"Because, after all, how do you explain to a 12-year-old that one of the world’s most powerful militaries is designating paper kites as “weapons of war” in a completely devastated area?" Maha Hussaini of Palestine

 Maha Hussaini

@MahaGaza

 

Two weeks ago, Nazeeh, my first nephew, flew a kite for the first time in his life. 

 

He is 12, however, and he should have learned how to fly kites years ago. But when he was old enough to learn, the genocide began. For the next three years, the things he learned were how to cut firewood with his father for cooking, collect water, and move from one shelter to another. 

 

Earlier this month, we went to the beach together as a family. 

 

In every break he took from swimming, I noticed him watching boys flying kites. 

 

“Nazeeh,” I called. “Look around. If you see anyone selling kites, let’s get you one.” 

 

His eyes lit up. He jumped up and started asking around. 

 

We couldn’t find anyone selling one. And just as he came back disappointed, I called over a boy flying a black-and-white kite. 

 

“Where did you buy it?” I asked. 

 

“Do you want one?” he asked back. 

 

He told us he made the kites himself from nylon and sticks and sold them to earn a little pocket money. He offered us the kite for very little. So we got it. 

 

For the next few hours, I had to reach back into my own childhood to teach Nazeeh how to fly it. 

 

Every time I let out more string and the kite climbed higher, he would jump and shout: “Higher! Higher!” 

 

I hadn’t seen my little genius this excited in a long time. 

 

Nazeeh isn’t easily impressed by ordinary children’s toys. He is the kind of kid who would rather take things apart and fix them, especially electronics, or sit watching “how-to” videos. 

 

At one point, laughing, he said: “Wow, how beautiful it is to drive something in the sky.”  He knew “drive” wasn’t quite the right word. But I knew exactly what he meant. 

 

As I expected, the kite didn’t stay the way he had bought it. The next day, he asked his mother to show him YouTube videos on how to make kites. Then he rebuilt his own. 

 

He used different nylon. He glued a Palestinian flag onto it. And he wrote “Gaza” on every side, preparing it for our next trip to the beach. 

 

But yesterday, his parents told him he couldn’t fly it outside the house. 

 

“Why?” he asked. 

 

I’m not sure what they told him, but I’m sure they couldn’t put into words how Israel’s Prime Minister and Defense Minister have themselves threatened intensified bombing and forced evacuations of areas in Gaza where children are spotted flying kites. 

 

Because, after all, how do you explain to a 12-year-old that one of the world’s most powerful militaries is designating paper kites as “weapons of war” in a completely devastated area? 

https://x.com/MahaGaza/status/2091823635409346902

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My Sister Najah (AY) By Mike Odetalla of Beit Hanina, Palestine

Mike Hanini Odetalla

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My Sister Najah (AY)

By Mike Odetalla

 

As a small boy growing up in our village of Beit Hanina, Palestine, I was a mischievous child with an insatiable curiosity and an irrepressible desire to roam. The hills that encircled our village were my kingdom, and escaping the watchful eyes of my family became an art form that might well have made Harry Houdini proud.

 

I was the youngest of five children—two brothers and two sisters, all much older than I was. The sibling closest to me in age was my sister Najah, who was six years older. Because of that, and perhaps because she was the most patient, my mother often entrusted her with the daunting task of watching over me whenever she left the house.

 

My mother’s instructions were simple and direct: “Keep an eye on your brother and make sure he does not leave.”

 

Najah did her best, but I was determined.

 

I would wait patiently for the slightest distraction. Then, with my homemade slingshot clutched in one hand, I would slip outside, climb over the patio, leap onto the wall that separated our home from the neighbors’, and within moments I would be scaling the steep hill that rose behind our house.

 

Those hills were my paradise.

 

There, I flew homemade kites that danced against the blue Palestinian sky. I explored ancient caves that seemed filled with mystery and adventure. I stalked birds with my slingshot, imagining myself a great hunter. To a little boy, those hills were not merely part of the landscape—they were a vast and wondrous playground where I experienced some of the happiest moments of my childhood.

 

Eventually, my mother would return home and ask Najah the inevitable question.

“Did your brother give you any trouble?”

 

Unaware that I had vanished, Najah would answer confidently, “No, he is inside playing.”

 

But when my mother stepped into the house and found it empty, she knew immediately where I had gone.

 

Turning to my sister, she would scold her and issue a command she had repeated many times before:

 

“Go find your brother. And don’t hit him.”

 

Both Najah and I understood that the first part of the order would be obeyed. The second part was open to interpretation.

 

As Najah climbed the steep hill, her anger grew with every step. Not because she hated me, but because she knew she was the one who had gotten into trouble for my latest escape. Along the way, she would inevitably break off a thin switch from a nearby tree, preparing to administer justice.

 

At the top of the hill, she always knew exactly where to find me.

 

She would seize me by the ear, scold me fiercely, and swat me on the backside with the switch, paying little heed to our mother’s instructions.

 

The truth is, her punishment never hurt very much.

 

But I had learned a strategy of my own.

 

The moment she struck me, I would let out dramatic wails and sobs as though I were suffering unbearable agony. My exaggerated cries had the desired effect. Panic would spread across Najah’s face as she imagined what our mother would do if she believed that real harm had come to me.

 

In desperation, she would quickly begin negotiations.

 

“Please stop crying,” she would plead. “I will buy you a piece of Silvana chocolate if you promise not to tell Mother.”

 

Silvana chocolate was among the finest bribes a child could receive.

 

The tears would dry almost instantly.

 

We would then descend the hill together, our secret safely preserved between us, both of us knowing that the same adventure would likely be repeated again before long.

 

As the years passed, childhood gave way to adulthood. Life carried us to different places and eventually to different states. Yet distance did nothing to diminish the bond between us. In many ways, it strengthened it.

 

Whenever we were together, our conversations inevitably drifted back to those magical days in Palestine—to the hills of Beit Hanina, my daring escapes, and the cherished Silvana chocolates that sealed our conspiracies.

 

We laughed until tears filled our eyes.

 

What I did not fully appreciate as a child was that behind Najah’s scolding, her switch, and even her exasperation, there was a love as steadfast as the hills themselves. She protected me, worried about me, and carried the burden of responsibility placed upon her by our mother.

 

She was not merely my older sister.

 

She was my guardian, my accomplice, my confidante, and eventually my closest friend.

 

Ten years ago, my beloved sister Najah returned to her Creator.

 

With her passing, I lost far more than a sister.

 

I lost a treasured part of my childhood, the keeper of our shared memories, and one of the people who loved me most deeply in this world.

 

Yet whenever I close my eyes, I can still see her climbing that hill, a switch in one hand and determination in her stride, pretending to be angry while her heart overflowed with love.

 

And somewhere in that memory, I am once again a little boy in Beit Hanina—running free beneath the Palestinian sky, with my sister always finding her way to me.

 https://www.facebook.com/photo?fbid=10165969600031977&set=pcb.10165969600286977

Mike Hanini Odetalla with his beloved sister

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