Minor Detail Adania Shibli Quotes

Besides, sometimes it’s inevitable for the past to be forgotten, especially if the present is no less horrific;

Man, not the tank, shall prevail.

take a deep breath. Well, no going back now, not after crossing so many borders, military ones, geographical ones, physical ones, psychological ones, mental ones.

By the way, I hope I didn’t cause any awkwardness when I mentioned the incident with the soldier, or the checkpoint, or when I reveal that we are living under occupation here.

The borders imposed between things here are many. One must pay attention to them, and navigate them, which ultimately protects everyone from perilous consequences.

And again, a group of soldiers capture a girl, rape her, then kill her, twenty-five years to the day before I was born; this minor detail, which others might not give a second thought, will stay with me

Solitude is so forgiving of trespassed borders;

there are some who consider this way of seeing, which is to say, focusing intently on the most minor details, like dust on the desk or fly shit on a painting, as the only way to arrive at the truth and definitive proof of its existence.

Then I ask him if, as a Palestinian, I can enter these museums and archives? And he responds, before putting down the receiver, that he doesn’t see what would prevent me. And I don’t see what would prevent me either, except for my identity card.

Once I realized that I inevitably fail whenever I try to navigate borders, I decided to stay within the confines of my house as much as possible. And since this house has many windows, through which the neighbours and their children can easily see me, and catch me trespassing borders even when I’m in my own house, I hung the curtains, although I’ll inevitably forget to close them sometimes.

But since I do not love my life in particular, nor life in general, and at present any efforts on my part are solely channeled toward staying alive, I doubt that a diagnosis of narcissism would fully apply to me here.

Loneliness gradually turns to anxiety, as the sunlight fades and night begins to fall.

On hearing that, my colleague offers to lend me her blue identity card, since we’re all brothers and sisters in the end, and we look similar too, at least in the eyes of the soldiers at the checkpoint.

But the words do not emerge from my mouth. The silence between us stretches on, as vast as nature’s silence expanding around us, and tightens its grip,

And the situation has been like this for such a long time that there aren’t many people alive today who remember little details about what life was like before all this, like the detail about the wilting lettuce in an otherwise closed vegetable market, for example.

The borders imposed between things here are many. One must pay attention to them, and navigate them, which ultimately protects everyone from perilous consequences. This grants a person a sense of serenity, despite everything else.

suddenly fear descends on me. Or maybe it’s been inside me this entire time and simply strikes whenever it wants, like now, for instance,

The brand is called “Must,” made by the Sinokrot company in al-Khalil.

I see how mercilessly the wind is pulling at the grasses and trees, shaking their branches in every direction, while the leaves tremble and writhe back and forth, nearly ripping off as the wind viciously toys with them.

He replies that one day, during a patrol, they found the body of a young Bedouin girl in a nearby well, and explains to me that when Arabs are suspicious about a girl’s behavior, they kill her and throw her body in a well.

There are other maps lying under the one I’ve tossed there, including ones that show Palestine as it was until 1948, but I don’t open them this time. I’m acquainted with enough people who are originally from this area to have a sense of how many villages and cities there used to be between Yafa and Askalan, before they were wiped from the earth’s face not long ago.

open the Israeli map, and again study the route that Israelis usually take to the coast. So, after descending to the bottom of the valley on Highway 50, one must turn right onto Highway 1, and stay on it for a long time, without turning right or left. I examine the area along Highway 1, which, according to the map, appears to be primarily populated by settlements. The only two visible Palestinian villages are Abu Ghosh and Ein Rafa. I go back and open the map, which depicts Palestine until 1948, and let my eyes wander over it, moving between the names of the many Palestinian villages that were destroyed after the expulsion of their inhabitants that year.

Here, some might think that my dedication to work reflects a desire to cling to life, or a love for life despite the occupation’s attempts to destroy it, or the insistence that we have on this earth what makes life worth living. Well, I certainly cannot speak for anyone else, but in my case it’s rather that I am unable to evaluate situations rationally, and I don’t know what should or should not be done.

It’s been a long time since I’ve passed through here, and wherever I look, all the changes constantly reassert the absence of anything Palestinian: the names of cities and villages on road signs, billboards written in Hebrew, new buildings, even vast fields abutting the horizon on my left and right.

I keep listening, my ears trained to the sound of repeated bombings, and I feel a strange closeness with Gaza, as well as a desire to hear the shelling from nearby, and to touch motes of dust from the buildings being bombed. The absence of dust brings an awareness of how profoundly far I am from anything familiar, and how impossible it will be to return.

He lifted his gaze to the stars scattered across the sky, then to the peaks of the hills, and to the moon carving a path between them, toward the dark line of the western horizon.

hope I didn’t cause any awkwardness 60when I mentioned the incident with the soldier, or the checkpoint, or when I reveal that we are living under occupation here. Gunshots and military vehicle sirens, and sometimes the sound of helicopters, warplanes and shelling, the subsequent wail of ambulances; not only do these noises precede breaking news reports, but now they have to compete with the dog’s barking, too. And the situation has been like this for such a long time that there aren’t many people alive today who remember little details about what life was like before all this,

again, a group of soldiers capture a girl, rape her, then kill her, twenty-five years to the day before I was born; this minor detail, which others might not give a second thought, will stay with me forever; in spite of myself and how hard I try to forget it, the truth of it will never stop chasing me, given how fragile I am,

And again, a group of soldiers capture a girl, rape her, then kill her, twenty-five years to the day before I was born; this minor detail, which others might not give a second thought, will stay with me forever; in spite of myself and how hard I try to forget it, the truth of it will never stop chasing me, given how fragile I am, as weak as the trees out there past the windowpane. There may in fact be nothing more important than this little detail, if one wants to arrive at the complete truth, which, by leaving out the girl’s story, the article does not reveal.

Time keeps passing, without me reaching a decision on what I ought to do.

Intermittent wailing sounds brushed his ears, hesitantly, and the hills echoed the sound, making it impossible to determine which direction it was coming from. They seemed to be part of the darkness that crouched on the sandy expanses unfolding in every direction.

Several seconds passed in which no one uttered a word, and the tension swelled until he spoke again, announcing that he was presenting them with two options for a vote: either they send the girl to work in the camp’s kitchen, or they all have their way with her.

As for the incident mentioned in the article, the fact that the specific detail that piqued my interest was the date on which it occurred was perhaps because there was nothing really unusual about the main details, especially when compared with what happens daily in a place dominated by the roar of occupation and ceaseless killing.

I’m completely exhausted, since I barely slept last night. I’m so tired of my reckless behavior and of the state I get myself into, the fear, anxiety, and agitation.

As soon 58as I see a border, I either race towards it and leap over, or cross it stealthily, with a step. Neither of these two behaviours is conscious, or rooted in a premeditated desire to resist borders; it’s more like sheer stupidity. To be quite honest, once I cross a border, I fall into a deep pit of anxiety.

because there was nothing really unusual about the main details, especially when compared with what happens daily in a place dominated by the roar of occupation and ceaseless killing. And bombing that building is just one example. Even rape. That doesn’t only happen during war, but also in everyday life. Rape, or murder, or sometimes both;

This requires that we go after the enemy, instead of waiting for him to appear, for ‘If someone comes to kill you, rise and kill him first.

By the way, I hope I didn’t cause any awkwardness when I mentioned the incident with the soldier, or the checkpoint, or when I reveal that we are living under occupation here. Gunshots and military vehicle sirens, and sometimes the sound of helicopters, warplanes, and shelling, the subsequent wail of ambulances; not only do these noises precede breaking news reports, but now they have to compete with the dog’s barking, too. And the situation has been like this for such a long time that there aren’t many people alive today who remember little details about what life was like before all this, like the detail about the wilting lettuce in an otherwise closed vegetable market, for example.

But despite this, there are some who consider this way of seeing, which is to say, focusing intently on the most minor details, like dust on the desk or fly shit on a painting, as the only way to arrive at the truth and definitive proof of its existence. There are even art historians who make these same claims. All right, they don’t exactly claim to notice fly shit on a painting, but they do make a point of focusing on the least significant details, not the most significant ones, in order to determine, for example, whether a painting is an original or a copy. According to them, when art forgers imitate a painting, they pay attention to major, significant details, like the roundness of the subject’s face or the position of the body, and these they reproduce precisely. However, they rarely pay attention to little details like earlobes or fingernails or toenails, which is why they ultimately fail to perfectly replicate the painting.

sometimes it’s inevitable for the past to be forgotten, especially if the present is no less horrific;

And suddenly, something like a sharp flame pierces my hand, then my chest, followed by the distant sound of gunshots.

Since I lack the ability to evaluate things rationally, situations like these have a severe impact on me; they shake and destabilize me to the point that I can no longer fathom what is permissible and what is not, and I end up trespassing even more borders, worse ones than before.

He replies that one day, during a patrol, they found the body of a young Bedouin girl in a nearby well, and explains to me that when Arabs are suspicious about a girl’s behavior, they kill her and throw her body in a well. Such a shame, he adds, that they have such customs.

Desde que tive ciência da minha incapacidade consumada de me mover de acordo com os limites, resolvi, finalmente, permanecer dentro dos limites da minha casa, tanto quanto possível. Agora, uma vez que a casa tem muitas janelas, e, portanto, não custaria nada aos vizinhos e seus três filhos me verem transgredindo os limites, mesmo dentro da minha casa, instalei cortinas, muito embora soubesse que, algumas vezes, me esquecerei de fechá-las.

Não há como descartar a probabilidade de uma conexão entre os dois fatos, ou alguma ligação oculta entre eles, por analogia às relações que os seres humanos encontram entre as plantas, por exemplo, quando alguém arranca um punhado de ervas pela raiz acreditando que dessa forma se livraria dela para sempre, apenas para a mesma erva voltar a nascer no mesmo lugar vinte e cinco anos depois.

I keep listening, my ears trained to the sound of repeated bombings, and I feel a strange closeness with Gaza, as well as a desire to hear the shelling from nearby, and to touch motes of dust from the buildings being bombed. The absence of dust brings an awareness of how profoundly far I am from anything familiar, and how impossible it will be to return. And so, before I’m completely consumed by anxiety and horror, I go back to bed and soon fall asleep.

Meskipun berhasil menjelajahi area dan menemukan tempat-tempat tersembunyi pada saat patroli siang, mereka tidak kunjung menemukan jejak para penyusup. Bukit-bukit pasir yang mengelilingi mereka di segala arah bungkam seribu bahasa, enggan menyingkap apa pun selain jejak roda kendaraan mereka sendiri.

Tempat yang sekarang terlihat tandus ini, yang tidak menyimpan apa pun selain para penyusup—orang-orang Badui dan untanya—, pernah dilewati nenek moyang kita ribuan tahun lalu…. Tidak ada yang berhak atas tanah ini dari kita setelah mereka masa bodoh dan menelantarkannya selama berabad-abad hingga akhirnya hanya ditempati orang-orang Badui dan kawanan ternak mereka.

Berada di sini dan mengusir mereka adalah kewajiban kita.

Peristiwa-peristiwa di masa lalu tidak bisa diabaikan begitu saja hanya karena peristiwa peristiwa di masa kini tidak kalah mengerikan.

Mungkin memang tidak ada hal yang lebih penting dari detail kecil seperti ini. Detail kecil yang bisa menjadi jalan untuk mengetahui kebenaran utuh tentang kisah si gadis. Detail kecil yang sayangnya justru tidak diungkap dalam artikel di koran pagi itu.

Aku membiarkan kedua mataku menghayati semua yang terhampar di hadapanku sebagai oleh-oleh untuk para rekan kerjaku yang sejak bertahun-tahun lamanya masih menunggu keluarnya surat izin berkunjung ke daerah asal mereka.

Tugas ini benar-benar di luar kapasitasku. Dibunuhnya seorang gadis seperempat abad persis seperempat abad sebelum hari kelahiranku bukan berarti kematiannya lantas menjadi urusanku dan menjadi bagian hidupku sehingga aku punya kewajiban untuk menceritakannya.

He replies, in a tone betraying that his patience has nearly expired, that they're in Tel Aviv and in the northwest Negev. Then I ask him if, as a Palestinian, I can enter these museums and archives? And he responds, before putting down the receiver, that he doesn't see what would prevent me. And I don't see what would prevent me either, except for my identity card. The site of the incident, and the museums and archives documenting it, are located outside Area C, according to the military's division of the country, and not only that, but they're quite far away, close to the border with Egypt, while the longest trip I can embark on with my green identity card, which shows I'm from Area A, is from my house to my new job. Legally, though, anyone from Area A can go to Area B, if there aren't exceptional political or military circumstances that prevent one from doing so. But nowadays, such exceptional circumstances are in fact the norm, and many people from Area A don't even consider going to Area B. In recent years, I haven't even gone as far as Oalandiya checkpoint, which separates Area A and Area B, so how can I even think of going to a place so far that it's almost in Area D?

I may get lost in the folds of a scene which fills me with a great feeling of alienation, seeing all the changes that have befallen it. It’s been a long time since I’ve passed through here, and wherever I look, all the changes constantly reassert the absence of anything Palestinian:

There it is, in real life, after years of absence, years in which it was nothing more than pale blue on a map. And now the sea, not the signs, begins to lead me toward the city, and as I drive on this bleak road, passing factories and auto repair shops, I cannot resist glancing at its trembling blueness every few seconds, until I almost cause an accident.

There are some people who navigate borders masterfully, who never trespass, but these people are few and I’m not one of them. As soon as I see a border, I either race toward it and leap over, or cross it stealthily, with a step.

we’re greeted by absolute darkness.

Toch zijn er mensen die in die logica − dus dat je je concentreert op de meest futiele details zoals stof op een bureau of vliegenpoepjes op een schilderij − de enige manier zien om de waarheid te doorgronden. Misschien zien ze het zelfs als het definitieve bewijs van die waarheid. Er zijn kunsthistorici die dat beweren. Goed, zij beweren weliswaar niet dat ze vliegenpoepjes op een schilderij zien, maar wel dat ze, als ze bijvoorbeeld moeten bepalen of een schilderij echt is of niet, enkel kijken naar de minst belangrijke details. In hun visie richten kunstvervalsers zich op de hoofdkenmerken, zoals de ronde vorm van een gezicht, of een lichaamshouding, die ze vervolgens perfect nabootsen. Maar ze kijken zelden naar de kleine, marginale details, zoals oorbellen, of de nagels van vingers of tenen. Daardoor slagen ze er niet in het kunstwerk in al zijn facetten te reproduceren. Anderen beweren, op basis van hetzelfde idee, dat je een voorval of een object precies kunt reconstrueren, zelfs als je het niet zelf hebt meegemaakt, simpel door te kijken naar de kleine details die anderen misschien onbelangrijk vinden, zoals dat in oude fabels vaak gebeurt.

Besides, sometimes it's inevitable for the past to be forgotten, especially if the present is no less horrific