A Historical Fiction Short on Palestine and Isreal-Adapted from my April 2015 World Literature essay. (all names are fictitious)

“Palestine belongs to the Arabs in the same sense that England belongs to the English or France to the French.”

Mahatma Gandhi

You are a Palestinian; roadblocks hinder your progress, you can’t use the same roads as the Israelis do and military watch towers overlook your town. Everyday you wake, knowing, feeling that your home territory is occupied, and subjugated. And yet, when you speak out against the injustice, stand up in solidarity against occupation; an Israeli bullet slashes through your center of mass. So is the story painted by dozens of eyewitness accounts, survivors and the dead. Entry into Palestine is difficult. Israel has taken control of most entries into the State -albeit illegally. Especially those in Gaza, which I was unable to gain access to. Hindered by the gigantic, prison-like wall which isolates Gaza from the world. I set out to gather the stories of those suffering at the hands of the Israeli military…presence in the West Bank, which is more accessible to foreigners.

Once on the ground in Tel Aviv, I boarded a bus bound for the occupied West Bank. I had heard tell of the checkpoints on entry and within the West Bank itself; I got my first taste.

The bus wheezed to a halt; bumper to bumper traffic. We were ordered to disembark-mercifully it was only seventy degrees fahrenheit under the sun. As I clambered down the steps lugging my gear, the situation become obvious: Israeli checkpoint.

The closer the line moved to the uniformed soldiers, the more tense I became; they were turning away all those fifty and under from entering Palestine. Palestinian women, crying, frantic. Their husbands-even in an Islamic belief system were quiet, being denied entry into their own state. It came my turn. I made my way through the barbed wire and fencing to inspection. I stated my purpose, “I intend to speak with anyone who has been impacted by the Israeli occupation of Palestine.” The older of the four soldiers looked me up and down, a contemptuous smile played on his weathered face, “You wait just like the others. Order are orders.” He looked almost, almost apologetic.

With no other recourse, I joined the mass of people, sitting and standing in a fenced off area on the side of the complex. There I met Aqram. Clean shaven, five foot-eight, thin man. “I live in the West Bank…near Ramallah. This is part of my everyday life, checkpoints. I work in Israel, my profession is construction. For hours at a time, day and night.” he told me. Aqram agreed to tell me his story after I explained my intentions to him. As we waited for the Israelis to change the rules for the checkpoint, as they do periodically and with little pretense.

Aqram has two little girls, one aged 7 and the other aged 10. He told me getting them to school every morning is a monumental challenge. “It is …unpredictable, we as Palestinians cannot use the major roads or highways , as they are reserved for Israelis. We are obligated to use side roads, sometimes even dirt roads. On top of that, [ he

gestures, with a disgusted look on his face towards the Israeli military checkpoint to our side] These stops can last up to eight hours , for varying reasons. My kids do not understand why we are treated this way in our own territory.”

My face must have conveyed my anger; Aqram knew he had found an ally. He invited me to see how they lived, to understand. On cue, the multitude of people became a writhing sea of brown; around 150 people bottle- necked to enter the West Bank. I grabbed my gear, and pressured my way through the babbling, pungent crowd, following Aqram to his car; ditching my bus. Following the story.

The road to his village of Deir ‘Ammar was relatively quiet at 4pm. I took advantage of the muted atmosphere, to inquire about his wife. Her name is Fadela, 25, ten years her husbands junior. “She does not work, a woman’s role is to stay home.” Was his clipped response, I had hit a cultural obstacle. I thought it wise to lay the topic down. Mercifully, we arrived at his home; an apartment block, tan, small windows. What in the United States would be considered “derelict”.

I followed Aqram to the first apartment, ground floor. The door opened; Fadela was beautiful, dark skin, piercing eyes and yet she seemed, unhappy.

She embraced her husband and invited me in [after I had told her my name, and that I was an American journalist].

At dinner, which was a delicious eggplant with cooked tomatoes. Aqram told me of the house across the street “Is the home of my two cousins. I am surrounded by family.” I met the two girls; Basma, the 7 year old and Yosor, the 10 year old. Both girls were precious, I let them see my microphone, we could not communicate much, as they were still learning english. They all invited me to stay the night. “Thank you.” were the words that came to my mouth. “It is our pleasure.” Said Fadela, she possessed a soft, silky voice; accented english. The women in Palestine want to work, but only 18 percent do. They are blocked by the culture and veiled oppression by the government; both the Palestinian Authority and the Israeli Government. Fadela appeared to be an employers dream: hardworking, team player and quiet. It bothered me.

I was offered the worn, comfortable couch, as the girls went to sleep, and Fadela and Aqram retired to their room. I was exhausted, I fell sound sleep; 10pm.

Roaring of heavy trucks, men yelling; Israelis. I jumped out of bed, sprinted out the door; I froze. Sixty armed, and armored Israeli special forces men surrounded the area, spotlights glared in the dim dawn light.

They yelled at the Palestinians in Hebrew, leveling their weapons to point at the dozens of Palestinians who lined the streets, terrified, angry. Four of the men let off several flashing, silenced rounds into the lock of the house across the street; another smashed the door open. A dozen methodical soldiers entered the house, they crashed their way upstairs and brought out two men. The men were crying, yelling out; the military officials beat them into submission, blood dripped down onto the road.They were thrown into black assault vehicles which promptly sped away. I breathed slowly. Aqram was shocked, his face livid. The girls screamed. Fadela knelt down, shaking. “This is our country”, Aqram yelled in Hebrew. Tears streaming down his face. He leaped at the Israeli soldiers , arms flailing. One of the soldiers, brought the cold, polycarbonate butt of his rifle into Aqram’s face , while two others tackled him to the ground. I heard a sickening thud, his head hit the road.

One of the commanding officers shouted something in Hebrew, the three Israelis disengaged and back up, weapons drawn, to another vehicle. The whole sequence lasted a mere five minutes.

Aqram was bleeding; “head wound” I whisper and race to my bag. As I run inside, the frantic screams of the neighborhood echo throughout the streets.

I managed to stabilize him. cleaning the wound, gauzing it; snapping his nose back into place. An ambulance was called. No words could describe the look on the faces of the Palestinians, they seemed to be asking: Did they take others? Are some dead? Underneath the pain and terror. I sensed rage, violence.

If the Israelis can storm into any Palestinian territory and take Palestinians by force, with no international action. Who is to stand up for liberation but the Palestinians themselves.

The world can do better. It falls in our hands; the worlds, to amplify and execute their pleas and rights.

Note: I do not own any of the images presented, they are for effect.

Like this:

Like Loading…