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  TLAXCALA : Vilken hand ...  
De dagar då storstrejker utlystes var de tvungna att promenera, ibland i timmar. De var ofta borta och när de återvände var de utmattade. Min mor brukade kasta sig på sängen och min far brukade under långa perioder dela sin tid mellan att hosta och att gråta.
My father used what remained of the family savings to treat my mother’s aggressive illness. He hired a taxi that accompanied them to clinics, hospitals and pharmacies. On days when general strikes were announced, they had to walk, at times for hours. They were frequently absent, and when they returned, they were exhausted. My mother would throw herself on her bed, and my father would sit for prolonged periods dividing his time between coughing and crying.
Mais ma mère s'est encore affaiblie et avec le temps elle ne pouvait pas bouger sans de terribles douleurs. Mes parents ont décidé qu'ils ne pouvaient plus nous laisser seuls dans notre quartier qui était devenu très dangereux. Ils nous ont donc envoyés vers des endroits «sûrs » : la maison de parents ou d'amis, et à un moment, dans une petite hutte au milieu d'un verger sans eau courante, sans électricité, où nous vivions dans la peur continue d'être découverts et peut-être tués par des soldats israéliens.
  TLAXCALA : Vilken hand ...  
Flyktingar var ursinniga över att den stackars kvinnan skulle begravas efter militärens order och att hon ända in i graven följdes av ockupanternas ögon, deras gevär, stridsvagnar och en militärhelikopter som svävade ovanför. Ungdomar började kasta stenar och soldater svarade med kulor och tårgas.
Nuseirat was under a curfew, and the Israeli army agreed to allow her burial on the condition that only the immediate family was to be present under the monitoring of Israeli soldiers. We arrived at the graveyard, carrying the coffin and were soon joined by Mariam, Zarefah’s mother, who came running into the graveyard calling out her daughter’s name. We began digging, but neighbors peeking through their windows quickly concluded that Zarefah has died and was being buried. My mother was a beloved neighbor. She was particularly adored among the older women of the camp, whom Zarefah treated with untold kindness. “Allahu Akbar,” resonated a voice, coming from one of the refugee homes. “Um Anwar has died” cried another. Within minutes, shouts of “God is Great” echoed throughout the camp. People appeared from everywhere, carrying Palestinian flags; women, children, old men and women, and youth, all descending onto the graveyard. Refugees were outraged that the poor woman was to be buried based on military instruction, and was followed, even to her grave, under the watchful eyes of the occupiers, their guns, tanks and a hovering army helicopter. Youth began throwing stones, and soldiers responded with bullets and teargas. But the people were not to disperse easily this time. Thousands of them ensured that Zarefah would depart the earth and enter Paradise in the company of friends, treated as a martyr should be treated. As an ambulance hauled some of the wounded to the local clinic, Zarefah was lowered in the ground amidst chants and Quranic verses, recited en mass. Shouts of “Allahu Akbar” were intermingled with the whimpers and prayers of the crowd, the sound bombs, the teargas, and the hovering helicopter. My mother was 42-years-old when she died.