"One, two, three… seven."

My little sister is happily counting the stars—a sound that once brought serenity to every cell in my body. But now I feel a sense of unease. On my bed, I lie quietly next to my sister, staring at the sky above our refugee camp through my cracked window. Sighing, I recall the window wasn't always cracked, but recently it was broken by the shelling, as if to make it resemble our shattered hearts. I think back to another time when my little sister counted, but it wasn’t stars.

August 10, 2014

1 a.m. Another sleepless night. Wearing the black dress of night, the sky spreads its deep darkness from one horizon to another, an ominous darkness we all feel in our hearts as well. Israeli shells strike the ground in thunderous explosions that echo all around us. Israel’s warplanes, those murderous beasts, mar the purity of the moonlight with their menacing shadows. They have struck fear of death into our hearts for 35 days now. My head spins with dizziness and fatigue. The sky of this open-air prison kneels with all its weight upon my chest.

My little sister is embracing me so tightly I can feel every beat of her pounding heart. Gently I stroke her soft hair as I think back to a time when our mother held and comforted me as I now hold my frightened sister. Breathing deeply, I curse that sickness—a sickness as heartless as the Israeli missiles—which took my dear mother. I feel her soul from heaven, surrounding us with prayers for our safety and survival, and I am thankful for the comfort this brings me, yet I wish so much to have her with us still. 

Our only shield

Shaking myself from the painful memories, I hear my father in the next room, softly reading the Holy Quran, my brother at his side, listening intently to the reassuring flow of his voice. Suddenly a massive explosion strikes nearby—this one so close it rattles our windows. The entire house trembles. Dust rains from the ceiling. My sister screams. Tears flood her eyes. Pulling her small body close, I stifle my own scream so as not to terrify her further. Together we hide beneath our blankets, our only shield from death's pungent gunpowder smell.

Guardian angel

"Don't be afraid. I am here. Come be with us in the next room."

 It is Dad. He hugs us to calm us.

Shock

With my sister still lost in tears, we listen to the wailing of ambulance sirens as they approach. We move quickly to the other room, where I remember the radio, a device I always thought of as useless before these times of electrical power cuts. The battery-powered radio is often our only connection to the news of the situation surrounding us—news that repeats itself time and time again, telling of more bloodshed everywhere. I shakily turn its volume high to hear the news of the latest victims.

The radio crackles to life. “One reported martyr and 11 critical injuries in the targeting of the home of Ahmed Hamed in Northern Gaza.” 

The voice from the radio hits me like a bullet. We know an Ahmed Hamed in Northern Gaza. He is my uncle. My father’s brother.

Radio bullets 

"Ahmed!" shouts Dad.

He kneels, holding his head in his hands as though he doesn’t want to learn what has happened. My brother holds the radio close, as if begging it to not send bullets across the airwaves. My sister trembles uncontrollably, unable to utter a word.

"As of now we have no name for the unidentified martyr, says the radio. “We only know that the Israeli war planes hit the Hamed house with three rockets, and now a series of huge explosions have rocked the southern Gaza Strip. Please take care. Do not leave your house for any reason unless your house is being targeted.” The announcer adds, "We will return to you with the latest updates as soon as they are available."

Guardian angel leaves

“But who? Who has been killed? Who is the martyr? What is his name? Her name?” Dad yells, striking the radio in anger and fear.

He turns, runs to the door.

"Please, Dad, don't leave!" my sister begs hysterically, holding his hand as if to never let go. Ignoring her pleas, our dad pulls away from her grasp and disappears barefoot into the smoky darkness. 

“Where are you going? Why are you going out into that hell?” I cry, my voice choked, even though I understand his reasons. His brother's family home has been bombed. If the radio will not tell him who is dead, who is injured, then Dad must find the answers himself as quickly as possible.

My brother hesitates only a moment before racing after our father, leaving my sister and I alone with our fears and thoughts.

"Why would Israel bomb a house with three rockets when one is enough to turn it into rubble?" my sister wonders. I have no rational answer. Instead I hug her with all my strength.

In the presence of absence

3:30 a.m. My sister and I are still sitting alone with our fears, waiting for some word of hope. We pray for what seems like ages in these tense few hours. And still rockets continue to fall from the dark skies above. Time has taught me to cherish every moment without war. I drop my tear-stained face onto a pillow, embracing it as though cuddling my mother, and let its soft fabric soak up my tears and unwelcome thoughts. How much I miss my mum and need her at this very moment! To feel her warm arms around me and to hear her soft reassurances that everything will be okay. I feel an emptiness inside, and am afraid even more so in these times without her.

Now I sit in her former place, doing my best to give courage to a shivering, frightened child, an adult before my time but still in need of a lost mother's embrace. My sister's small hands pat my shoulder, like she is consoling elderly woman. This sweet, young girl. Much too young to be forced to endure such a horrible situation. A situation that I, even though older, can barely withstand. I hug her, not knowing who is most seeking the comfort, the big sister or the little. Time passes so slowly. Still no word from our father or brother. I can only wonder who will be this year's sacrifice? This month's? Today's? Who will be left to seek justice for us?

Starless sky

The sky is starless now. I'm staring at my little sister, lost in fearful, wondering contemplation. Nothing is more shameful than terrorizing sleeping children. My sister's voice pulls me away from my thoughts. Again, she is looking for a missing peace in the darkness, counting the luminous Israeli warplanes in the sky.

"One, two, three… seven."

Mentor: Nick Fuller Googins
Posted January 23, 2016