Smoke rises from a building hit by an air strike on 25 July. Photograph: Getty Images.
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Tomorrow the war ends: diary of a writer in Gaza City

“Although I ask my family what date it is every day, and I look it up myself whenever I can, I always forget within a few short moments.”

Although I ask my family what date it is every day, and I look it up myself whenever I can, I always forget within a few short moments.

And so I didn’t exactly know the day, or the date, or the time. My phone was out of power. The night was as normal as any other in Gaza, or so I imagined it to be. No electricity, true, but this is nothing new. Perhaps it’s new for the length of the outage to stretch from hours into days, but still this is normal. There were no sounds of bombardment, or gunfire, or screams, only the sounds of drone aircraft. This, too, has become a normal occurrence, as these planes always circle above the skies of Gaza.

I sat in my room, thinking of this idea of normality. The house was quiet, enough to hear the sound of the night breathing between your limbs. Staring into the darkness of the room, you can avoid thinking of any images of death past or present that you might have seen.

The electrical current returned, though I heard no sounds of rejoicing as used to happen. The noise of televisions did not come from the walls of our neighbours’ houses. All I heard was my mother’s footfalls as she ran to plug in the refrigerator and check that we had water. The beautiful thing is that my mother’s running is something normal - it happens every day when the power comes back. Each of my siblings grabs his or her laptop or smart phone with a sigh, hoping to make use of the minutes of current to play, read, or write on their social media accounts about Gaza. This happens every day.

I convince myself, this time, that we are going about our daily lives, and that this sudden war will end tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, or the day after the day after tomorrow. I don’t know how long the thought had managed to settle in my mind before it flipped head over heels as the whole house shook. The books flew off their shelves, and the sound of a harsh blast made me jump from my bed and head into the living room. I asked, at the same time as the rest of my family: “Where is the strike? It must be close by…”

In a single second, the idea of normality is gone. We sat together, looking at each other, unable to cry or comment. One of us flipped through the channels, and we watched in grief and pain.

The sounds of the bombardment grew louder, as each one of us made a visible effort to withstand it. The closer each explosion came, the more we were struck by a single thought: is it our turn next?

When will there be a truce? Will there be a truce?

Not a day goes by without each of us asking that question. Each of us wants to go about our lives, just as we all know that everyone in Gaza wants to go about their lives.

I still don’t know what day it is, or the date, or the time. I have moved beyond the cycle of time. Day and night are no longer fixed. In war, you sleep at any time and are awakened at all times. It is war, and nothing else, and this is what we don’t want to admit. My mother goes to work and returns with two narratives, the first of life in the city that has gone to sleep and the other of the struggle to exist. In the streets there are houses transformed into ashes. The alleyways of the city are filled with piles of rubble, with memories of entire families buried beneath them. On another sidewalk, people search for food to give their children, urging their hearts to beat faster to show all generations that the meaning of survival is life.

I live in the middle of the city. It’s no more secure than any other region of Gaza City, yet people threatened with evacuation have travelled here. Along the street, houses have swelled with the displaced. Those who have fled look for help, settling by the dozens in storerooms and closets. They spend their time looking for a resolution that is surely close by, telling their children: tomorrow, the war ends. In doing so, they repeat what our grandparents said after 1948: tomorrow, we return.

Every person thus uprooted gathers two forms of sadness in his or her face. The first is the one we all experience, with each bombardment or loss. The second is the sadness of a personal loss, whether of stones or of flesh and blood, for the stones gave them shelter and contained the story of their lives.

Tomorrow the war ends. They win out over their sadness with this idea, and draw from it hope for tomorrow, a tomorrow that might return them to the threshold of the houses where they were born. They might not manage to forget the moment when their hearts were shattered into so many fragments, as they fled under the sounds of the bombardment, whether they were from Shajaiyya, Zaytoun, Tufah, or any place in all-too-small Gaza.

Tomorrow the war ends, and the city breathes in the mornings once again. Its mosques and churches go back to their prayers, as the city bids farewell to its martyrs. The sadness is broken by hope, which cannot help but rise again. The war will end, and the martyrs will guard the gate of heaven against any more deaths. The young will go to school carrying their bags, and run about in the yard. The war will end, and the wandering salesmen will go back to hawking their wares. The city’s famed hummus and falafel stores will open, and the Zawiya market will be filled with vendors and shoppers. People will buy their flour and their spices, and go on. Tomorrow the war ends, and the chroniclers will write at the top of their pages that the date the 2014 Gaza War ended was—

Translated from the Arabic by Andrew Leber

Najlaa Ataallah was born in 1987 and lives in Gaza. She has published two novels, one novel for young adults, and a collection of short stories. She is a contributor to The Book of Gaza: A City in Short Fiction, published by Comma Press

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Don’t worry, Old Etonian Damian Lewis calls claims of privilege in acting “nonsense!”

The actor says over-representation of the privately educated at the top of acting is nothing to worry about – and his many, many privately educated peers agree.

In the last few years, fears have grown over the lack of working class British actors. “People like me wouldn’t have been able to go to college today,” said Dame Julie Walters. “I could because I got a full grant. I don’t know how you get into it now.”

Last year, a report revealed that half of Britain’s most successful actors were privately educated. The Sutton Trust found that 42 per cent of Bafta winners over all time were educated independently. 67 per cent of British winners in the best leading actor, actress and director categories at the Oscars attended fee-paying schools – and just seven per cent of British Oscar winners were state educated.

“That’s a frightening world to live in,” said James McAvoy, “because as soon as you get one tiny pocket of society creating all the arts, or culture starts to become representative not of everybody but of one tiny part. That’s not fair to begin with, but it’s also damaging for society.”

But have no fear! Old Etonian Damian Lewis is here to reassure us. Comfortingly, the privately-educated successful actor sees no problem with the proliferation of privately-educated successful actors. Speaking to the Evening Standard in February, he said that one thing that really makes him angry is “the flaring up recently of this idea that it was unfair that people from private schools were getting acting jobs.” Such concerns are, simply, “a nonsense!”

He elaborated in April, during a Guardian web chat. "As an actor educated at Eton, I'm still always in a minority," he wrote. "What is true and always rewarding about the acting profession is that everyone has a similar story about them being in a minority."

Lewis’s fellow alumni actors include Hugh Laurie, Tom Hiddleston, Eddie Redmayne – a happy coincidence, then, and nothing to do with the fact that Etonians have drama facilities including a designer, carpenter, manager, and wardrobe mistress. It is equally serendipitous that Laurie, Hiddleston and Tom Hollander – all stars of last year’s The Night Manager – attended the same posh prep school, The Dragon School in Oxford, alongside Emma Watson, Jack Davenport, Hugh Dancy, Dom Joly and Jack Whitehall. “Old Dragons (ODs) are absolutely everywhere,” said one former pupil, “and there’s a great sense of ‘looking after our own’." Tom Hollander said the Dragon School, which has a focus on creativity, is the reason for his love of acting, but that’s neither here nor there.

Damian Lewis’s wife, fellow actor Helen McCrory, first studied at her local state school before switching to the independent boarding school Queenswood Girls’ School in Hertfordshire (“I’m just as happy to eat foie gras as a baked potato,” the Telegraph quote her as saying on the subject). But she says she didn’t develop an interest in acting until she moved schools, thanks to her drama teacher, former actor Thane Bettany (father of Paul). Of course, private school has had literally no impact on her career either.

In fact, it could have had an adverse affect – as Benedict Cumberbatch’s old drama teacher at Harrow, Martin Tyrell, has explained: “I feel that [Cumberbatch and co] are being limited [from playing certain parts] by critics and audiences as a result of what their parents did for them at the age of 13. And that seems to me very unfair.”

He added: “I don’t think anyone ever bought an education at Harrow in order for their son to become an actor. Going to a major independent school is of no importance or value or help at all.” That clears that up.

The words of Michael Gambon should also put fears to rest. “The more Old Etonians the better, I think!” he said. “The two or three who are playing at the moment are geniuses, aren’t they? The more geniuses you get, the better. It’s to do with being actors and wanting to do it; it’s nothing to do with where they come from.”

So we should rejoice, and not feel worried when we read a list of privately educated Bafta and Oscar winners as long as this: Chiwetel Ejiofor (Dulwich College), Emilia Clarke (St Edward’s), Carey Mulligan (Woldingham School), Kate Winslet (Redroofs Theatre School), Daniel Day-Lewis (Sevenoaks School, Bedales), Jeremy Irons (Sherborne School), Rosamund Pike (Badminton), Tom Hardy (Reed), Kate Beckinsale (Godolphin and Latymer), Matthew Goode (Exeter), Rebecca Hall (Roedean), Emily Blunt (Hurtwood House) and Dan Stevens (Tonbridge).

Life is a meritocracy, and these guys were simply always the best. I guess the working classes just aren’t as talented.

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.

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