Note: Sorry for the wait, I had to change some details. Reminder that this is a fictional story with fictional characters. Enjoy! Free Palestine 🍉
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October 7.
Saturday evening was the holiday of Simchat Torah. By now the streets should be loud in Jerusalem, but it was calm at grandmother's house in the Kibbutz Be'eri. I was visiting her from Thailand. She was taking her evening nap when it happened.
When we heard the sirens. It rang loudly throughout southern Israel, heard from as far away as Tel Aviv—according to my father. He told me that our enemies were attacking with rockets from Gaza, and he told me to take my grandmother and my brother Kay and evacuate to the house.
I glance from the window—smoke billows over residential areas. The neighbors were sheltering behind the building. It didn't take me long to pack our bags, and granny had already woken up from the sirens. I was panicked but I tried to keep my cool in front of them—granny's heart wouldn't withstand a panic attack.
My father called again. He told me not to leave the house because it was too dangerous. The rockets weren't strong enough to launch through the house and kill us. We're safer if we don't move.
After a while of comforting each other, I opened the TV to distract us from the sirens and the rockets—only to listen to a chilling announcement from the head of the Brigades, the military wing of Gaza's governing body. A shadow was cast on his face as he said, "We announce the start of Operation Al-Aqsa Flood, we announce that the first strike, which targeted enemy positions, airports, and military fortifications, exceeded 5,000 missiles and shells..."
Pounds on the door startles me. It keeps going until the door breaks down, and five men come in. They all had their faces covered and held the biggest guns I've ever seen.
My heart races as they approach us, wearing bulletproof vests and green headbands with Arabic letters on them.
The TV muffles in the background, "... the Israeli military announces that there has been a breach in security barriers. This is a terrorist attack. Palestinian fighters have crossed the Gaza border into Israel..."
One of the armed men steps into the living room, his tall figure stands between us and the TV. I pull my little brother closer to me and clutch granny's hand. We're all gonna die. His eyes scan us and the room.
"Shalom," he says with a raspy voice.
"Shalom," answers granny. I am impressed
by her calmness. "Who are you?"
The Palestinian man raises his chin proudly, his fingers tightly clutching the assault rifle. "We're the resistance."
Then the man says something in Arabic to the other four men, who then walk out, leaving him alone with us. I was staring at the weapon in his hand... which thankfully was pointed at the ground the whole time. "What do you want, son? Why do you bring us all this terror?" asks granny.
"I apologize for the door," he says as if this was at all important right now. "I want you to call the occupation forces."
I was already trying to sneakily dial the police... So it didn't take time for me to have them on the phone right away. I tell to them exactly what's going on as the Palestinian terrorist watches me. When I hung up, he said, "Good. Now we wait."
And we wait, and we wait. An hour passes and we are sitting awkwardly in the living room, panicking silently as the man sat across from us on a chair he pulled from the dining room. He decides to reopen the TV, and we hear the news about the attack. How it was in several places in southern Israel, not just Be'eri. A phone call was aired of a lady who was hiding in her closet as the terrorists attacked her house and family. Blood spilled. From the looks of it, it doesn't seem like we are going to survive this. It's only a matter of time.
"We're gonna take you to Gaza," was the most terrifying thing he said so far, breaking the tiny thread of hope I had left for survival. Gaza, where the violence-loving, jew-hating people live.
"Are you gonna hurt us?"
"Don't worry, I'm a Muslim. We will not hurt you," he raises his hands in defense "Our fight is with the soldiers."
This took me off guard, I didn't know what to think—but it took some stress off of me.
Two hours pass.
The man gets up, still gripping his gun that's wrapped around his shoulder. He walks toward the kitchen and points at a tray of bananas. "May I eat one?"
Granny nods. "Sure, go ahead."
The man ate it as if he didn't eat anything tasty in a while.
I look at my phone in hopes I find a missed call from the authorities or something—but who am I kidding? Two hours and they haven't shown up yet. It's like we're being abandoned by our own police in front of the intruder who he himself is asking them to come. How embarrassing. They could've taken us to Gaza and back ten times by now. How many more times do I have to call them?
"Do you have more food?"
"No, but I can bring you coffee and cookies," says granny.
I glare at her, nudging her arm.
"Honey, it looks like we're gonna be here awhile. I need my coffee," she tells me, then goes into the kitchen.
After a while, the terrorist asks, "Is this your little brother?" nodding in Kay's direction. He softens his voice as he asks him, "How old are you?"
"Twelve," says Kay.
"He looks like my little brother," he tells me, the tone of his voice hinting that he was smiling behind his mask. "Where are your parents?"
"Mom in Thailand, Dad in Tel Aviv," says Kay quietly.
"My great-grandparents lived in Tel Aviv," he says. At this moment, granny came back with two coffees and cookies on a tray. "Thank you so much," says the man as he stands up and takes the tray from her, setting it down. He pulls up his mask just enough to taste the coffee. "Mmm, it's delicious. In Arabic, we say 'Teslam Aydek', which means bless your hands."
His AK was now on the table, far from his hands. Tempting to grab, but it would be stupid of me to do so considering I've never held a weapon in my life, and he was a highly trained fighter. My grandmother had to nudge it aside to set her coffee down. "We've never had any weapons enter our home. We are not violent people," she says.
"It's a good thing to have the option to not engage in violence. But don't worry, look," he lifts the AK and shows it to her. "The safety is on. You can hold it no problem."
He set it gently on my grandmother's lap, who wasn't fazed about it. "It's heavier than it looks."
"Now you look like a veteran. You can be our leader," he jokes, then pulls out his phone and gives it to me. "Can you take a picture of me with grandma?"
I can't process what's going on, but I snap the picture anyway, where granny is making a peace sign with her hand.
Moments later, we hear a gunshot. The terrorist rose from the chair and yanked his gun, pointing it at the door. The sound was not far from our house, and it started to become louder and louder. Explosions, shots, shouting in Arabic. The man calls over the other fighters who are standing outside and then grabs me by the arm. "Let's go."
The others took granny and Kay, forcing them up and out the door. "No, please, leave us alone—" I say hastily.
"You have no choice."
I was dragged outside, where there was a crossfire between our army and the terrorists in the neighborhood next to us. Guns shooting from behind walls, grenades thrown, tanks fired. I caught a glimpse of a body lying limp on the floor, and a shiver ran up my spine. I was pulled away quickly by the terrorist and put on a motorcycle. The two other fighters who stood by took granny and Kay on a separate motorcycle. My eardrums feel like they're gonna burst from the loud gunfires and explosions.
Everything happened quickly. My whole body was jerked with the tug of the vehicle, I wasn't ready for the sudden movement, and my reflexes made me grip his waist for support. A striking pain shot up my leg, and I felt numb the whole way, I couldn't open my eyes until we stopped. We were at the entrance of a tunnel.
"Where are they?" was the first thing I asked when I looked around and didn't find granny or Kay.
But he was looking concerningly at my leg.
"Are you okay?"
I felt it the second I moved it. Excruciating pain. A hole was torn in my pants near my calve, blood stained all around it. He helps me get down from the motorcycle and I flinch from the pain, groans escaped me.
"You were shot. The bullet didn't go too
deep," he says after glancing at it. "Can you walk?"
I put weight on it, bite my lip, and nod. It's gonna be painful, but I can do it. He led me through the tunnel and I walked very slowly. "Your family is fine. You will meet them in Gaza."
I hear another motorcycle pull up at the
entrance, with more terrorists and hostages. A minute later, they walked past us because of how slow I was. We exchanged glances—they held fear in their eyes as well but didn't say anything.
The tunnel ahead is long, and the thought of walking all this way terrifies me. Pain shoots up my leg every step I take, I don't know how much longer I can hold in a scream.
"Let me help you," he says after noticing my facial expressions, and my failed attempt at hiding the pain. He put an arm behind my back and one behind my knees. I hesitate, but I let him carry me. The only thing that scars me more than him carrying me is to walk all this way with my injured leg.