Editor’s Note: Fiction reveals truths that reality obscures, and child labor creates many cyclical conflicts. In this short story, Eman M. Abu Helal introduces us to a Palestinian child’s point of view.

Dear Diary,

Ghaith here again, this time with a bad cold. Rain was pouring down outside the other day when the sewing workshop owner asked me to purchase some needles and thread for the coming workweek. Even though the market was far away, I had to go on foot. So, my feet had to dive into puddle after puddle, and consequently I now have a terrible cold. I felt like somebody was following me down the street, yet was not sure; therefore, I tried to behave naturally. At the market, I got the sewing stuff as I normally did, five shekels less than the asking price, as I was a frequent customer to the market and the man working there knew me very well. To be honest, I was accustomed to slipping these remaining shekels in my worn-out pocket with my weekly “wage” — a pitifully small amount of money — although the workshop owner did not have any idea about them!

There was an inner voice that always told me to stop this, because it was against the values I’d learnt at both home and school. However, I had no other choice except to keep asking the old man for extra hours of work every week. But I also didn’t want to quit the only place that gave me a glimmer of hope, which was school.

I now believed that a man was carefully observing me! I picked up the stuff I had bought and hurried out of the shop. The rain seemed to have paused, so I hoped to walk back to the workshop dry. Unfortunately, I quickly realized that my freezing shrunken toes still had to dive in all over again, as the streets had become brown rivers. I usually try to see the glass half-full, so I cheered myself up by anticipating the scent of moist ground outside that would linger in my nostrils and fill my lungs with fresh air.

“You have worked hard today; you can go home now,” said the workshop owner as soon as I returned. I was so pleased that my legs suddenly felt weightless, like I could fly; I was relieved that I had enough shekels to bring home some bread for my family. I made my way to the bakery and joined the long line in front of it. While I was waiting for my turn to sniff the delicious odor of freshly baked bread, a tall man came up from behind me and grabbed my shabby cotton shirt. My heart pumped faster and faster, and my face turned red as coral; I was frightened as he dropped big bombs of questions on me successively.

“Come here, boy! What are you doin’? Where did you get these shekels? Don’t you feel guilty about your behavior?”

I realized then who he was — my new coworker at the sewing workshop.

“I’ll complain about your stealing to your sir, and you know what that means, right? You’ll lose your job. I promise!” He was yelling at me, and I felt resentful. I had nothing to say, because he was right.

“Let us have a little talk, please, please,” I begged him. “You think I’m a crook, don’t you?”

“How do you think we can describe a person behaving the way you do? A nobleman?”

“I am neither a noble nor a bad human, but…did you ask yourself why a small child like me is working instead of enjoying his time playing with his peers?”

He scratched his head then folded his arms, waiting for me to answer myself!

“I don’t want to justify my mistake — I believe it is horrible just like you do. But, I am a 10-year-old orphan who is struggling to help my family survive under the blockade. My dear mother is suffering from cancer, and my two sisters are younger than me. I’m the only individual who can make money! I work four hours every day after school, but on Thursday I am forced to spend the whole day helping the old man so that he gives me my weekly allowance. And I am trying my best not to leave school.”

My coworker was staring into my eyes as if they were mirrors that reflected his own drained mind and shattered heart! He seemed to suddenly see himself in me.

“Again,” I said, “I’m not saying that my behavior is right, but I have no choice other than to take the remaining shekels. So, please don’t be the reason why my family and I starve!”

“Heartbreaking!” said the man as his eyes filled to the brim with tears. “I promise I won’t tell our boss if you promise not to do it again! My situation is not better than yours, dear! Unfortunately, many Gazans experience such hardships,” he said quietly, his voice caught in his throat. “But, no matter how much we are suffering, we should never even think to react this way. My dad always said to me, ‘Two wrongs do not make a right!’ when I was a child. Being honest and straightforward is the best way to survive in this miserable life.”

“I promise!”

Diary, I’m waiting for the sun to rise, to shine on my face, to pat my shoulders with its warm rays.

Sincerely,

Ghaith