The Electronic Intifada 8 January 2024
Kites quoting Refaat Alareer’s poem “If I Must Die” could be seen during a recent demonstration in California.
For quite a while, I avoided Refaat’s classes.
They loomed with a reputation. Homework piled up, laughter absent.
He appeared to be a strict figure, draped in crumby seriousness. “What a cruel monster,” I thought.
Yet tales circulated about the brilliance of his students, their compelling stories and superior writing skills. Slowly, my perception shifted, leading me to eventually enroll in his comparative literature class.
In our sole lecture together, Refaat, standing tall but with a slight smile, explored the intricacies of parody. He humorously confessed, “Don’t mind my spelling; no breakfast yet.”
However, the next day brought an unexpected twist – Refaat was gone, having secured a scholarship for a Ph.D.
“How could he give up on us like that?” I thought. “What a cruel monster.”
During the era when Soundcloud was trendy, I immersed myself in a personal musical revolution.
I was not a seasoned critic, mind you, but the naive intellectual wannabe, armed with the pride of having barely delved into two books.
On one such exploration, a particular clip caught my attention. It featured Abdel Rahman el-Abnudi, a renowned Egyptian poet, narrating a story in poetic form with his captivating tone.
The narrative unfolded around Hirajy – who had ventured far from his wife Fatma and their two children – in pursuit of employment.
The exchange of letters between Hirajy and Fatma (or Fatna, as she was known) delved into the intricacies of livelihood, family dynamics and the essence of home. I posted a link to it on Facebook.
A few minutes later, a message arrived in my inbox from Refaat, who was nothing but a Facebook friend back then.
The message bore the weight of emotion: “Tonight, I weep alone.”
In the ensuing conversation, the pixels on our screens blurred the distance between us as we delved into the depths of his longing for Gaza, how he ached for his wife and children.
Then we stopped talking for almost two years.
Yet fate wove a generous thread, intertwining our paths repeatedly following that two year gap.
I turned the pages of books he recommended. I glued my eyes to screens flickering with films he recommended.
Charming and captivating
In the quiet absorption of his influences, the revelation emerged that he was more than a mentor; he was becoming a significant part of my world. Still he bore the markings of a subtle, yet undeniable cruel monster.
Days unfolded, filled with a series of training courses, seminars and creative writing workshops where his presence became a constant. In every gathering, he assumed the role of a charming storyteller, effortlessly captivating those around him.
His attentiveness manifested itself in the intricate details he absorbed – the birthdays of students, the names of their family members, even the names of their children.
A ritual of sharing food became his signature, a gesture extended at every conceivable occasion.
When Nadya’s journey to Egypt beckoned, he orchestrated a heartfelt goodbye party.
Abdelrahim’s scholarship celebration wasn’t overlooked either. It was marked by another heartfelt farewell.
When Ahmad left Gaza to travel, Refaat was there, offering a warm embrace.
Beyond the festive moments, his keen perception transcended the spoken word. A subtle sadness embedded in one of my tweets didn’t escape him; he effortlessly discerned the unspoken.
Through ups and downs, he didn’t merely offer words but tangible actions. Calls, not just in joyous times but in the depths of hardship, demonstrated his unwavering support.
In the ebb and flow of life’s moments, a bond flourished, transcending the formalities of mentorship. Refaat became a friend.
That was a notable shift for someone like me, who seldom forges friendships easily.
Monthly meetings became our ritual, woven with our shared love for food, the Friends sitcom and the Pun Intended card game. Figs and grapes symbolized affection, each gift a silent expression.
Our conversations were painted with stories of Shujaiya, his neighborhood in Gaza City. We heard about his grandmother Kamla and the mysterious Fady Bakroun.
As we heard tens of stories about the character Fady, I shared a whimsical notion with Ahmad – Refaat’s student and close friend – that Fady was, in fact, Refaat.
Shortly before Abdelrahim, my husband, left for the US, there was a quiet conversation between him and Refaat. Words exchanged in a hushed tone revealed that I had once made Refaat weep alone.
In that shared moment, a silent agreement for revenge was sealed.
One month ago, a room in Laramie, Wyoming echoed with Abdelrahim’s solitary weeping.
Israeli warplanes had silenced Refaat.
I could see Refaat, enjoying the aftermath of his revenge from a hidden corner.
The thought crossed my mind – “what a cruel monster” – as he relished his mischief.
Eman Basher is a writer, teacher and mother in Gaza.
