Story starts at 10:41
Any military action that takes place where injury or death to civilians is an obvious consequence cannot be considered justified. The war happening in Gaza at the moment must stop because of the proximity of so many innocent people, mostly children. I feel deeply saddened when I see, on my TV screen, the enormous suffering in Gaza. People there cannot escape the killing. They are trapped in an area from which there is no way out.
In a previous podcast, I spoke about my brother, Nick Bilbrough, and the wonderful work his charity organization, called HandsUp, carries out in and around Palestine – but mostly in what we call in English, the Gaza Strip. Through video connections or linkups with schools in Gaza especially, Nick Bilbrough gave school children a window on the world. He provided them with the opportunity to create plays and stories, which the children themselves wrote and produced. These plays were initially just a way to practise their English, but ultimately, it became a means to allow these children to express their feelings about their lives – their hopes for the future and their fears of their future.
Nick Bilbrough's wonderful work at HandsUp is obviously no longer currently possible in the present climate of war. But today I'd like to share with you my own story I wrote in dedication to Nick Bilbrough, the team at HandsUp, and to all those children suffering so terribly in this atrocious war.
This is going to be a B1 to B2 level podcast with more focus today on B2 vocabulary. Today is just part 1 of the story, and I'll be offering the complete audioscript at my website www.practisingenglish.com. So here we go…
Dunya Yousef Hussan AL-BARGHOUTI sat on the white sand and looked out across the deep blue of the Mediterranean Sea. Somehowb2, at last, she had found comfortb2 here. That feeling of her insidesb2 being pulled and torn by iron hands, a sensationb2 of pain so powerful it had made her dizzyb2 and even physicallyb2 sick, was now reduced to the gentle riseb2 and fallb2 of her chestb2 following the rhythm of the rollingb2 waves.
Then, the thoughts and memories returnedb2, but this time she was ready for them. They came gradually,b2 obeyingb2 the slow rhythmb2 of the breathing sea.
**************
'My dear brother, Abu Jamal, there are things you just do not understand!' said Yousef Hussan Omar, and he walked around the courtyard, his hands in his rich black hair, his expression,b2 hardb2 and serious.
Dunya sat on a rug in the corner almost hidden by the rubber plants, drinking a glass of honey lemonade and watching the sceneb2 in front of her. Perhaps her father did not even know she was there. Usually, when he had these arguments with her uncle, he would stareb2 at Dunya until she took the hintb2 and went to her room.
The warm autumn sun shone through the opening above the courtyard but, it was cool and shady on the ground floor of their house. Dunya's mother sat on cushions, a blanket over her knees, and her back against the coloured ceramic tiles* of the courtyard* wall. Next to her, there was a book, which she put asideb2 when the argument had begun.
Abu Jamal, sat on a chair, his elbows resting on his knees, a worried look on his face. He picked up his glass of mintb2 tea, but did not drink from it.
'Brother!' said Abu Jamal, looking down at the marble* floor. 'Everything to me seems quite simple. May Allah give you the wisdomb2 to see the truth, before our beautiful home and family are splitb2 in two.'
'The truth?' shouted Yousef. 'The truth is that our dear dead father (from God we come and to God we return) left half the house to me, and the other half to you. That's the truth!'
'But,' interrupted Abu Jamal calmly, 'that doesn't mean drawing a line down the middle. We have always lived here. Your family one side of the house and my family the other, but we have shared the courtyard and we have shared the reception room. We should continue to share. Only in that way, can we all live in peace.'
Yousef looked up at the opening over the courtyard and raised his hands high, as though searching for inspirationb2 and guidanceb2 from Allah himself.
'Exactly! Of course we'll continue to share!' he said. 'I'm just saying that the reception room, which is at the entrance on my side of the house (and always has been), should belong to me in the testament - officially. Furthermore, I am the older brother. But meanwhile, I'll let you use the reception room, whenever you wish.'
'My brother, Yousef, is all generosity',b2 answered Abu Jamal. 'But if we are to draw a line down the middle of the house, why should we not draw a line down the middle of the reception room, so that half the room also belongs to me – officially?'
Yousef's hands went back to his hair. 'Brother, would you draw lines down all the rooms? Perhaps you would draw a line through my bathroom! Am I to draw a line down the middle of my toothbrush too?'
Keeping very quiet, Dunya smiled into her honey lemonade. Then her mother lifted her head, her long black hair falling over her shoulders. Dunya gazedb2 at her mother and thought how beautiful she always looked.
'Yousef,' she said smiling. 'Perhaps we should leave this argument for another day. I think we can feel assuredb2 that my dear brother-in-lawb2, Abu Jamel, has no intentionb2 of drawing any lines in your bathroom, and least of all on your toothbrush, on which he makes no claimsb2 at all, neitherb2 as a possessionb2, and even more wiselyb2, norb2 as something to share.
'We are in difficult times. The bombingb2 is becoming worse. We should pray to Allah to ask his protectionb2 of our home, one of the most ancient and beautiful in all of Gaza City.'
Those words were the last words Dunya's mother ever spoke on this Earth.
*****************
There was a scream above. Dunya lifted her gazeb2 from the sea and watched a seagull float on the cool breeze.
When she loweredb2 her eyes once more to the waves, she remembered a time a year earlier in the same courtyard at home sitting on her grandfather's lap.b2 Dunya was nine years old then, and her mother would say she was too old to sit on people's laps.b2 But she felt safe and secureb2 there on the knees of this big smiling man, his face lined with wisdomb2 and the experience of so many years. He was called Hussan al-Rachid, or usually just al-Rachid, which means one who is always good.
On this particularb2 morning, al-Rachid sang a song to his granddaughter.
'You know, Dunya,' he said. 'We can sometimes feel trappedb2 here in Gaza. Israel on two sides, Egypt on another… Then there is the sea. Even there, we cannot travel far without being stopped. It is a causeb2 for much sadnessb2 and frustrationb2 among our people.
'I remember one day I went out on a boat with my friend, Khalid, the fisherman. I used to help him sometimes when I was not working, with pulling in the nets. I enjoyed it. On one occasion, I remember the water was very clear, and the surfaceb2 of the ocean was like a mirror. You could even see the seabed, despite the great depth of the water. Suddenly, we saw something huge, bright red and orange moving far below the boat. I glancedb2 at my friend.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It is al-Lajabu, the Wonder,” answered Khalid. “He is a giant octopus, yet he is different from all the others as has seven legs. He is the prince of the sea around here. He comes and goes where and when he pleases. He is master in his own land. He can never be caught in a net, and we would not want to catch him. For us he representsb2 the freedomb2 we have never had.”'
'A giant octopus with seven legs?' said Dunya astonishedb2.
'Yes, it is a curious thing, isn't it? It reminded me of a song by the Beatles. Have you heard of the Beatles, Dunya?'
'I think so,' she answered. 'Weren't they a pop group?'
'Indeed, they were,' replied al-Rachid, 'and very famous in Europe when I was a boy. Although, here in Gaza we didn't hear much pop music – even then. But, as a teenager, a little older than you, another friend of mine had some Beatles records and even a record player. I used to go to his house to listen to them.
'I'll try to sing you the song. Your English is good, isn't it, Dunya?
'Yes, grandfather. I think so. At school, we write plays and stories in English and act them online. I've learnt a lot of English recently.'
'You're a bright girl, Dunya,' said al-Rachid and he looked at her fondly.b2 You know, I don't remember all the words but it went something like this - and he began to sing:
'I'd like to be under the sea,
In an octopus's garden in the shade.
He'd let us in, knows where we've been
In his octopus's garden in the shade.
We would be warm below the storm,
In our little hide-away beneathb2 the waves.
Resting our head on the seabed,
In an octopus's garden, near a cave.
We would sing and dance around,
Because we know we can't be found.
I'd like to be under the sea,
In an octopus's garden with you.'
'The octopus's garden sounds like a lovely place to be, grandfather!' said Dunya.
Al-Rachid looked deep into her eyes, and he noddedb2 his grey head.
'Yes, it does, doesn't it, Dunya? It certainly does.'
Go to part 2 of the Octopus's Garden...
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