Chapter 1

After

“We need to move now!” Ali’s voice cut through the thick, dust-laden air as he ushered his wife and son through the streets. Streets that were once familiar were now beyond recognition, A stark illustration of the destructive toll conflict can have. Buildings that had once stood tall were now reduced to rubble, the remnants of what was once a vibrant community now blanketed by a layer of ash and debris.

His wife cast a lingering, tearful glance over her shoulder, in the direction of their home.

“Hadia, listen to me! There’s nothing we can do for him now. He has made his decision,” Ali said.

“I hate you!” she screamed at Ali, her voice breaking.

Ali felt as though her words had struck him physically, the impact reverberating through him. But he didn’t allow himself the luxury of processing the pain. Instead, he stood his ground, his voice steady and resolute, “I know. And there will be time for us to address that, but right now, our priority is to get to safety. We have to think of Hasan.”

Her face contorted in anguish, she wiped her tears and quickened her pace. Ali could practically feel her pain and anger and the guilt that gnawed at him was almost unbearable. But deep down, he knew that their survival was at stake. The warnings had been clear—the entire area was to be obliterated in a matter of minutes. Their only hope was to escape the imminent onslaught. And so they pressed on, each step taking them farther away from their past and into an uncertain future.

Ali’s gaze swept over the chaotic scene around him, taking in the sight of countless people, their faces marked with fear and desperation, as they clung to their loved ones. They navigated through the crowded streets, each clutching a few belongings, the tangible symbols of their lives now reduced to what could be carried in their arms. They were leaving behind everything they had ever known, resigning their homes and possessions to be swallowed up by the devastation that was rapidly consuming the city.

He found it surreal that just days earlier, his thoughts had been preoccupied with mundane concerns, such as deciding on a colour to paint the living room walls or contemplating the addition of another tree in the garden. Now, those concerns seemed trivial, inconsequential even, in the face of the current crisis. The only thing that mattered now, the sole focus that dominated everyone’s thoughts, was the primal instinct to survive.

As he surveyed the pandemonium around him, his mind involuntarily drifted to a passage he had once read about Judgment Day—a time prophesied to be filled with chaos and turmoil, where people would be so consumed by fear and desperation that they would abandon everything in a futile attempt to save themselves. The parallels between that apocalyptic vision and the scene unfolding before him were uncanny. It was as if they were living out that prophesy, each person acting out their own personal nightmare. And just like in the religious depiction of Judgment Day, no matter how desperate they were to escape, no matter how fervently they wished to evade the horrors that pursued them, there seemed to be no respite, no sanctuary to shield them from the cataclysm that was closing in from all sides.

“My feet are killing me!” Hasan complained, his small voice nearly lost amidst the noise of anarchy surrounding them. “And I’m really hungry.”

“Alright, son,” Ali said gently. He slipped off his backpack, a makeshift repository of the few essentials they had managed to salvage from their home and rummaged through it. His fingers closed around a small, firm object, and he pulled out an apple, its once vibrant red skin now dulled with a fine layer of dust. “Here, this should help tide you over for a bit,” he said, handing the apple to Hasan.

Ali then hoisted the backpack onto his chest, adjusting the straps. “Climb on!” he instructed, patting his back. Hasan scrambled up onto his back, his small arms encircling Ali’s neck, just as he used to during their playful times in the garden.

“We can’t afford to stop,” he explained. “We need to put as much distance as possible between us and this place.”

“Where are we going?” Hadia said, her words trembling.

Ali opened his mouth, but the truth was, he didn’t have an answer. Their destination was uncertain. But he couldn’t bring himself to voice those fears, not when Hadia was looking to him for strength and reassurance.

“We’ll find a place,” he said firmly, a conviction he didn’t truly feel. “Somewhere safe, away from all this. We’ll head South.” His gaze met Hadia’s, and in that moment, he made an unspoken vow to himself and to his family: no matter what it took, he would protect them, guide them to safety, and rebuild the life that had been so cruelly snatched away from them.

“This way,” Ali said, gently pulling on his wife’s arm to guide her in the direction he had chosen.

“But everyone else is heading that way…” she protested, pointing towards a stream of people moving in the opposite direction.

“I know,” Ali acknowledged. “But they are moving through areas that haven’t been attacked yet.”

“That sounds like a good plan, doesn’t it? To stay away from the areas that are being targeted?”

Ali shook his head, his gaze focused on the path ahead. “I don’t think so. Our best bet is to go through the areas that have already been attacked. It’s less likely they will be hit again.”

For a moment, she stood there, her mind wrestling with the counterintuitive logic of his plan. But then, as if coming to a decision, she nodded and placed her hand on his arm, “Alright,” she said, and held on to his arm as if holding on to her dear life. Trusting him in his guidance to get them to safety – if there was still such a thing.

They carefully navigated around the debris and craters in the road, with the fear that the precariously standing buildings looming over them might suddenly collapse and bury them in a cascade of rubble. Ali barely recognised the market street they were walking down. The memories of good-naturedly haggling with Ahmed over grocery prices seemed like a distant dream.

Suddenly, a desperate cry pierced the air. “Help me!”

“What was that?” Hadia asked, her head snapping in the direction of the distant voice.

“It’s coming from over there,” she said, pointing towards a destroyed section of the street, where the skeletal remains of buildings stood like silent sentinels over the rubble-strewn ground. “It sounds like a woman.”

Ali peered in the direction but then hesitated, his gaze returning to the path they had been following in search of refuge.

“Someone is in trouble,” Hadia said.

We’re all in trouble! Ali thought, but he didn’t voice the thought.

“We have to do something,” Hadia insisted, tugging at his arm.

Ali let out a sigh, then nodded. “You’re right. She sounds close.” They headed towards the source of the voice.

“Over there!” Hasan pointed towards a woman lying under the rubble.

Rushing over, Ali noticed that the lower half of the woman’s body was pinned under a mass of broken bricks and twisted metal. She was trapped.

Ali squatted to allow Hasan to slide off his back, then he removed his backpack and tossed it aside. He began the impossible task of trying to lift the rubble off the trapped woman.

Hadia’s eyes widened in recognition as she took in the woman’s face.

“Maryam?” she gasped, brushing the dust from her cheeks.

“Help me, please,” Maryam’s voice was little more than a whisper.

She grasped Maryam’s hand, “Okay… it’s going to be okay.”

Her gaze shifted to Ali and Hasan, who were straining to lift the heavy rubble pinning Maryam down.

“Help us!” Ali’s voice pierced the air as he spotted a group of men in the distance. “Please help us!”

A band of around eleven young men sprinted over, pushing Hasan and Ali aside to tackle the pile of rubble. Right on their heels, three more men arrived, medical boxes in hands.

“Come on,” Ali urged, tugging at Hadia’s arm. “She’s in good hands. We need to keep moving.”

With a final, lingering glance at Maryam, who now screamed in pain, her once vibrant green eyes dimming with every agonising moment, Hadia allowed herself to be led away by Ali.

Tears carved pathways through the dust on Ali’s face as he was consumed with a mixture of sorrow. His mind was overwhelmed with the haunting images of countless innocent souls now buried beneath the rubble—each one of them silently screaming into the abyss, their cries for help vanishing into the void. They were defenceless, vulnerable men, women, and children who had found themselves caught in the cruel jaws of fate.

 

Chapter 2

Before

Ali gazed out of the window, feeling a mixture of pride and apprehension as he watched his son, Hasan, absorbed in a game of football with his friends on the bustling street below. The vibrant laughter of youth filled the air, a blunt contrast to the uncertain future that loomed over them.

Hasan had recently celebrated his eighth birthday, and his academic progress in the local school was a source of immense pride for Ali. But what touched Ali’s soul the most was Hasan’s unwavering passion for art. Despite the harsh realities of life in Gaza, Hasan harboured dreams of becoming an artist, a dream that Ali knew was fraught with challenges in their volatile homeland.

In his heart, Ali understood the truth: Gaza offered little room for artists, and the pursuit of art often yielded small rewards. In a land where scarcity of resources and the relentless struggle for daily existence, the yearning for artistic efforts, though deep-rooted in the human spirit, was a fruitless exercise. Yet, he couldn’t help but hope, hope that one day, even if it were beyond his own lifetime, Hasan would find a way to be free to explore the vast canvas of his artistic dreams.

Ali’s eyes explored the street and the buildings that bore the scars of a stormy history carved into every brick. Its beauty, though weathered and wounded, remained evidence to the tough spirit of its people. Despite its scars, this city had an undeniable allure. Its winding alleyways led to hidden courtyards, adorned with colourful mosaics and vibrant graffiti, a demonstration to the enduring creativity of its inhabitants and retelling them that they have risen from the ashes time and time again. The call to prayer resonated through the air, a reminder of the faith that had sustained the people through the darkest of days.

Ali held a profound connection to this land; it was carved deep within the contours of his heart. This land wasn’t just a location; it was the embodiment of memories, a tapestry of generations gone by. This was where his parents had laughed and loved, where their ancestors had sown dreams and nurtured hopes. Yet, now, as he stood surveying it, the vibrant image of yesteryears seemed to have faded. The once thriving heartland, pulsating with life and echoing with tales of old, now appeared as a mere husk of its former glory.

“Are you planning to spend the entire day glued to that window?” Hadia, Ali’s wife, asked with a playful teasing tone, her head poking into the room.

“Well, it depends… make me an offer I can’t refuse.”

“Alright, then.’ She tilted her head, ‘Name your terms!”

“How about a sumptuous feast of tender meat, accompanied by an assortment of fresh fruits and the finest bread money can buy – none of that cheap stuff.” Ali proposed, with a sly grin.

Hadia chuckled, “How about we settle for some boiled vegetables and not-so-stale bread from Abbas’ bakery?”

Ali feigned reluctance before surrendering, “You drive a hard bargain, habibi, but I accept your terms.”

“Great!’ she said, ‘Now, I could use some help bringing that bundle of energy, your son, back into the house. Honestly, I have no idea where he gets all that fire. He comes home from school and dashes straight out to play with his friends.”

A fond smile crept onto Ali’s face as he replied, “Habibi, he’s just a boy. At that age, they’re overflowing with life.” His smile faded as he contemplated how the world’s harsh realities would eventually sap that youthful vitality from his son.

‘Well, then, please deal with your boy. Get him inside and have him wash up. He’ll be covered in dirt!”

Ali saluted sarcastically and quipped, “Yes, boss!” he then poked his head out of the widow and called his son’s name.

‘Hasan!’

‘Yes, father.’ His son looked up at him.

‘Come inside and wash up, ready for dinner.’

“Yes, father,” Hasan promptly replied, taking a moment to shake hands with his friends and tell them he was leaving. ‘How?!’ Hadia said with her hands resting on her hips, ‘How do you do that?’

‘Magic!’ he replied with a wink.

‘Yes, you seem to cast a spell over everyone you speak to,’ she said, teasingly.

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I see the way she looks at you?’

‘Who?’

‘You know who!’

‘Maryam? The neighbour?’

‘Who else?’

‘Hadia, Habibi… what is wrong with you? Her husband died a few months ago…’

‘That’s sad… it really is but that doesn’t mean she can try to take mine!’

‘She’s not trying to do any such thing!’

‘There you go… defending her now!’

‘Habibi, you know you are the only woman for me.’

‘I better be!’ a smile began to form on her face.

‘You might be completely crazy, but you’re my crazy.

‘Crazy? You haven’t seen crazy, her eyes narrowed playfully.

‘Are we having dinner today or are planning to starve me to death!’ A croaky voice emerged from downstairs.

‘Sorry father,’ Hadia said and looked like she was fighting to not roll her eyes at his ridiculous outburst, ‘Be there in a moment.’

Hadia’s father had been living with them for five years, ever since he was displaced from his home by settlers. He was an old school principled man set in his ways. His complaints and short temper were just signs of his deep hurt. After losing his wife and his left leg in an explosion, he was never the same. The vibrant farmer, who once took pride in tending to his land, was now confined to a life of immobility. Stripped of his ability to do the work he loved, he transformed into a cynical and bitter old man. The fields he once roamed with joy are now a painful reminder of everything he has lost.

“Boy!” exclaimed Hadia’s father, and Hasan skidded to a halt beside him at the dinner table. “Stop!”

Obediently, Hasan stopped in his tracks, standing before his grandfather. His face was flushed and sweaty.

“You can’t spend all your time playing games,” his grandfather lectured. “You’re growing up, and you don’t want to end up like some of the other men around here—a loser.”

Ali smiled and shrugged off the comment, knowing it was an indirect jab at him.

He helped his wife set the plates on the table and didn’t make eye contact with Hadia’s father just in case the old man infiltrated his shield and discovered that he was in fact hurt by the comment. Hadia’s father was confident and strong not only in physicality but also in the unwavering steadfastness of his beliefs, convictions, and cultural values. Everything, it seemed, that Ali was not. As a teacher, Ali stood firmly in his conviction that literature had the power to reshape the world, a belief entirely opposed to that of Hadia’s father.

“Listen, you need to be strong like your brother, and that means less playing games and more working. And I don’t mean just reading books. The books you like aren’t going to help you. They’re written by fools who are just dreaming and not looking at the real world. In real life, you need to be a man – a real man who takes care of things and makes good choices, not just for you, but for everyone around you. That’s what it means to be a man. The world relies on men.”

‘Yes, sir.’ Hasan said.

“Good, now go wash up and prepare for dinner. You’re sprouting up fast; you need your strength,” instructed the grandfather.

Hasan nodded and scampered off to wash his hands.

“Why must you do that, Father?” Hadia questioned, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

“Do what?” her father retorted sharply.

Ali shot Hadia a warning look, a silent reminder of their mutual pact to refrain from confronting her father.

“You know, imply that education is worthless,” Hadia persisted.

“Because it is!” her father shot back.

“And that Hasan needs to become some architype of strength, as if danger lurks around every corner?”

“Open your eyes, Hadia! Look at our circumstances. Do you want Hasan to bury his head in books, blissfully ignorant of the reality that surrounds us?”

“But you’ve already put Mousa through the same, and now he’s hardly ever home.”

“What?!” exclaimed her father, visibly taken aback.

Ali shook his head at Hadia, silently pleading with her to drop the subject.

“Mousa is doing just fine. At eighteen, he’s strong and self-reliant, fully capable of fending for himself and those around him,” her father defended. “I worry about you and the children,” he expressed, a serious tone underpinning his words. “It feels like you exist in this bubble of pretend security, blissfully unaware of the harsh realities that prowl just outside. The world is a brutal place, one that has the power to puncture your sanctuary in the blink of an eye. And when that happens, you must be prepared to face whatever comes your way, to navigate the stormy seas of life with resilience and fortitude.”

‘Father, please–’

‘The food smells nice,’ Ali interrupted, trying to break the tension.

‘Look,’ her father said, ‘We all want peace. No one that I know wants to fight but sometimes, when you’re forced into corner, you have no choice but to retaliate.’

Ali opened his mouth, the words flowing forth before he could tether them. “Not every situation necessitates a confrontation,” he argued, mentally chastising himself for fanning the flames of what was already a precarious conversation.

“And what would you propose, teacher?” Hadia’s father challenged; his voice spiked with a subtle ridicule. “Should we gather around a campfire, our hands clutching volumes of classic literature, and hope that the world’s tribulations simply disappear?”

“How about we focus on the meal instead?” Ali suggested, his lips curving into a forced smile in a final, desperate bid to redirect the conversation.

Just then, the door swung open, and Mousa staggered in, his face slick with sweat and his chest heaving with exertion.

“What’s the matter?” Hadia rushed to his side.

Panting heavily, Mousa managed to choke out, “Something… something terrible has happened.” Overwhelmed by emotion, he buried his face in the sanctuary of his mother’s embrace.

 

Chapter 3

After

“We need to stop,” Hadia pleaded, letting herself collapse onto the dusty ground. “We’re completely worn out. We’ve been on our feet for hours!”

Ali slowly lowered himself to the ground, gently easing Hasan, who had dozed off, off his back. “Okay…” he agreed, feeling a wave of fatigue hit his legs and lower back.

The sudden sound of an ambulance and a few cars whizzing by roused Hasan from his slumber.

“Come on…” Ali encouraged, pushing himself up to his feet.

“No, Ali! We just sat down… My feet are killing me, I have blisters. I can literally feel them!” Hadia protested.

“Hadia, Habibi…”

“No, Ali! I just can’t do this anymore,” she burst into tears. “Let them bomb us, let them kill us, I don’t care anymore!”

“Habibi,” Ali crouched next to her, cupping her face in his hands. “We can’t give up, we must never give up,” he gestured towards their son, “He doesn’t deserve any of this.”

“What about Mousa? What about him, Ali? We just abandoned him. How could we?”

Ali pulled Hadia into a tight embrace, trying to shelter her from the pain. “Habibi, we had no choice… But we do now. Look, there’s a hospital nearby. We can rest there, maybe get some water. It’ll be safe.”

“We’re never safe, Ali. We’re Palestinians, nobody cares about us. The world has turned its back on us, and we will never be safe anywhere. I swear, even on the moon, we wouldn’t be safe. Their rockets would follow us there!”

“Habibi…”

“No, just go! Take Hasan and leave me here,” she shoved him away, “Just leave me!”

“I could never leave you, Habibi, never!” Ali vowed, his voice breaking. “I would follow you to the moon… and I would shield you with my own body to protect you from the rockets.”

A small smile touched the corners of Hadia’s lips. “How would we get to the moon?” she asked weakly.

“We’d steal one of Elon Musk’s rockets. He’s got so many, he probably wouldn’t even notice one gone.”

Hadia let out a soft chuckle and rested her head on Ali’s chest. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“You married a crazy woman!”

“That I did, but like I’ve always said, you’re my kind of crazy!”

‘What are we going to do? This is never going to end!’

“Nothing lasts forever,” Ali said, rising to his feet with a sigh. “That’s just the way life is. The good moments, the ones we want to hold onto forever, they slip through our fingers like water. Similarly, the shadowy sorrows that threaten to tear us apart will eventually fade away too. It’s all temporary, part of the great cycle of life.’

“It’s just not right!” Hadia cried out, “We never asked for this, for war. It’s as if there are two factions, both reluctant to clash directly, but they’re not hesitant to unleash their fury on us, the innocent bystanders. They may avoid drawing each other’s blood, but they have no qualms about spilling ours.’

“I know… but this isn’t the time for this conversation. Come on. Let’s get to the hospital.’

They navigated the mile of rubble-strewn roads, their path telling a horrific tale of the chaos that had unfolded, until they arrived at the hospital. People flooded into the building, a frenzied display of pain and desperation. A few fortunate souls were carried in on stretchers, but the majority were borne in the arms of loved ones. Women let out primal screams as they clung to the broken bodies of their family members, the majority of whom were children.

The true horror of war defies depiction on screen or description in a book. Its brutality is not discerning, claiming victims indiscriminately and leaving in its wake a trail of survivors who are forever haunted by the trauma, a shadow from which they can never fully step out of.

As they entered the hospital, Ali felt a wave of nausea wash over him as he took in the full extent of the devastation around him. His stomach churned at the sight of people, their faces twisted in agony, as they grappled with injuries both minor and grievous. The wails and sobs of the wounded and their loved ones filled air.

But it was the sight of the dead that truly horrified him. Bodies lay strewn about, some covered with makeshift shrouds, others left exposed to the elements. The finality of their stillness was a stark contrast to the chaos that surrounded them. Ali felt his heart constrict in his chest, a mix of sorrow, rage, and utter helplessness washing over him. He was sickened by the senseless violence that had brought so much suffering to these innocent people, and he felt a deep despair at the state of a world where such atrocities could occur.

Ali felt the pressure of Hadia’s arm as she clung to him, her grasp tightening in an instinctive search for comfort and security. Her body trembled beside him, and he knew that the sights and sounds of the devastation would be carved into her memory, and would haunt her dreams and waking moments alike.

Ali began questioning the very fabric of his reality. An unsettling sense of disorientation took hold of him as he grappled with the enormity of the devastation that had befallen his world. What if this wasn’t the world he knew? What if, in some tragic twist of fate, they had died, and this was their afterlife? Trapped in a hellish realm, condemned to witness the endless cycle of violence and grief.

‘What are we doing here?’ Hadia asked. A question that felt so much deeper than she probably intended.

Ali, his voice filled with an urgency borne of desperation, reached out to a man who was hurrying past them. “Excuse me, sir,” he called, halting the man in his tracks. “Could you please help us get some water and food? It’s for my wife and our son.”

The man looked over at Hasan, who was clinging to Ali’s neck. “Of course,” he replied, his voice cracking slightly. “Please, take a seat over there with some of the other families. I’ll see what I can rustle up for you.”

“Thank you,” Ali said, his voice thick with gratitude. “And may God bless you.”

The man nodded and then rushed off.

“We need to head South,” Ali heard a man sitting nearby tell his wife, his voice steady with conviction. “We’ll be safe there.”

This was a sentiment Ali had heard echoed by others, a collective whisper of hope. Ali found himself nodding in agreement, the seed of a plan beginning to take root in his mind. Yes, heading South might indeed be their best chance at finding safety.

The hospital was operating well beyond its capacity, medical professionals doing their utmost to tend to the seemingly endless influx of patients. The hallways themselves had become makeshift treatment areas, with doctors performing CPR on young victims.

Ali’s eyes were unwillingly drawn to a scene unfolding just a few feet away from him, where a doctor was desperately administering chest compressions to a small boy who appeared even younger than Hasan. The doctor’s face was glistening with sweat as he poured every ounce of his energy into the effort to revive the child.

Beside the boy, his mother stood with one hand clutching her son’s, her face an emotionless mask, like a frozen lake concealing the turmoil that surely churned beneath the surface. Yet, her lips were moving in a ceaseless murmur of quiet prayers.

The swinging doors burst open, admitting another wave of disarray into the already tumultuous hospital hallway. A man, his face a mask of grief and exertion, was pushing a stretcher that carried the lifeless form of a young girl. Ali was by no means a medical professional, but even he could tell that the child was beyond saving. Her face, tinged a haunting shade of blue, stood in blunt contrast to her bloodied clothing, telling the tragic tale of her final moments.

At the sight of the girl, the doctor performing CPR on the young boy by Ali’s side paused for just a fraction of a second, his face registering a pang of recognition and unspeakable sorrow. In that moment, the world seemed to come to a standstill, as if paying its respects to the profound loss of life.

The man who had brought the girl in shook his head, his voice breaking as he addressed the doctor. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t save your daughter…nor your wife.”

The doctor gave a slight nod. There was no time to grieve, no space to process the enormity of his personal tragedy. His patient, the young boy, still needed him. And so, with a deep breath that seemed to serve as a silent vow to his departed loved ones, the doctor returned his focus to the task at hand.

Ali watched as the doctor’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears, but he did not allow them to fall. There was a steely determination in his gaze, a refusal to give in to the despair that threatened to overwhelm him. His hands worked with a precision and urgency that spoke of a fierce commitment to saving the boy’s life, as if in doing so, he could somehow reclaim a small measure of control in a world that had been irrevocably altered.

A woman entered the space. She gently guided a trolley, piled high with neatly packed food and bottles of water, towards the assembled crowd.

“Please, help yourselves to some food and water,” she offered with a warm and comforting smile.

Gratefully, Ali stepped forward and picked up a few packets of food along with a couple of water bottles.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion.

As Ali turned away, he couldn’t help but notice the solitary figure of the doctor. He sat hunched in a corner, his gaze fixed on some distant point, lost in his own world of thoughts and emotions.

A little further away, the mother of the boy the doctor had tried desperately to save stood with her arms raised towards the heavens. Her silhouette was framed against the backdrop of the clinic’s walls. Her posture spoke of a profound grief and an imploring plea for divine intervention.

“We should go…” Haida’s voice broke the silence, her words quivering. “I can’t stay here any longer. I can’t bear witness to this suffering.” As she spoke, tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Okay,” Ali gently lifted Hasan, who remained asleep in his arms, oblivious to the heartache surrounding him. With Hasan cradled against his chest, they stepped out of the hospital, the heavy doors swinging shut behind them.

Carrying with them just a few packets of food, a couple of water bottles, and the fragile stems of faith that had begun to sprout in their hearts, Ali and Haida headed south. Their steps were unsure, their path unclear, but they pressed forward, propelled by the brittle hope of safety.

“I’m hungry,” mumbled Hasan, breaking the silence that had settled over them as they trudged on.

Ali couldn’t suppress the chuckle that bubbled up at the sound of his son’s voice. “Ah… the sleeping beauty awakes!” he said, as he gently set Hasan down.

Hadia, meanwhile, had sunk to the ground. She grimaced in pain as she peeled off her shoes and examined the blisters that had formed on the soles of her feet. “How far will we walk?”

Ali silently handed Hasan a packet of food, his eyes meeting Hadia’s as he sighed deeply. The truth was, he didn’t have an answer to her question. He didn’t know how far their journey would take them, where they would find refuge in the war-torn landscape of Gaza, or if such a refuge even existed.

Ali’s legs gave out from under him, and he crumpled to the ground.

Hadia’s father had been right all along; danger had been looming on the horizon, waiting to swallow them whole. Death and destruction were their relentless pursuers, and yet, he had naively chosen to turn a blind eye, seeking refuge in the world of literature instead.

Now, as he sat there on the hard ground, Ali was forced to confront the harsh reality that his foolishness had left them woefully unprepared for the trials and tribulations that lay ahead. They were alone, their future a dark and foreboding unknown. And for the first time, Ali was faced with the agonising realisation that he might not have the strength or the courage to save them.

He opened his bag and removed a book – his favourite book. The only book he had taken from their home – 1984 by George Orwell. For a moment, he studied the cover, running his fingers over the bold title embossed on the surface. His mind flooded with memories of reading its pages under the dim light of his room, finding solace in Orwell’s dystopian world that somehow felt less bleak than his own. A surge of anger welled up inside him, fuelled by the pain of the past and the reality of his present. In a fit of rage, he wound back his arm and hurled the book into the distance, watching as it disappeared from view, the final tangible connection to his old life now severed.

Hasan rose from the ground, patting his jeans to remove the dirt that clung to them. Without hesitation, he sprinted into the distance.

“Hasan!” Hadia’s voice cracked as it echoed through the air, her plea a desperate attempt to bring him back to her side.

But in the next moment, he returned, the novel – Ali’s cherished copy of 1984 by George Orwell – secured tightly in his grip.

“Don’t ever run off! Don’t ever leave me!” she implored, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her cheeks. She held him tightly.

Ali joined the embrace, encircling mother and son in a protective cocoon, “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice choked with regret.

Eventually, Hadia released them from the hug, her eyes glistening with a mixture of tears and resolve. She reached out to cup Ali’s face, her touch gentle yet filled with a steely determination. “Ali, listen to me; you are a good man. A great man. You stand for peace, for righteousness, and that is what the world needs more of. And no matter the trials and tribulations that we face, know that I believe in you. We,” she glanced at Hasan, her hand still cradling Ali’s cheek, “We believe in you and what you represent. You symbolise a future where chaos and destruction are replaced with peace and justice, where the good in humanity triumphs over the evil. And I need you to know, from the bottom of my heart, that we will always stand by your side, come what may.”

Ali hung his head, a single tear escaping from the corner of his eye. “I’m so sorry, Hadia… I’m sorry I didn’t listen to your father… I should have…”

“No,” she interrupted softly, shaking her head. “I stand by you, Ali. I stand by peace.”

With a solemn nod, Hasan handed the book to his father. “Please don’t lose hope, father,” he urged, his voice earnest. “We haven’t lost hope in you, and we never will.”

 

Chapter 4

Before

“Here… take a seat,” Ali gently guided Mousa to the dining table, his touch a mix of comfort and urgency.

“What’s the matter?” Hadia’s father queried, pivoting his body to directly face Mousa. His eyes, filled with concern and confusion, bore into the young man’s face.

Mousa took a moment to gulp down the water his mother handed him. He swallowed hard, his throat working to take in both the liquid and the gravity of the situation. After a few tense moments, he found his voice.

“It’s Hamas. They’ve forced their way into Israel and… and they’ve killed many people. They’ve even taken hostages,” he choked out.

“What?!” Ali exclaimed, his face draining of colour as he rushed over to retrieve his laptop.

Hadia’s father reclined back in his chair, his features tightening in an attempt to process the situation.

“Is it true?” Hadia turned to ask Ali, her voice barely above a whisper as he furiously typed away at the keyboard. He glanced up, locking eyes with his wife, and in that silent exchange, no words were needed.

Without warning, Hadia reached over and grabbed Mousa by the ear. “Did you have any part in this?!” she demanded, her voice reaching a fever pitch.

“Ow! Ah!” Mousa yelled out in pain. “No! I swear, I have nothing to do with Hamas! I don’t even know anyone from them!”

“Enough! Leave the boy alone!” Hadia’s father interjected, his voice stern and commanding.

Ali finally found his voice, the words emerging from his lips with difficulty. “The news… it’s saying that they massacred civilians, including women and children.”

“Oh my God,” Hadia buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she broke down in tears.

“This was inevitable,” Hadia’s father declared, his tone resolute yet tinged with sadness.

“Father, please!” Hadia begged, her voice cracking.

“What?!” he shot back at her. “I’m not condoning what they did. Taking innocent lives is unforgivable. But we mustn’t be naive. When you subject a people to brutal oppression and control for years on end, there comes a point when they will retaliate. It’s a basic human instinct to fight back when cornered.”

“No! No! This is all wrong!” Ali interjected. “Those people… they didn’t deserve to die like this.”

“And who’s to say that it’s even true?” Hadia’s father questioned, his voice rising in anger. “Would it really surprise you if this turned out to be another one of Israel’s lies, designed to paint us as the villains?”

“Father… we need to remain calm. This kind of talk doesn’t help anyone,” Hadia implored him.

“Calm? How can I be calm?” he shot back, his voice reaching a crescendo. “I’m a crippled old man who’s lost everything. What help can I possibly offer to anyone?”

“This isn’t about revenge for what happened to you!” Hadia exclaimed. “This act does not balance the scales. This is not some type of sick victory for the Palestinian people!”

“No, it’s not,” he agreed, his voice thick with emotion. “Revenge would be me hunting down the people who sat comfortably in their bases and pressed buttons that took your mother’s life. That would be revenge.”

“Revenge only perpetuates a cycle of violence and retaliation, that ultimately causes more harm than good.”

“Bravo!” Hadia’s father clapped, “You have spent enough time with your husband to sound just like him!”

“We need to think this through,” Ali urged them.

“Think?” Hadia’s father scoffed. “Is that all you ever do, Ali? Talk and think? There comes a time when action is required. The problem is, you’ve yet to learn that.”

“Hamas… what they did is evil,” Ali began, but his voice wavered and trailed off.

“I hold no love for Hamas,” Hadia’s father admitted. “But in these times, they’ve become a necessary evil.”

“No evil is necessary!” Ali countered through gritted teeth.

“Have you forgotten the atrocities, the suffering that the Palestinians have endured for over 50 years!? The lives lost in 2008, 2012, and 2014 – are they worth less than the lives lost in Israel?”

Hadia’s father’s words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the complex tapestry of pain woven into the fabric of their history.

With a conviction that seemed to shake the very foundation of the room, Ali continued, “Your intentions can’t be used as excuses for your actions. What Hamas did was wrong and haram!”

Hadia’s father chuckled, a sound devoid of any mirth, and retorted, “Please, spare me the lecture on Halal and Haram. You know nothing about it.”

Ali’s eyes burned with intensity as he responded, “I may not fully comprehend the intricacies of Halal and Haram, but I have read the Qur’an. And I know that God says that if you kill one human, it’s as if you have killed all of mankind.”

Hadia’s father scoffed, dismissing Ali’s words as if they were nothing more than the naive musings of a child.

“That has become nothing but a slogan for you idealistic fools! This is war we’re talking about!”

Ali stood his ground, unwavering in his belief. “Killing non-combatants is not part of war!”

Hadia’s father smirked, “Since when did war have a rule book?”

With a passion that seemed to burn from within, Ali replied, “Our Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, expressly forbade the killing of innocent women, children, and non-combatant men. There is no justification for such acts in the teachings of Islam!”

“Enough! Both of you, stop it!” Hadia interjected, her voice cutting through the tension that had surrounded the room like a thick fog. “What will happen now?”

Ali’s eyes searched the room as if looking for the answer to Hadia’s question.

His hands shook as he looked at the laptop, the familiar hum and glow of the screen doing nothing to calm the storm inside him.

As he read the news articles detailing the massacre, a wave of sadness washed over him. The images of the victims, innocent lives lost in such a brutal and senseless manner, imprinted themselves into his mind, and he felt a lump form in his throat. The tears threatened to spill over, but he forced them back.

And then, there was the anger. A deep, burning rage that consumed him from the inside out. How could they do this? How could they justify taking innocent lives? The injustice of it all was like a physical blow, and he felt his fists clench involuntarily. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to do something – anything – to make it stop.

But there was also a confusion, a turmoil of conflicting emotions and thoughts. He heard the words of Hadia’s father, the pain and bitterness in his voice, and part of him understood. Understood the anger, the resentment, the feeling of being oppressed and backed into a corner with no way out. But another part of him recoiled in horror. No, this was not the way. Violence only begets more violence, and revenge was not the answer.

Ali played the live stream of a news channel.

The somber-faced reporter conveyed the words of Israel’s prime minister with an ominous tone. “Israel’s prime minister has declared that the acts perpetrated against Israel by Hamas will not remain unpunished. The Israeli forces are determined to locate and eliminate all Hamas terrorists.”

Hadia’s father scoffed at the screen, his voice filled with a bitter mix of anger and disdain. “Well, if it isn’t the devil himself, ready to sacrifice anyone, even his own people, to assert his dominance.”

Hadia turned to Ali and asked, “What does this mean for us?”

“What do you think it means, my dear? Her father’s response was swift and filled with a harsh reality that seemed to echo around the walls of their living room. “It means death and destruction for Gaza. He’s not just after Hamas. He wants to wipe us all out, erase our existence.”

In a flurry of motion, Ali snapped the lid of his laptop shut and reached for his phone, “I need to make some calls.”

Hadia’s father let out a mocking chuckle. “That’s right, go on, try and talk your way out of this mess.”

“Father, please, I beg of you, this is not the time for us to be fighting!”

But her father was unyielding, his eyes burning with a fiery intensity that spoke of years of pain and loss. “On the contrary, my dear, this is the only time to fight. Mark my words… they will march into Gaza, and their bombs and bullets won’t discriminate. The streets will run red with the blood of our people, and the world will stand idly by, as they always do, while our children’s cries pierce the heavens.”

“Enough!” Hadia’s voice was a mixture of anger and fear as she pulled Hasan into her arms, attempting to shield him from her father’s terrifying words. “You’re scaring the children!”

But her father was relentless. “They ought to be scared, and so should you. You and your husband have cocooned them in a false sense of security, shielding them from the reality of our world. Now, they won’t be prepared for the nightmare that is about to unfold. And that is on you!”

Ali rushed into the other room. Cradling the phone against his ear, he waited with bated breath as the rings echoed in his ears.

“Hi, you’ve reached the voicemail of John. Unfortunately, I am unable to take your call at present, but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

Ali swallowed the lump forming in his throat, his voice barely above a whisper as he spoke into the void.

“Hey John, it’s Ali. Listen, things are spiralling out of control and I… I desperately need your help. I must get my family out of harm’s way. We’ve been tirelessly working towards peaceful resolutions for years, but now, I fear our safety is on the line… Please, call me back.”

Ali felt a shiver run down his spine as he hung up and turned around to face the room. His gaze fell upon Hadia’s father, seated in his wheelchair, an expression of glaring realism fixed onto his face.

“You really are delusional, aren’t you?” he scoffed.

Ali blinked in surprise. “What do you mean?”

The phone felt like a dead weight in his pocket as he tucked it away.

“You’ve spent years cosying up to these people, naively believing in the possibility of a peaceful resolution. And now, just when peace is nothing more than a distant dream, you think Rambo is going to swoop in and save the day?”

His tone was dripping with sarcasm.

“That’s not it. I still have faith that we can resolve this without resorting to violence. We don’t have to fight,” Ali retorted, his voice steady yet filled with an underlying current of despair.

Hadia’s father laughed, a hollow sound that reverberated off the walls. “So, you choose to run away like a coward, then?”

“I am NOT a coward!” Ali protested, his anger flaring.

But Hadia’s father was unyielding. “Keep telling yourself that. Just remember, there will be no place left for you to hide. Rambo is not coming to you. They don’t care about you.”

Ali was about to respond when the piercing wail of a siren cut through the air, causing him to halt mid-sentence.

Hadia burst into the room, her face pale with terror. “What… what is that sound?”

Her father answered, a mixture of sadness and resignation in his voice. “That, my dear, is the sound of our fate being sealed.”

“It’s a warning siren,” Ali clarified, his heart hammering in his chest. “They’re going to launch an airstrike here.”

“Here?!” Hadia’s eyes widened in disbelief. “But we have nothing to do with Hamas! There is no Hamas here!”

Without another word, Ali turned on his heel and hurried out of the room, calling out, “Where are Mousa and Hasan?”

“Ali!” Hadia’s voice was a desperate whisper in the chaos that surrounded them. “What are we going to do?”

Ali’s hands reached out to cradle her face, a small oasis of calm in the storm that raged around them. His eyes locked onto hers.

“Hadia, do you trust me?” His voice was steady.

She blinked back tears, confusion and fear clouding her gaze. “What?”

“Do you trust me?” he repeated, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears that had begun to flow.

Hadia nodded, her voice breaking as she replied, “Of course I trust you, Ali. With all my heart.”

Ali’s lips quivered into a sad smile. “Then Habibi, I need you to gather our children and grab only what is absolutely necessary. We must leave and find safety before the airstrikes begin.”

Hadia’s breath hitched in her throat, a sob escaping her lips as the enormity of the situation hit her. “Is this really happening? Are we truly leaving our home, the place where we built our dreams and our family?”

Ali’s heart ached at the pain carved on his wife’s face, but he hardened himself. They had to be strong, for each other and for their children.

“Yes, habibi,” he whispered, pulling her into a tight embrace. “But remember, home is not just a place; it’s wherever we are together, as a family. And I promise you, we will find a way to rebuild, to create a new home, no matter where we are.”

Hadia’s nod was accompanied by a river of tears that she seemed incapable of holding back.

“Hasan! Mousa!” Ali’s voice echoed with urgency as he and Hadia split up, bounding up the stairs in opposite directions. “You get Mousa, and I’ll get Hasan!”

Ali burst into Hasan’s room. His son was huddled under his duvet as if trying to shield himself from the anarchy that had invaded their home. Ali reached out and gently but firmly pulled the duvet back.

“Hasan, my boy, I need you to listen to me,” Ali said, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. “We have to leave home for a bit, and I need you to be brave and pack a few important things, okay?”

Hasan’s wide eyes brimmed with tears as he peered up at his father. “When will we come back, Baba?”

Ali’s heart constricted at the innocent question, but he forced a smile. “I don’t know, habibi. But we have to go now. Can you be a strong boy and do as your father asks?”

A small, shaky nod was his response.

“Good boy,” Ali said, ruffling his son’s hair. “Now, quickly—”

His words were cut off by the distant but distinct sound of his wife’s scream.

“Ali! Ali!”

Ali felt the blood drain from his face as his heart hammered in his chest. His mind went blank as he spun around and sprinted out of Hasan’s room, fear propelling him towards Hadia’s screams.