped us even to get into the lorries and seemed much more gentle than they were the night before.  I thought perhaps they regretted doing what they did, and I at least was willing to forgive them.

They drove us part of the way, and made us get out of the lorries.  They told us that someone told them not to burn the town down, and we were free to go back.  

When we got back, we saw all of the men (including my grandfather) lying in a line on the road faced down.  All of them had thier hands and feet tied, and all had covers over thier eyes.  Some did not have thier trousers on.  Some were beaten...and worse. All of them shot in the head.

I read the letter she wrote to him...she saved it.  The last thing it said was, "I will see you soon, they are being nice now, the worst I think is over."

This is the story my grandmother told me.  She told me something that I never will forget.  She said 'victims dont survive'.  

Looking at the conflict that tears these people apart and causes more grief and pain for us as humanity than probably any other thing in modern times...I understand what she ment...some in our world are still victims, others allow them to continue being victims by coddling them...but...they havent begun to survive.

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