Short Story (Jan 10)

The tricolour flag which I wave over the heads of these masses of people around me dances with the wind. This tricolour flag is not that of France, but that of Palestine. It is Red, White and Green; the colours of the oppressed as well as the symbols of freedom. This is because my homeland has been subject to oppression for the last sixty years. How conflicting it is that Palestine no longer exists as a country, but I as Palestinian living in London still uphold my flag with pride. To me, it is my country. What now lies in what was once Palestine is the unrightfully formed ‘state of Israel.’ Ironically enough, the very occupiers of Palestinian lands are now asking why the Palestinian resistance groups (myself included), are fighting for their land back.

As I shuffle through this commotion the sounds of these drums carried by fellow protesters do not echo the sounds of the falling bombs of war, but the voices of thousands of Palestinians, who like me, have no more than a voice to defend themselves. Not only do I stand amongst my Palestinian brothers and sisters but I am surrounded by a host of non-Palestinians who too, cheer for the same cause. As I march down this winding road along the River Thames, I am not alone. These flags and drums and echoing voices surround me, almost muffling my ears from the December cold. The air is freezing, my hands are blue and pale but my heart is full of the warmth of life. The very sounds I produce with my mouth are propelled from the depths of my heart, and it is at Israel that they are aimed.

I hobble my way through the crowds until I reach the front of the demonstration. Bending my waist over the white cord put in place to hold us back, a police officer gives me a stern look. I give him a stern look back. I begin to shout “Free, free Palestine!” in a joint rant with the rest of us frozen protesters. My young nephew who holds my hand to my right wears a green head band with the word PEACE written with white tip-ex across its centre. He smiles up at me, “Amu, the dead children are going to heaven aren’t they?” A rush of pain hurries from my chest to my feet, but my lips hold a tight yet refined smile, “Yes, of course they are. Shout!” I tell him, “Shout! Our voices will reach Palestine!”

It is at the death-filled and blood drenched Palestine where I promised our voices would reach. Here, a young boy like Amir with his green head band sobs in disbelief. He is the innocent victim of war who has been forgotten by the powers of the world but not by the mind of his comrade in London. The sweet smell of morning jam and chocolate milk does not linger in his breath however, but the pangs of a starving throat. He has been huddled in this rotting corner of his fathers shop for three days, thirsty, hungry and physically wounded. He looks down at the open shot wound in his leg; a swollen cut with a golden bullet at its centre. He can not move. He has a fallen wall slab lying across his left leg, anchoring him to the floor. He has been wailing in pain for so long that his voice has become nothing but a low murmur; a repetitive murmur. “Mama, Mama” he repeats in a soft monotone of grief, as if the words have been recorded at the back of his throat.

Crouched in the far corner, he shivers with each incoming bomb blast. Blast after blast echo through the shop as he desperately remains sheltered beside a cabinet, hoping that each blast will be the last. He uses his arms to reach for a small pillow he sees by his side and drags it towards him. With as much might he had in bringing it towards him he now throws it away at the door; it is drenched in his sisters’ blood. He closes his eyes, clamping them shut he begins to rock his head to and fro like a Jewish rabbi at the Wailing Wall. He wishes he was already dead.

The rays of morning sunlight shine onto his olive-skinned eyelids waking him. The sounds of bombs do not echo through the skies anymore. A smile inches across his battered face. Could it really be over? “HELP, HELP” he starts to wail again. The sun it seems has brought rays of hope, rays of peace. He can hear something outside the shop. He calls out louder, “HELP!” He can hear the sounds of people close by, shouting. His ears pick up on the sounds of clambering from above, something thumping, an almost banging noise. “I’M HERE, HELP ME, COME AND HELP ME!” he screams. Just as his cries begin to grow louder and louder the shop is thumped into silence.

Back in London a news presenter with silky brown hair and a perfectly formed face gets ready for her hourly bulletin, wiping the arm of her white suit with pride she smiles at the camera. “Three, two, one, ON AIR” shouts the director. “Nine Hundred and Sixty Palestinians are estimated dead since the ground attack in Gaza, and more than a thousand have been wounded, we now cross over to Aobek Nasir at the Israeli border” she says in the length of a breath. Images on live T.V show a journalist peering into an old broken shop window; “We can see amongst the rubble here, in what was once a family grocery store the bodies of three Palestinian children,” he says with a lack of pity. The camera zooms into the corner of the shop where a small grey and battered hand sticks out from beneath the rubble. “The roof had collapsed into the store last night as rescue teams tried desperately to reach young Saif.”

As millions live on, his is just another life in ruins.