The Little Things

Zurich is cold in January. The raclette and coffee at the airport were expensive,                                                                                                                         but the city was pretty, an obsidian lake and a broken sapphire sky; a sun with                                                                                                                           no warmth but lots of light. Our Airbnb host met us exactly on time, coming                                                                                                                                   out of the apartment to let us in the gate, ignoring our earlier door knocks.  We                                                                                                                       were on the way to Rome, via Milan, Tirano and the Bernina Express across                                                                                                                                 the Alps, then to Istanbul, for a term of teaching abroad. We wandered the                                                                                                                      cobblestone city for a while. We bought chocolates and little Swiss Army knives                                                                                                                            - one for each of the four of us.  The girls have them to this day. Mine was                                                                                                                          confiscated - it was part of my key ring - at a security check for a hockey game                                                                                                                        years later.  The blade was little and dull, about an inch long, hardly sharp                                                                                                                                enough to prick a finger, let alone make a meaningful, or purposeful cut. 

The apartment was strange and sweet and small. A ground floor - I think? - on                                                                                                                            a quiet street, not far from the lake. A short walk to the train station.  Two                                                                                                                                              rooms, low ceilings.  Cat-print cushions. Old Hollywood posters; the poetics                                                                                                                                    of bricolage. Straight in, a bathroom to the right, immediately off the little                                                                                                                                 lobby, with an old chair and tiny artefacts on old desks, magnets on the fridge,                                                                                                                         frames on the wall. Audrey Hepburn + Cat, embroidered in bold colours on a                                                                                                                            pillow. Two bedrooms, pinwheeling off a main room - a combination of                                                                                                                                     kitchen, living room and dining room.  Everything just curated enough to be a                                                                                                                        modest ad in a local city magazine.  In the dining room - in the very middle of                                                                                                                  everything - a table.  

The girls - little, tired, but with new energy to take this new thing and place in                                                                                                                                 - scattered. Backpacks dropped, shoes off, jackets and mitts and hats on the                                                                                                                                 floor. A new, little soundtrack from all corners of the apartment now:                                                                                                                                      “ewwww,”  “so cute” “Is that a butterfly collection?” “It smells funny” “I want                                                                                                                                     that bed.”  “Can I put my lego there?” And so on. وهكذا⹁ وهكذا. The table in the                                                                                                                                   middle of the room was artfully piled with little things. Kitchen things, eating                                                                                                                                                things.  Dried flowers. Some books.   Art. Travel.  Zurich. Switzerland things.                                                                                                                                                 It had a metal top, sloped from each side to a drain near the bottom. A small,                                                                                                                            narrow channel, all around.  A solid base. A Medical examiner’s table, an                                                                                                                                   autopsy table, a coroner’s table.  I stared. Jen stared.  

We didn’t tell the girls of course. One would have been immensely and                                                                                                                            immediately fascinated at the macabre nature of this thing in the middle of our                                                                                                                       room, and that we were now eating our cereal at. The other would have paled,                                                                                                                         declared immediately that we (A), leave; (B), remove the table from any possible                                                                                                                 perspective where she might see it, or (C), cover it with a large enough blanket                                                                                                             (impossible - it was huge), where she would give it side-eye and walk around                                                                                                                               the edges of the room not looking at it for three days.  It stayed, and so did we,                                                                                                                         doing little things in little Zurich, waiting for our train to Chur, and then across                                                                                                                              the mountains.  We stayed, eating meals out of our little coroner’s table. 

Today, maybe? I don’t know anymore. In Gaza, Dr. Hani Bseiso, at a kitchen                                                                                                                                   table, in a room with little things, in a house with cushions and curtains, and an                                                                                                                 armchair, and cold bright light streaming in from windows, and surrounded by                                                                                                                         tanks and Israeli soldiers, amputated the leg of his 16-year-old niece, Ahed.                                                                                                                                     He used a saw, and a needle and thread.

I downloaded a video of this scene - after the amputation, because it felt                                                                                                                            important to have, to watch. In it, a young girl lies on a table, she blinks and turns                                                                                                                                   to the camera. A hand reaches down to brush her cheek. A tear, maybe?                                                                                                                                            Her right leg bandaged by the knee. Six men - I think? - attend to her. The                                                                                                                                 camera pans left. A bottle on the table, a blue bag. A young man with an Adidas                                                                                                                    hoodie brushes her face, looks down and smiles at her.

This was the first thing I saw today in the social media litany.  Wake up. Stay in                                                                                                                             bed. Check the feed.  Sit up. Check the feed.  Make some coffee. Check the                                                                                                                                 Feed.  Check. Check. Check.  Like. Like. Share. Share. Like.  Break apart. 

It’s the little things now, today, then, tomorrow, that I cannot look at anymore.                                                                                                                                          I look at the kitchen table I built, that we had dinner at. That the cat jumps on.                                                                                                                                Piled with books, a few letters. A bank statement. A bottle of vitamins. A rock                                                                                                                                  my nephew painted with “I Love you” on it. My little daughter, a year older than                                                                                                                                 Ahed, sits at it, in a black BTS hoodie, eating a cupcake. It’s cold outside,                                                                                                                                         in Ottawa, in January. 

I look at the little cardboard box on it, full of my not-so-little daughter’s crochet                                                                                                                     supplies. A kufi she was hoping to make for her uncle (it’s too small); spools of                                                                                                                                      yarn from her Grandmother’s secret stash.  Needles. Thread. A sharp pair of                                                                                                                           scissors. 

I condemn chocolates and Swiss Army knives. I condemn raclette and                                                                                                                                 expensive coffee. I condemn key-rings and cat cushions, and desks, and Audrey                                                                                                                 Hepburn. I condemn butterflies, and butterfly collections. And I condemn                                                                                                                                   pillows and dried flowers.  Trains, too. I condemn cobblestone streets. I                                                                                                                                    condemn blunt saws and sharp scalpels, and purposeful cuts. I condemn                                                                                                                               houses, and rooms, and cameras, and bags, and bottles and hoodies. I condemn                                                                                                                       yarn and needles, and rocks that say I love you. I condemn language. All those                                                                                                                             little things.