“Grandsons. Two,” the old woman answered her promptly.
“Seeing them now, are we?” asked Salma.
But the old woman broke off to rest from the heavy weight of the three bags before moving on. Salma was waiting for her answer while she was taking short breaths. Then, the old woman said, “Not yet, still have to pass the last inspection.” Salma felt disappointed at hearing the word “inspection.” She couldn’t take the waiting and felt more waves of longing breaking through her body as she made more strides, now behind the old woman. “I know it feels embarrassing, but that’s it; we have no chance of seeing our sons if we think about being embarrassed,” came the restless voice of the woman again.
Salma thought for a moment the old woman was not talking to her. Then, when she assured herself that she was, she tried to interpret what she meant by “embarrassing” before she replied, “Uh, sorry, but I don’t understand what you mean.”
The old woman said, “The inspection; I am talking about the inspection.”
Salma felt as though she should have felt embarrassed at each of the inspections she went through so far. “What’s wrong with them?” she asked, feeling truly embarrassed.
“What? Don’t you know?” the old woman looked dumb-struck.
“Know what?” Salma replied, sounding stupefied; her heart was beating fast. The old woman looked at her pityingly. She told Salma that at the last inspection before she could see her son, she had to submit herself to a cavity search in case she was hiding explosives.
Three years later, Salma, now at the age of forty-five, sounded paler and feebler than ever before. Stretching on her bed in a bundle of shawls, she was striving to picture the vague vision of her son whom she saw for the last time six years ago. Sweat was mingled with a few tears and trickling down her cheeks. While she was reenacting in her mind the last moments she spent with her son, she recalled his promise that he would come back. Another tear made its way down her cheek. The poor mother felt her heart drop again when she heard a sound echo loudly in her mind, the sound that penetrated her ears for three years. It was the sound which bore her the news of her son’s death. The last tear had come to a halt at her lips. Her lips curled. The tear dropped off.
On a Drop of Rain
by Refaat Alareer
Scientists still do not unanimously agree whether raindrops originate in the sky as ice crystals or not. But that does not matter to me. I am no scientist.
Abu Samy is a Palestinian farmer from the West Bank. He was busy on that windy day weeding his field—or what was left of it. He regretted not listening to his wife’s frequent pleas not to go out. He was always doubtful about what she calls her “special gift,” her “sense of the rain.” He never listened to her, and if he did, he did not pay attention to her interpretations and elaboration of her different methods of skillfully and accurately predicting when it will or will not rain, for how long, and how heavy the rain will be. Although she must have told him the very same tale hundreds of times, he cannot retell her explanation except in excerpts. Um Samy touches the earth. She holds a tiny grain of sand, whispers to it, and listens back. In cases when communication fails, she smells the grain. But that is metaphorically speaking. At least Abu Samy thinks so.
On the southern side of the Wall, Abu Samy, along with thousands of Palestinian farmers, is not allowed to build rooms or erect tents, lest they should use these tents or structures to dig tunnels to the Israeli side. At least Abu Samy is luckier than his fellow farmers; he lost only two thirds of his land. Countless others of his friends and relatives had their fields swallowed by the Israeli Wall cutting through the lands of the West Bank. For Abu Samy at this very moment, the wall was useful. Living under occupation has taught him to see hope in the darkest of tunnels—not that he digs such tunnels to infiltrate into the Israeli side. He ran to the Wall. Gluing himself to the lengthy expanse of concrete, he was shielded from the heavy rain and the strong wind, though only partially, by the Wall.
On the other side of the Wall stood an Israeli farmer whose wife, too, had predicted rain (and warned him against Palestinians infiltrating the security fence). He wanted to run to the concrete room he built a couple of weeks ago, but as the Wall was closer, he hurried toward it. If they both had listened carefully, Abu Samy and the Israeli farmer would have heard their hearts beating against the Wall. Or maybe they did hear the heartbeats but mistook them for the rumble of distant thunder.
It was one particular drop of rain, a very tiny one. It could have fallen on Abu Samy’s bare head had it not been for a sudden gust of wind that pushed it to the other side of the Wall; it fell on the Israeli farmer’s helmet. He never felt it.
Other drops, however, were racing toward and seemingly preferring the unshielded head of Abu Samy.
That drops of rain begin their existence as ice crystals seems, to Abu Samy, very possible. But who cares about Abu Samy’s views. He is Palestinian.
Please Shoot to Kill
by Jehan Alfarra
“I don’t know whether I should blame Israel or myself for not printing out my assignment,” Laila grumbled in anguish. “Perhaps I should even blame my uncle for forgetting to bring some fuel for the power generator!” Her pace quickened as she stalked back and forth across her room, worry creeping into her mind. “How naïve of me to trust the electricity schedule and not see it coming. I should have known that having electricity for two days in a row was not some rare kindness on their part. I should have known that Israel would make me pay a great price!” A sense of resignation and foreboding began to settle over her thoughts as she condemned herself to the fact that her failure was inevitable. “I can’t believe I actually waited until the night of the midterm to print my work and didn’t consider that the electricity might go out and stay out, even though it was supposed to be back on at 3 p.m. today!”
She was sitting there in the dark; her little sister, Salma, who was five years old, was lying on the mattress next to her, and Sarah, who just celebrated her twelfth birthday, was fast asleep. Hardly able to hear herself think with the aggravating, annoying noise of the neighboring generator, she tried to skim through the pages on her laptop, although mostly she was just watching the low battery indicator almost hit zero. And…there it goes… . The flashes of the red X on the indicator laid down the law.
She crossed over to the bedroom window in dismay and leaned over it, and placing her forearms on top of each other, she gazed into the horizon. The sky merged, so strangely and beautifully, with the ground, forming one black surface patterned with an array of white dots, much like polka dots, which she loved so much. It always amazed her to see how those buildings on the other side of the border in the distance, with their windows always lit, appeared as an extension of the starry sky.
A sigh left her lips as she turned around and crossed over to the drawer of her dresser where she kept the candles, and placing a candle on her dresser, she drew the lighter from her pocket. The soft flame sprang up, passing from the lighter to the candle wick. She mysteriously found comfort and contentment in the burning beauty of this candle, a feeling that never grew old. She could sit for hours just watching the flame blaze on and burn out, occasionally playing with the wax with the tips of her fingers.
A reflection loomed in the mirror behind the candle—a scarred forehead, two cavernous hazel eyes, a nose, and slightly parted lips. She smiled and her eyes twinkled, and she watched how the reflection smiled exactly the same. She gestured to the reflection with her finger and, sneering, she uttered, “You will suck at your exam tomorrow, Laila,” though the reflection did not reply. Her smile soon dimmed; another sigh made its way out of her dry lips, to be dampened by an intense tear trickling down her face. Her hand moved up swiftly to wipe it off, as though it were a sin for her to cry. She must not cry. She hated that. But how could she not? Two years passed now since the war. And she…well, she had been strong all along.
The memory of her father replayed and replayed in her head like
a never-ending wheel, making her wonder if she should drop her medical degree altogether. The mere thought that she might have to do what those doctors were forced to do with him haunted her. “I will be cursed. I will be blamed. And I will be helpless, yet responsible for people’s lives!” she thought to herself, rubbing both eyes with her cold fingers, “Maybe I should quit medical school. Will I ever be strong enough for it, to keep up with it? It’s been two years now. Two bloody years.”
It was an oddly quiet night. She had finally fallen asleep at the break of dawn, crammed with her two sisters on the floor of their dim living room, wrapped up in a couple of sheets, with only the sound of silence filling the space. They had been desperately trying to pass the time they had lost track of, trying to escape the uncertainty of reality and the hideousness of the past two weeks, which had been nothing but a series of very appalling days and altogether horrendous nights—fifteen nights of immense horror and fear that one of those loaded Apaches flying over their house non-stop, or one of those blood-thirsty, monster-like Merkava tanks outside might be bombarding their house instead of their neighbors’. Fifteen nights of barely any electricity, any phone lines, or any food. Her father, numbed by the intimidation of bullets that had caused more than a few holes in their house and frozen by his inability to ensure the safety of his beloved wife and children, was leaning against the wall of their living room, with his hands in his pockets, his gray eyes watching them breathe slowly as they slept. He looked at his wife, who was fearfully reclining next to them, desperately trying to comfort her little one with a bedtime story, not being able, just like him, to do anything to stop those soldiers from harassing them anytime they felt like it. It was then when four Israeli soldiers broke into their house, kicking the door down with their boots, and holding M16 rifles in their hands.
Her mother jumped in shock, one hand pressing tightly around her three-year-old Salma, who went on crying, and the other covering her mouth so as not to utter a sound. Her heart skipped a beat. The fear locked up any utterance in her throat and any tears in her eyes. Laila’s father did not know if it was wise for him to approach his young ones and beloved wife. It was risky with such unpredictable creatures in their house, he thought. To stay still might be safer. All he could do was stand there and pray that they would leave them alone. Laila knew it would be an inconceivable folly to look them in the eye, but the rage in her heart could not take it. She stared and stared at that one soldier until he fixed his two eyes on her, pointing his gun towards her, and she, without even a blink, did not look away. He then shifted his gun towards her father, with a smirk like that of a senseless crocodile. He held it there for a few seconds that were the longest and most torturous in the family’s entire history. He did not fire at him. Not yet. Rather, he approached him until he was only twenty centimeters away. He grabbed Abu Laila’s hair from the back, sinking his untrimmed nails in his scalp, and forced him on his knees.
All the while, the rest of the soldiers were roaming about the room, chatting in Hebrew, one of them picking the pictures off the walls and ransacking the place, and another fiddling with the school books and notes of the younger ones. Nothing could stop them from terrorizing everyone—not the sobbing of Laila and her mother, and certainly not the wailing of the little girls. Her father could not raise his eyes, not fearing for himself as much as fearing for his family. The soldier started speaking to him in Hebrew. The father understood some Hebrew but could not speak it. He did not respond. The soldier started kicking him on his bent knees, and with the edge of his gun, he hit him repeatedly in the stomach. The pain was immense. Her father took it in soundlessly, for his family. The last strike to his chest was so devastating that Abu Laila fell down instantly squirming and squealing in pain. Everyone watched in horror as guns were pointed at their heads. Laila could not tell whether taking action would worsen the already bad situation. The echoes of the soldiers’ laughs filled the air of the living room. The soldiers walked toward the door, but before they left, a soldier wanted to finalize his job. He shouted, “Arab mekhabel!”—Arab terrorist!—spat on the floor of the room, aimed his gun at the struggling father, and…bang! A shot was fired.
Um Laila let out her long-suppressed scream, and she, Laila, and little Sarah crawled over to Abu Laila, who had already passed out. Amidst the cries and the excruciating event, her mother forgot three-year-old Salma where she was lying down, and in a split second, they heard a ravaging explosion that shook them inside out. The room was covered in black patches of smoke that blew in from the broken windows. Little Salma was hit.
Laila, Um Laila, and little Sarah found themselves forced to be paramedics. Laila leaped to pick up Salma in her hands and place her in her mother’s lap. Salma’s leg was dangling, swinging from what remained of her sinews, muscle, and tendons. Blood gushed forth as though from a nightmarish spring. Um Laila did not know whether to hold her daughter or her husband.
The sounds of ambulances could soon be heard in the distance, and unhesitatingly, Laila ran towards the door. Her Mom, shouting at her, cried even louder, unable to hold her breath or conceal her pain, “Stay here! Lailaaa…Laila… my dear, habibti, don’t do this to me. This is more than enough… . Come back. I beg you… .” Um Laila cried and cried, and Sarah joined her weeping mother.
Laila, determined to get help, stood at what was left of the door, one hand wiping her tears and the other pressing against her heart, not allowing her knees to let her down. She tried to sneak a quick look at what was going on outside. It was cold, dark, and rainy. She could spot three tanks standing in the distance, like ghosts of the most horrifying type. She could hear an ambulance, though there was no sight of any. An Apache flew over the house, forcing Laila down on her knees. Soon, the drones came to accompany them, making the sounds of the night even creepier. Laila had to pick herself up. She had to save her father and she had to save her sister. Three more bombs rocked the area, one falling in the small piece of land they lived off of, shaking the ground and throwing Laila ferociously back into the house, where she fell down motionless, blood seeping through her nose and ears, and down her face, mingling with her tears. Numbness overcame her fragile body. She felt nothing and heard nothing.
Laila opened her blurry eyes to find herself in a jam-packed room of five beds, where others were lying, surrounded by their families and a few doctors rushing about. She looked around for someone to recognize and noticed Sarah, clutching at the hospital bed sheet like she used to hold her teddy bear as she slept, sleeping at the end of the bed. Laila could feel something on her face—a bandage. She tried to remember what had happened. She murmured, forcing the words out, “Baba…Salma….” Sarah woke up to Laila’s words and slight stirring. She held her hand and said, “Mama is with them. Don’t worry; they are fine.” Laila fell back asleep.
Sarah let go of Laila’s hand and walked out of the room. The corridor was full to capacity with people lying here and there; she could hardly find space to move her feet. Some were sleeping on the floor, some were crying and some were moaning; it was all too much for her to see. She found a little corner next to a door and curled up there, pulling her legs towards her and placing her forehead on her knees. She had already cried enough that no more tears were left to be shed. She could not bear staying with her family. It was too much for her little heart. Sarah did not know why it all happened. All she knew is that it meant Apaches, F16s, tanks, bullets, soldiers, and blood.
Abu Laila and Salma survived. Salma was too young to realize she will probably never walk again. Abu Laila, on the other hand, had a ripped kidney from the bullet, which pierced right through, and a broken chest bone from the blows of the butt of the rifle. Fatty droplets—tiny particles of fat from the area of the bone fracture—got into his bloodstream and passed through the heart to his lungs. The droplets triggered immune mechanisms in the lungs, filling the lungs with fluid and blocking the ability to take in oxygen, resulting in lung hemorrhage.
The family stayed in the
hospital for three days, Abu Laila on a ventilator until the doctors had finally managed to stabilize him. They could not stay at the hospital any longer. The offensive was still in full swing, the hospital was receiving more and more bodies of dead and injured people, and there was a severe lack of space. Many injured people had to leave prematurely to make space for others.
The radio was the only means for them to know what was going on up north in Beit Hanoun, where the family lived, and apparently, the invasion of their area was still well underway; it was unsafe for them to go back. Not that the hospital, which got its own share of the bombardment, was safe either. It was, however, relatively safer than any other place in the locked-down Gaza Strip. Um Laila called her sister, Mona, who lived in the middle of Gaza City to stay with them.
After she hung up, she went up to the doctor, her heavy heart hurting and little Sarah holding onto her hand tightly, and told him they had found a place to stay. The doctor gave her a few glucose drips, and instructed her and Laila how to use them. He had also warned her of some life-threatening complications and said that Abu Laila needed to be taken back to the hospital once the situation had settled down. Nobody knew when that would be.
Amidst the bombing and intimidation of the Israeli jets, the family managed to reach Mona’s home. Five days had passed, in fear, pain, and torment. But then, the next morning came, and it was too quiet, something they found dreadful, for it usually meant the worst was yet to come. However, this time it was the end of the offensive. The shelling and killing stopped.
For Laila’s family though, the greater suffering had just started.
As the family headed back to their home, they found that their plot of land had become nothing more than a pile of debris. The entire harvest of the year was gone, though they had no choice but to make do with what they had and to fix what could be fixed. After all, it was not the first time Abu Laila had his land shelled or bulldozed. But this time, Abu Laila could not start over. His health was severely damaged. He needed to have a kidney operation in Cairo. It could not be conducted in Gaza, nor could the lung hemorrhage be treated efficiently without the necessary equipment that Gaza hospitals lack. Abu Laila’s case was indeed critical. Nonetheless, his case was not rated as critical as those of hundreds of other injured people, and consequently he was not allowed to travel outside Gaza for medical treatment.
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