My novel for my novel volume 2

Sometimes I stop myself and say to her: You, Oh Sahar, what are you doing, and what have you done? You dedicated your literature and your production to a complex political issue, and you forgot that political literature does not last and does not endure! Who will remember you and read your literature when the issue is resolved or fades away, and your memory diminishes and people forget? But I then remember the days of the first occupation and the thousands of displaced villagers from their lands, with their camels and dogs, their hunger and nakedness, they came from the west of the city in crowds, in the thousands, to seek shelter under the branches of trees and fill the olive groves with their helplessness and the crying of their children, and what followed from uprisings, clashes, arrests, confiscation of lands, destruction of houses, and repeated massacres and defeats. I tell myself: there was no power in my hand. You, Oh Sahar, did what you did, and you could not do anything else. Any literature that does not record all this pain, blood, and tears is not literature, but rather a lack of manners, selfishness, cowardice, and a conscience and feelings that have been wiped out.