Echoes of Innocence: A Tale from Gaza
Boy in front of destroyed buildings, Gaza, 2009, Credits to Flickr/gloucester2gaza, re-edited by me/ CC-license
He woke up on a tranquil winter morning in Khan Yunis oblivious to what he would witness on the same day. How blissful these moments of ignorance were. The rising sun colored the roofs of the refugee camp he called home after a week of stormy weather. While brushing his teeth he thought about how much he was looking forward to spending the afternoon with his friends. The last weeks were marked by studying for the mid-term exams and today was finally the last one. His friends were planning to scavenge for shrapnel pieces and bullet cases – their favorite pastime. He had put together a sizeable collection of bullets, shrapnel pieces and even a rocket case, since his family had moved back to Gaza from Germany five years ago. Life in Germany had been very different, where he used to collect and trade Pokémon cards with his classmates; now they did the same thing just with bullet cases. While getting changed he stopped and looked at his bullet collection next to his school books. He was proud of it. He took his most prized bullet into his hand, a 5.56 mm bullet from an M16 rifle. He remembered the day it was shot at him like yesterday. Four years ago, in 2004 before the Israeli settlements had been dismantled in the Gaza strip, he had climbed on a date palm to pick some fresh dates until something hit the tree a few centimeters above him. He froze until he heard the echo of the shot and knew what just had happened, a settler shot at him from the safety of his settlement… and missed. He jumped from the tree and ran for his life, this escape was only temporary, in the evening he returned to recover the bullet stuck in the wood. Rolling the bullet between his fingers. “I survived this… maybe I should make a necklace out to remind myself that I am invincible”, he thought to himself. He put the bullet back on the shelf and left his room to have breakfast with his parents.
“Good morning dear, are you ready for the exams?”, his mother asked turning off the TV
“I have a good feeling, I stayed up late to go through my notes for the exam today. By the way what’s on the news?”, he changed the subject
“The usual... they are talking about increased political tensions and some rockets fired in the north, but nothing unheard of”, his mother summarized
“Do you think there will be war?” he asked his parents
“Of course not… you know how it is, they play politics and then they find a solution.” His mother ended the conversation, while his father silently finished his coffee.
He left the apartment in silence with his father, who hadn’t lost a word during breakfast.
“Do you think there will be war?”, he repeated his question.
“I don’t think so, they might try to hit some political leaders, but nothing we should worry about. Let’s talk in the evening. You have exams to worry about… And do me a favor after school please come home right away.”
His father stopped a public taxi heading to Gaza city, leaving him to continue his usual route on his own until the rusty gate of his high school greeted him. He remembered how intimidated he was the first time he stepped through a school gate in Gaza. The other kids had called him “Al-Almani”, the German. On top of that his Arabic was subject to their ridicule, owing it to his occasional stuttering when looking for Arabic words he didn’t know. This pushed him to promise himself to excel in Arabic and prove it to everyone. A few years and countless hours of studying later no one could tell where he really came from and he would prove it once again that he was better in Arabic in the exam today. He crossed the yard, which was surrounded by the U-shaped four-story building housing the school. All students were hurrying to their classrooms, being late for an exam could have consequences.
“What’s up? Did you see the news today?” his classmate Mohammed greeted him.
“No, but are you ready for the exam?” He answered changing the subject.
“Only exams on your mind, it’s always the same with you. But you know me, I always say: why study, if there are no jobs.”
The conversation was cut short by the distant buzzing of a drone in the sky. Both looked simultaneously up trying to locate the source.
“Do you think something will happen today? The adults all seem very tense.” Mohamed wondered
“I don’t know. Something is off today”, a feeling of unease was creeping in.
They had arrived in their classroom and took their seats on battered chairs, the whole classroom had seen better days, unlike the refugees studying in it. He turned the exam sheet over, after the teacher gave them a sign, and the moment he looked at the questions he knew that yesterday’s study session was not in vain and started writing. He muted the noise of the other students around him, until the thundering sound of jets in the sky interrupted his flow. The whole class was looking out of the windows, while the teacher’s attempts to calm the students down bore no fruit.
“Please sit down, your mid-term is more important than some plane flying by. This is about your future”, he said while nervously clenching his fist. Calm returned as the students resumed analyzing medieval Arab poetry. To be interrupted seconds later by an explosion in the distance that shook the classroom. Then another one. Then another one. The teachers suspicious were confirmed, there was war, this was not the bombing of a single target.
“Exam is over, please give me your exam sheets and go home right away. I’ll grade whatever you already have.” the teacher announced.
He handed his exam sheets to the teacher. This was not the first time he saw bombs falling down, but he had never seen anything with this intensity. Once he had witnessed the assassination of a man on the street, a bomb was dropped on him from a drone. That was the first dead person he had ever seen, if what was left of him could be called a person.
All students were now leaving their classrooms, jamming the stairways. Passing by a window he saw smoke in the distance, rising from a familiar direction, Khan Yunis city center. He froze. Two of his uncles lived at what seemed to be the source of the smoke. He panicked, pushing other students out of his way to get out faster and to make his way to the city center. He didn’t know what he was expecting to do there if he made it, but he followed his instinct. Outside of the school the students dispersed into all directions. He looked around hoping to find a bus, instead he caught sight of his friend Khalil getting on a motorcycle without a helmet. He rushed to him.
“Since when do you have a motorcycle?”, he asked without even greeting Khalil.
“I never had one – I borrowed it today from my father. He won’t be amused when he finds out, because I didn’t ask him. Should I drop you at home?”
“No, I am heading to the city center. I saw smoke rising from my uncles house.”
“Hop on and lets go. Now I have an excuse not go home.”
He got on the motorcycle behind Khalil, who didn’t waste any time and hit the gas right away. He clung to the rack behind him trying to keep his balance, while Khalil raced down the street. They were now passing a wall made out of concrete cubes that surrounded a former Israeli Army base in the wasteland between the city center and the refugee camp, a relic the Israelis left after they withdrew in 2005. Today the base was probably used by a resistance organization, but no one knew for sure what was happening behind the wall. He focused on the smoke column that was slowly getting closer, he wasn’t so sure anymore if the smoke was come from his relatives house or a house nearby - an explosion behind the walls derailed his train of thoughts and blew him and Khalil off the motorbike onto the sand on the roadside. He hit the ground with his chest first pushing the air out of his lungs. He struggled for air, rolled over on his back still grasping for air to find a piece of shrapnel landing where he just had been lying followed by a rain of stones and metal pieces. He was frozen, until he slowly started catching his breath again. Khallil was still lying face down in the sand surrounded by pieces of metal.
“Khalil”
“Yes?”, he responded in a faint voice
“I think we were very lucky”
“Yes”
Both got up and pushed the motorbike up again, after inspecting themselves for any injuries.
“This doesn’t seem to be in the area where my family lives”, he observed
“Isn’t this where… where the police station is. The one where Ahmed works?” Khalil noticed
He could hear the unease in Khalils voice. A few weeks ago Ahmed, who was two years older than his two friends, had graduated from the police academy and started his first job there. They got back on the motorcycle and continued their drive. The closer they got to the source of the smoke the more confident they became that the police station had been bombed. On the one hand he was relieved that his relatives were safe, but now he was worried about his friend Ahmed. What was waiting for them, they couldn’t fathom. The smell of the smoke started getting thicker until the burning police station appeared in the distance. Khalil stopped the motorbike and they paused for a moment gazing at the devastation. The large black iron gates had been blown out of the hinges and were lying on the street. The compound of the police station behind resembled a demolition site. The closest he had ever seen to this apocalyptic sight were video games. Half of the buildings were fully collapsed and the other half partially. Shouting and moaning came from every direction. Policemen in torn and charred uniforms were pulling their comrades out of buildings, while others were digging with their hands trying to locate the source of muted screams under the rubble. Catalyzed by adrenaline his initial shock started ebbing. He took off while yelling at Khalil to follow him. They came to look for Ahmed and there was no time to lose. He ran through the main entrance, through the smoke he could hear screams and cries. The strong smell of explosives and smoke reminded him of new year’s fireworks back in Germany. No one paid any attention to them in the commotion of policemen limping out of the building and others running inside looking for survivors. They didn’t know where to start their search for Ahmed.
“His office is on the first floor, he told me once”, Khalil remembered
They ran upstairs and towards Ahmeds office. A motionless body was lying across the corridor, which they had to step over following muted whimpering until they found the source a policeman lying in a pool of blood. Next to him Ahmed unconscious on the ground, a wound in his abdomen had turned his shirt red. But he was still breathing. They lifted Ahmed from his arms and legs and tip-toed their way out, trying not to step on any of the injured. On their way out they directed civilians rushing in to the other injured policemen. As soon as they got out of the compound they didn’t know how to transport Ahmed to a hospital. The motorbike could barely fit them two and Ahmed was unconscious. Khalil jumped in front of a car passing waving his hands. The driver stopped and before he could say anything.
“We need to get him to the hospital”, Khalil explained while pointing at Ahmed.
The driver didn’t need to be convinced, he waved with his hand to the back of the car. They lifted Ahmed in and found a young boy staring at them with the wide-eyes of shellshock sitting next to the driver holding his injured hand. After carefully placing Ahmed on the backseat, they followed the car to the hospital with the motorcycle. The explosions continued in the distance, by now had they stopped trying to pinpoint where they might have landed – their thoughts were here with their friend.
The hospital was surrounded by families hoping for news about injured or missing family members. They zig-zagged through waiting families with the motorbike, until they found the car that had transported Ahmed. They lost no time in lifting Ahmed out of the car. Upon detecting the three friends a young boy took the initiative, walked in front of them and started telling people to make way with the aura of an adult. Ahmeds breathing was very faint by now, a thin trail of dark blood behind them marked the way they had taken. At the hospital entrance, the boy called for a nurse and disappeared in the crowd to start clearing the way for the next injured. A nurse asked them to place Ahmed on the ground next to a line of injured men, women and children, until an emergency doctor would decide: surgery, first aid or morgue. The overwhelmed hospital didn’t allow anyone inside except for heavily wounded with good chances to survive a surgery. First aid and minor injuries were treated on the parking lot, while injured with little hope were sent to the morgue right away. Nurses with carriers were shuttling injured people, either to the operating room or straight to the morgue, depending on the doctors’ orders. When Ahmeds turn came, his face was pale. The doctor at the entrance took his right arm to check his pulse. Then put her fingers on his throat.
“To the morgue”, she instructed
The friends froze. Two nurses lifted Ahmed on a stretcher. There was no time for a farewell. Ahmed was gone. They had tried to save their friend and failed. He started crying. Khalil, put his hand on his shoulder and pulled him away from the entrance. Now they both were crying in each other’s arms next to families not knowing if they were going to be the next ones crying.
“We did what we could” Khalil broke the sobbing.
He couldn’t bring himself to say anything and stared at the blood stains on his clothes.
“We did what we could for Ahmed, there was nothing else we could have done. But there are still people that might need our help”, Khalil tried to calm him down.
“What do you mean?”
“We have the motorbike and we have our hands. Let’s go and find out where we can help. We followed the smoke and found someone to help at the police station. Let’s follow the smoke again and figure it out when we get there”
They got back on the motorcycle and took off to the closet smoke column. What they found upon arrival was a moonscape, the whole building had collapsed and the cars parked on the street were covered in fine dust as if they had been abandoned for years. On top of the rubble, dust covered neighbors were digging with their hands looking for survivors, trying to follow desperate screams for help underneath the debris. No one had to tell them what to do. The next hours rushed by and left him feeling numb. Driving from explosion site to explosion site and trying to locate screams and shouting. The long shadows of the afternoon reminded them of how long they had been helping.
“I think I need to go back now” Khalil said while throwing an iron bar aside.
“You are right, we should head back before it gets dark. Our families don’t know where we are, they must be worried.”
Khalil drove them back to his home to be greeted by his father yelling at him where had been, how he could dare to take the motorcycle without asking.
“Abu Khalil, I am sorry” he tried to protect his friend “I asked Khalil to take me to my family because I thought their house had been bombed. Instead we found our friend Ahmed dead and then started looking for survivors in the area. We wanted to help.”
Hearing that his motorcycle had been in use for noble purposes, calmed him.
“Alright, I’ll turn a blind eye this time.”
“Thank you, for saving me” Khalil noted after his father had left them “You should freshen up in the bathroom before heading home”
He took his shirt off and started beating it against the wall hoping to get as much dust out as possible before going inside. Inside, he washed his face and was now somewhat presentable if one ignored Ahmeds bloodstains.
“Khalil, thanks for the ride. I’ll try drop by tomorrow” he told Khalil before making his way home. He still had 20 minutes to walk. Contemplating what he had seen today, images started flashing in front of his eyes: The burning police station, crying men, the boy in shellshock, Ahmed in front of the hospital, roaming on top of the rubble and listening to screams of people. High-pitched pleas for help of children buried but he couldn’t locate while digging were burned in his ears.
The streets were mostly deserted and quietness in the air was deceiving about the bombing rampage during the day. People were at home counting their blessings having survived the first day and anxiously waiting for what horrors the next day would bring. Close to Ahmeds house, he caught sight of a woman leaning against the wall, it was Ahmeds mother. He hadn’t thought about that he might be the one breaking the news to the family. How do you tell a mother that her son died? Nothing in his life had prepared him for such a moment, he thought. Their eyes met, a few meters still separating them. He stopped. Standing there awkwardly still unsure about what to say, feeling her hopeful eyes seeing through him trying to hide Ahmeds blood stains on his T-shirt. He started crying. She understood. Her head slowly tilting backwards as if in slow-motion and she found herself falling backwards on the ground with a loud thud. He ran to help her up. Ahmeds father and brother came running from the house alerted by the sound of a fall and shouting for help and ignoring him. The rest of the family started coming out to take care of the mother. The father came to him in confusion.
“What happened?”
“Ahmed was martyred today”
The father stared into his face in disbelieve. A few family members overhearing the news broke out in cries. The first moments a family mourns the loss of a loved leave no one unaffected and shared sadness is amplified.
“What happened?” he repeated the question, as if the answer would change if he would try it again.
Ahmeds father held both of his shoulders and shook him:
“Are you sure that he died?”
The crying and shouting in the background became louder as the news spread.
“I found him injured in the police station and carried him to the hospital. They told me he died.”
The ember of hope that held back the fathers emotions fizzled out. Some neighbors came out by now to console the grieving family. Nobody was paying him any attention anymore – his job was done, so he withdrew from the mourning family seeking his own.
The moment he took the corner to his street he noticed the open windows of the apartment building, they shared with relatives. Every single window was manned by a family member. Men, women, children like ship lookouts hoping for land after months at sea, even his father who worked in Gaza City two hours away had made it back long ago. All faces framed by windows turned to him the second someone shouted his name upon spotting him. His younger cousins came running towards him to greet him followed by adults, to be received by a wave of hugs, shouts and tears of joy. In the arms of his crying mother he thought about Ahmeds family that drew a different lot today. He was glad, that everyone was busy with hugging him and no one had asked him yet about what he had experienced today.
In the late night, lying on his mattress that he carried to the living room floor and staring at the ceiling fan he tried to forget what he had witnessed. He had seen tears of pain, despair but also of joy. This was his first war. His first dead friend. Events that seemed unimaginable to him in the morning. He knew people who had fought in wars and knew it from TV, but it always seemed like something distant, something that happened to others not him. But here he was in war zone with his family all sleeping in the same room under a sky that could drop lethal hail any moment. Some families would distribute all their children among neighbors and relatives living in other blocks. It was a simple insurance in case their house was hit there would be someone who survived. His father insisted on doing the opposite and all to share a room, he always said what was the point of living as half a family. He listened to his parents and sister’s breathing. Every now and then the thunder of warplanes disrupted the tranquil night, followed by a moment of absolute silence and a flash illuminating the curtains, and then the sound of the explosion. The closer the explosion, the stronger the building would tremble. The windows would shake for a few moments longer, and sometimes he would make out the echo of screams in the distance. There were no air raid sirens. And even if, there were no shelters. Running on the street in his pajamas wouldn’t help. He knew that after today, something within him had changed. He had seen suffering, death and despair with no purpose, commanded by uniform clad generals in military bases across the border fence. They were untouchable. He could have hidden or surrendered to the fate that awaited him, but instead he instinctively got up and found his purpose: To fight for his survival. To help the people around him. To live. He did what he could in helping people around him and save as many as he could. He couldn’t change the fate of his nation, but he could be a light and helping hand for the people around him. The people he loved. And that he had in his hands and no one could take his hope for a better future form him. He would never surrender, as long as he could help he would. And he knew if he died. He would die with his family. He could only win. These thoughts helped him gain a feeling that resembled comfort from his despair. This was his way of gaining control in a world where had lost control. By now he had gotten used to the explosions and their vibrations would lull him into sleep, a deep dreamless slumber. Despair has its own calms after all, some said.
This is based on a true story - I thank the protagonist, who prefers to remain anonymous, for sharing his story, helping me to get the details right and encouraged me to share this story
“For what are we born if not to aid one another?”
