Warsaw, 1943, Gaza, 2023
The Arabic phrase for the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising is “Warsaw Intifada.”
I do not know how my ancestors died. Perhaps trapped within the Warsaw Ghetto walls, Or shot for stealing a piece of bread, Or gassed in Treblinka. I will never know, So I imagine. I imagine the Warsaw Intifada. Organizing underground meetings with Jewish comrades, Gunning down nazi invaders with smuggled pistols, Carrying martyred relatives to makeshift graves, Staring down the barrel of a tank with rocks in hand, Tearing down the walls of occupation, Defending the only homes they ever knew. I also imagine the Germans and Poles lounging in their stolen homes. Reading propagandized newspaper headlines, Scorning those terrorists who dared to fight back, Dragging lawn chairs overlooking the Ghetto, Applauding the fascist assaults, Chanting in the streets for those “human animals” to be “erased from the face of the Earth.” The same dehumanizing words spoken today on distant lands, Repeated by many of those “human animals” who would not be erased. Would my ancestors join their calls? Would they sigh with exacerbation for “it’s just too complicated?” Or would they stand by my side, screaming “Intifada, revolution?” What would they do today? What are you doing today?