Three days pass.
I was taken to a room where a Palestinian medic treated my wound. I was eating the same food they were eating, mostly pita bread and cheese. The only thing I had as entertainment was a radio that I kept on 24/7 listening to the news. I couldn't believe the amount of barbaric atrocities that happened that day, the mass shooting of a music festival, the burned civilians, the raped women, the beheaded babies.
It was the biggest attack in Israel's history. The Palestinians despise us. Only because we're Jews. That week I learned that my neighbour was killed. I shiver every time I remember she could've been the dead body I saw in her backyard.
But what really consumed my mind was my brother and my grandmother, and whether or not they were one of the 1,400 people who were killed.
"I'm sorry dear, I don't know where they are," said the paramedic as she put a new bandage around my leg.
"Ask him. The Brigades militant. The one who brought me here. Please."
"Which militant brought you?"
"I don't know his name," I say. "But he knows mine. May."
The medic purses her lips. "Okay, I'll ask him for you."
An hour after she leaves, someone knocks on the door. I can't wrap my head around the idea that my privacy is respected in a hostage situation. "Come in."
A young man, about my age, steps in. He has dark, tousled hair and wears a casual black T-shirt that hugs his well-defined physique. "Hi, Mia," he waves at me. "Your grandmother and brother are alive and well. I checked on them myself."
I don't know if I believe him.
I furrow my eyebrows. "Where's the guy who brought me here?"
"That would be me."
My immediate thought is to tell him, "No, it's not you." But he has the same eyes, the same raspy voice. He is a lot younger than I imagined. Cleaner. More... normal. I don't know what I expected him to look like, but that's not it.
Part of the intimidation I previously felt towards him faded, which let me build up the courage to ask, "Why did you kill those people? People from the Kibbutzim are peace-loving, they empathized with Palestinians..."
He pulls a chair and sits down. "I never killed a civilian. Our target is the Israeli army. But I admit—some of my colleagues are more violent and vengeful than others. To be honest, we expected a lot more security at the border, not less than usual. Especially that they knew our attack plan beforehand."
I stay silent, unsure of what he means.
"It looks like you're gonna be here a little longer than we thought. Your government doesn't want to negotiate on a hostage swap."
"Why should they negotiate with terrorists?"
"Because we have you hostage," he says. "They have no choice. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time we negotiate with them on something like this."
"But why did you do this to us? Those were innocent people..."
He pauses and searches my eyes. "I could ask you the same question."
I feel a knot in my stomach. I don't wanna be here anymore.
"The medic told me you are allowed to walk now, but only using crutches. So I can take you to see your family."
He gives me crutches and I follow him out of the house and into the tunnel, to a room with a couch and a bed and...
"May!" Kay runs to hug me.
"Kay, are you okay? Did they hurt you?"
"They gave me this!" he shows me a device that resembles an old Gameboy.
My eyes travel to my grandmother sitting on the couch. "Are you okay granny?"
"Honey, your leg..." she looks at me concerningly as I move toward her with the crutches.
"I'm fine. What about you? Are you eating
well?"
"Don't worry honey, they gave me the insulin."
I sigh in relief. "I was so scared for you. Bombs are dropping non-stop."
"They're bombing neighborhoods here in Gaza trying to eliminate the terrorists. Unfortunately, they're so close to us and the other civilians."
* * *
A week passes. More bombs were dropped, and we had to evacuate a few times for safety. Sometimes to houses, sometimes underground. I was relieved when they reunited us with other hostages—one even had her dog with her. We spent our days comforting each other while the buzzing of drones stayed constant in the sky. We held lectures, told each other stories, and came up with activities to keep each other strong and keep our morale from breaking.
The Brigades militant came to check on us every other day, aside from the medic's daily visits. One time he sat and had a conversation with granny, and it turned out that one of his relatives worked alongside her on the farm in Be'eri.
At night, granny went to sleep early while Kay and I stayed up taking turns on the Gameboy. Soon it will lose battery and we won't be able to charge it because they cut the electricity. That night, the militant knocked on the door. He usually doesn't come by this late, but today he came in holding two little girls in each hand, both look not older than five.
He looks tired and worn out, his eyes desperate. "I'm not supposed to do this, but can I let these girls sleep here tonight? The bombing is heavier than usual."
The girls' clothes look unwashed, their flip-flops dirty, but their eyes are full of innocence and fear. I nod and ask, "Are they your sisters?"
"Aisha is my sister," he gestures to the girl with the two braids and a shy smile. "Nadia is my cousin. Her parents went on a trip."
His eyes said it clearly—a trip to Heaven.
Nadia looks scared and confused, with a few cuts and dirt stains across her face. She holds a doll tightly close to her. I feel my heart aching.
He squeezes his sister's shoulder in reassurance, kisses her on the cheek, and tells her something that sounds like an Islamic dua. Then he left.
"Hey girls, you wanna play?" I give them the warmest smile I can give. "Kay, let the girls have their turn on the Gameboy."
"Look!" says Nadia, showing me her doll. "I found her under the house."
Aisha had a frown on her face looking at the door. "Where did Yahya go?"
I pause, raising my eyebrows. "Is that your brother's name?"
She nods.
"He will be back tomorrow sweetie."
"He's with his friends, Aisha," Nadia explains to her. "I saw them pulling the sleeping people from under the house."
I feel a pang in my chest. Is that what they're doing out there?
The bombs were loud and the kids didn't look like they were gonna sleep tonight. With the constant threat to our lives, neither did I. Kay finally agrees to give Aisha a turn on the Gameboy. She seems excited and grateful, saying "Shukran!". Then, she fumbles through her pink Barbie backpack, pulls out a keychain, and gives it to my brother. In turn, he responds with "Shukran".
"What is it?" I ask.
"Israel," says Kay as he examines the keychain.
Aisha shakes her head and her eyes sparkle, eager to teach him. She flips over the keychain to reveal the word written on it. She points and says, "Palestine." Someone must've read it for her—she looks too young to read.
"Israel!" insists Kay.
"Nooo!" the little girl stomps her feet on the ground in an angry-cute way. I find it disturbing how they're arguing over this. They're way too young to know or see any of this.
"It's Palestine?" I say just to see you the smile return to her face. Aisha's cute braids bob as she nods enthusiastically.
photo: little Gaza by Motaz Azaiza