This is a work of fiction.
Last week, my Mama, my cousin Rafah and I narrowly escaped the fireworks flying toward our house again. They were bright and loud. Mama ran as fast as she could, taking Rafah and me from the half-standing cot of what I remember as our living room before our home was bombed the first time. As we ran, we were told not to mind anyone, even if people cried for help. Mama told us just to keep running.
Before the fireworks burned down what was left of our house, Rafah and I were playing a pretend funeral for my doll Hamima, a gift from my Baba. Hamima couldn’t hide well because she could no longer see. When she and her doll friends were playing war, they shot her and she died.
Mama said the same thing almost happened to us, so we moved into the tents, like camping! Rafah said the tents were dusty white and so big that they could house ten people! I wish I could see it too, not just make up images in my head. It made me miss our home, especially before the firecrackers turned it all into smoking rocks.
Now, my friends and I live closer together, so we’ll get to play more — at least maybe when we get better! My best friends Ali and Omar’s house also turned into dust; they now live in the tent right next to ours with their parents. Omar lost an ear, and he now wears a bandage around his head. Rafah says the bandage covers his other eye and blood seeps through the cloth. She said he looks like a pirate. I giggled a bit because in the stories we read in school, pirates only have one eye, not one ear. Now, we don’t get to read pirate stories anymore because they burned all our books, along with our school.
Rafah said she saw Ali the other day. She called him, but he didn’t answer. It was so unlike him. Ali was the noisiest kid in our neighborhood. But ever since the fireworks exploded onto their house, Ali just shakes and cries silently in the corner all the time. I thought maybe he was sad because he didn’t get his toys out before the fireworks destroyed them, but Rafah said he must have been scared badly.
Once, when Omar and Ali’s Baba left to look for supplies, they stayed with us in our tent. With what little light my eye could catch, I could make out Omar’s figure — head wrapped in gauze, just like Rafah said. I patted his back, or maybe it was his shoulder. I wanted to tell him it would be alright, just like he told me when my eyes got hurt.
Omar said he would be my eyes then, but now I can’t even tell him I will be his ears because he wouldn’t hear me. We haven’t played since we all moved here. My Mama and Aunt Amina said we can play once we all get better — once it is safe outside again. I wonder when that will be.
Rafah was just like Ali when she moved in with us. She had lost her house and her Baba to the fireworks. She wouldn’t talk to anyone. But when she got better, she told me that the “fireworks,” as my Mama calls them, were actually “missiles.” She said her Mama told her that missiles are stronger and louder than fireworks, and we should run away whenever we hear them falling toward us.
Her Mama, Aunt Amina, is a doctor; she heals those who are hurt by the missiles. She treated Omar and everyone else. Last night, she told us not to worry as much anymore because the camp was a “safe zone,” and the Jews could not hurt us here. The Jews were these big bad men, like taggers in hide-and-seek, or “war,” as we call it at playtime. When they catch you, they will shoot you or throw fireworks at you.
Mama disagrees with Auntie, saying we can never be too sure. After all, they could attack anytime because they are like friends who don’t keep their promises. From the moment I sleep to the moment I wake up, Mama never leaves our side, always holding our hands like a guard who wouldn’t even let us — me — out of the tent to play war with the other kids in the camp.
Nowadays, I just hear the other kids yelling and running. They always play war — shouting “bang, bang” and hurling small rocks at one another. I have been wanting to play with them too, so a few days ago, I tried to go out for a turn around the area but of course, I lost my way. Mama thought that the big bad men had taken me. It was a good thing that Aunt Amina found me and took me back to our tent; Mama was furious.
“Amal! You will never, ever again, go outside without my knowing. From now on, you can’t go or even play outside! You mark my words—” Mama had sobbed out. “You’ve lost your sight, I could bear that. But losing you like your B— I don’t think I could.”
It was the first time I heard Mama shout like that. It was also the first time she talked about Baba. I guess she thought I didn’t hear her.
So she forbade Rafah, too. I wasn’t too sad; Ali and Omar were also forbidden to play outside anyways.
Most of the time, Omar and Ali have to stay with doctors, while Rafah helps Mama look for food. They used to let me tag along with them before I snuck out. Now, Mama keeps me stuck in the tent all day. I play with Hamima, but it’s still sad. While I wait for everyone to come back, I think about our house, our school and our playtime.
I shut my eyes tight and try to remember my Mama’s face, Rafah’s, Ali and Omar’s and my Baba’s, so that I do not forget what they look like. At night, when everything is pitch black, I wonder if I can still live and see like that again. I always end up crying and hugging Hamima tighter.
The Jews already took my sight, Ali’s ear and Baba’s life from us. They took all our happiness away. What else do they want from us?
Today, Mama and Rafah went out to look for food. They left me in our tent and told me not to go anywhere. Usually, they come home when there is still light, but it is dark now and they aren’t here yet. I tried to convince myself that maybe they just got stuck somewhere, but then I couldn’t help but worry.
What if they hurt Mama and Rafah, too?
So I decided to go out by myself to try and find them. I went outside, clutching Hamima. It was almost pitch-black, except for little streaks of light. I felt the cool breeze on my skin and the scent of something burning filled my lungs. I sighed and smiled. I’m outside now to find Mama and Rafah. I’m happy to be out of the tent.
I stood on my bare feet and walked, feeling the cool ground and ash beneath my soles. I held Hamima, my only companion, in one arm and kept my other hand out in front to feel my way around. I stumbled as I walked, tripping on rocks and piles of dirt that I imagine were remnants of houses, schools and shops we used to go to when everything was still okay.
Then that burnt smell got stronger. I heard rumbling that got louder and louder as if it was falling from the sky. My heart raced as I sped up, trying to return to our tent, but it was no use because I couldn’t see. Perhaps this is what Hamima felt like losing the game of war with her doll friends.
I cried as I ran. The roaring pierced through my ears. I hugged Hamima closer and covered my ears tightly. Crouching down on my knees, I held my head up as everything went white and bright around me.
It was the same blinding light I saw before everything went dark.
It was the same roaring sound Ali heard before he lost his ear.
It was the same explosion Baba felt before we lost him.
