The ground beneath me shakes. Footsteps. A charge of black steel toecaps thumping Shuhada. My street. The back room calls us. To hide in a room Baba dug a year ago. She said I would be safe. I remember thinking Baba was crazy for digging a room so small he wouldn’t be able to stand in. Now that room awaits us.
She shouts Fatima, May Allah be with you. Mama told me not to look back. To cover my ears and to never look back until she said so. We run. I thought we did. The door slams shut behind me. I hear the locks turning. A heavy-duty lock Baba spent ages with last summer making sure it could not be opened.
We made it!
Silence. I made it. Mama? Mama? Don’t look back Fatima, you promised my conscience speaks.
Silence. Mama?!
Ya Allah! Please have mercy upon me I hear. Mama’s voice. A soft gentle voice, now a plea for help. I broke my promise and I turned around. Mama was on the other side. Her screams overpowering the soldiers’ laughter. I push, damn Baba’s lock.
The door stands still. My body slumps against it. Let’s show her what a real man is, I hear. What does that mean? Mama’s fists were slamming against the door. Why are they laughing? Ya Allah, please I beg you don’t hurt her. Helplessly, I cover my ears. Her screams ringing through them. They don’t stop. I wish I could make it stop. Please forgive me Mama, I broke my promise and I looked back.
She said I would be safe. Alone, tired and hungry. My eyes adjusting to the darkness. I was right, the room was too small for Mama and Baba. Was that their plan? My stomach churns at the thought. My head hurts. I want to sleep. Tomorrow is a fresh new day.
Fatima, it’s time to pray and get ready for school. Sweet smells lingering from the kitchen as Mama makes breakfast. Baba reading his newspaper, sipping his steaming chai whilst mumbling in disgust at the stories. Baba could be a writer; he was so talented. He would read me stories he had written by the fire after Jummah prayer whilst Mama would get dinner ready for us. Labourer he was though, to provide for us.
The sun was going to rise. I must hurry up. I do not want to be late for the morning prayer.
A fresh new day? Darkness was all I saw. Was I dreaming?
Mama? Answer me Mama?!
Nothing.
Mama never returned. Was this it? First Baba was taken. Mama never told me. She said he had gone away on a big job in Yemen building schools. One that would bring lots of money in. It was only at school I heard the whispers.
The truth.
Baba was shot dead on the open streets of Gazah by the Israeli soldiers because they felt like it. Because they simply felt like it. Ruthless. Just like that a life taken away. The inevitable struck. Was she dead?
Orphan.
Is that what they will call me now? There were lots of orphans around since the Israeli soldiers had occupied our land. Latifah, next door was an orphan. Her family dead from a bombing. She was new to our block. Quiet. No one played with her. But I liked her. She had the biggest smiles which took away any sadness you could feel. That emptiness forgotten. Her grandmother, Khala Maryam would make us fresh orange juice to take to school.
Were they still there?
Is this my new home?
I miss sunlight. I miss playing with Zaza, the ragdoll Mama had made me when I was a baby. I miss Mama’s voice. Her soft warm hearted voice, singing old folk songs that made me feel better when I was down. I miss skipping to school with Latifah and swapping our lunches. The best flat breads and maqluba in all of Gazah was that of Khala Maryam’s.
Rumbles.
What day is it? Did I eat yesterday?
I miss my English class. Mama said I had taken after Baba with my writing. I miss Baba. I need you Baba. I push once more against the door, It stands still. Was this it? Imprisoned in Baba’s dug out room. How long would I last? Days? Weeks? Would I go to heaven? I sinned. I broke my promise to Mama and looked back. Would Allah hold that against me.
Where is everyone? The brothers and sisters Mama told me about. She said we weren’t alone. Our Rabb and its people, far and near were fighting for us.
Ya Ummati, where are you? Am I no longer your daughter, your sister? Have the ties of kinship been severed?
My limbs become numb. I have not moved. My body broken.
Ya ummah of our beloved Rasool. My cries turned into whispers.
My silence becomes loud. Deafening almost. I can’t run away from it, I can’t hide. Ya Ummah…
My head hurts. I want to sleep. I am alone. I want to sleep. I don’t want to wake up.
