Fictionalized depiction of the story of Palestinian boy Jihad and his dangerous, but heroic, missions in Abu Namus to feed his family, as well as others’ stories in Gaza of finding different ways to stave off hunger. Based on videos and pictures.
As the sun began to wake, yawning and stretching over the horizon, Jihad quietly knelt in the cold dirt, letting the tall grass hide his small body. This wasn’t his first time, but he never knew if it would be his last. He watched from a distance, his eyes squinting against the rays, the soldiers lazily walking around the border. Some were already loading their guns, some already in their tanks. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with them, only the leafy, green plants that grew near their army base. Swiss chard was like gold now. They didn’t have anything else to eat with it, the whole north was starving, but the nutrients were enough to keep them, and his customers, alive. He glanced to his left and saw the much older man that would often accompany him crouching low behind the bushes. He was also trying to provide for his family.
Jihad directed his attention back to the army ahead. Cool perspiration slipped down the back of his neck and spine underneath his thin shirt. He had started this routine days ago. It was terrifyingly dangerous, but also the only way to get some income to fill their bellies. Every time the fear took over, he reminded himself of his elderly father and young siblings that waited for him at home. It didn’t matter that these soldiers, these colonizing occupiers, were his enemy, and his father’s enemy, and his father’s father’s enemy. It didn’t matter that the base they were on should have been his people’s land. It didn’t matter that he was only eight. Age didn’t matter to those who won’t even consider him human. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. He made eye contact with the man on his left, a comrade of sorts, and they nodded at one another and began to creep forward.
Once they were within throwing distance of the army, the chard growing only a couple feet away, he let out a loud, high-pitched whistle. Immediately, the soldiers nearby stiffened and pulled out their guns, scanning the hills in front of them, slowly turning and surveying their surroundings. As soon as their backs had turned to him, he nimbly made his way to the plant, frantically grabbing as much as he could and stuffing it into his shoulder bag quietly and quickly, his hands working automatically and on touch alone as his eyes remained glued to the soldiers. They began to relax, their hands holding the rifles sagging to the side. He made his way back to the bushes and hid just before they faced his direction again. His heart pounded in his chest, his fingers, encrusted with soil, trembled. He held his breath, afraid to inhale too deeply or exhale too loudly. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked at the man, who nodded at Jihad, signaling him to go back to the tall grass and wait for him there. It was his turn.
Once Jihad was back in his original position, the man brought two fingers to his lips and let out a low whistle. Though it wasn’t the same as his, the soldiers were still on high alert, their hands snapping back to the guns at their hips, their eyes narrowing. Jihad sank lower, laying completely flat on his belly, with only his head slightly raised to keep an eye on the man. The sun had fully risen now and he was able to see it all. He saw the man’s first mistake in moving too slow. He must have been tired today. He saw the man’s second mistake in getting too close. He must have been desperate today. He saw the man’s final mistake when he stumbled and accidentally snapped a branch under his foot. The soldiers turned, almost in unison, in his direction, raising their guns and yelling all at once. The man’s eyes widened in terror and he mouthed a single word: “Ijri.” Run. He began to sprint in the opposite direction, running down the left side of the hill, guiding them away from Jihad. The soldiers were focused on the man now, trying their best to gun him down and failing miserably as he zigzagged through the tall grass.
Jihad panicked. He didn’t know what to do. What if he ran and caught their attention as well? What if he stayed and was found in a perimeter check? In the end, they made the decision for him. He recognized the English language, and strained his ears to listen, only making out one word: missile. He furrowed his brows and dread filled his chest. He saw one of the tanks turn in the man’s direction, his figure getting smaller by the second. Jihad realized almost too late. He was about to be in the blast zone. He jumped up and ran down the right side. It didn’t matter if they saw him now. If he didn’t get away, the shrapnel would hit him too. As soon as he made it to the bottom of the hill, the missile was fired. He dropped down to the ground as the explosion shook the hill. He covered his head with his arms as the shrapnel flew over him, landing in all directions, miraculously missing him. He waited ten, twenty, thirty seconds and raised his head, slowly standing up, the grass hiding most of his body. The man was gone. He doubted there was anything left to even recognize his body. May God have mercy on him, Jihad somberly thought.
He turned away until he heard the cheering and froze. Surely he must be mistaken. Who could be celebrating an innocent reduced to ashes? But there, at the top of the hill, the soldiers had gathered, clapping each other on the back. His disbelief morphed into rage. A rage that had him in a chokehold. He gritted his teeth and his fingers curled into a tight fist. He felt something soft in his hand and looked down, unclenching his fingers. A chard leaf. His eyes shut and squeezed tight as his body trembled. He exhaled softly, glancing back up. It didn’t matter that he was eight. They would’ve made those ashes his.
When he finally made it back to the city, what remained of it at least, it was nearing noon. He met his brother at the makeshift marketplace that had been set up in a clearing that hadn’t existed before. A bomb had reduced the buildings in the area to rubble weeks ago. Its residents were probably dead and buried or dying in one of the hospitals nearby, the ones that hadn’t been targeted or raided. Yet. His brother and he got to work. Jihad took out the chard, tying it in bunches, cutting the ends, and giving it to his brother. His brother aligned them neatly over a large piece of rubble functioning now as a merchant’s table. Each bunch they sold for 3 shekels. They stayed there until they sold out, aside from the small amount they left for themselves, their pockets filled with money as they walked home. His brother skipped joyfully, excited to have enough money to eat tonight, tomorrow, and probably for the rest of the week, combined with some of the money they had saved from the previous days. Jihad knew he should be relieved too, but all he could think of was the man from this morning. The words of one of his customers who stopped by earlier echoed in his ears, “You shouldn’t go there anymore. It’s too dangerous, and you have enough money now.” He had pursed his lips and remained silent. Because what about when that money ran out? It would eventually, especially with many mouths to feed. The aid trucks were not an option. The army would let some of them come in, but as soon as people would rush to the vehicles, the soldiers and tanks would be waiting to gun them all down. They were lucky he was too small, and his father too weak, to have gone out and fallen into the despicable trap. Their neighbor’s father had set out early before dawn two days ago to wait in line for flour, and he never came back. The flour massacre, they called it now. His son had waited all day and all night.
As they continued their trek home, they passed by young children sifting through piles of garbage. Jihad watched a boy, smaller and younger than him, probably an orphan as most were these days, find an open, peeled orange and take a bite. He looked away. The boy would probably get severely sick from hunger or disease by the end of the week. If the war didn’t end, he doubted the boy would be able to find any medical attention in time. The stifled rage from this morning came back roaring, and he did all he could to leash it. It wasn’t meant for those on this side of the wall.
They walked past an open tent, where a family was staying. The children were banging on empty pots, and the mother faced away from her kids as she wrapped rocks around her stomach to dull the pangs of hunger. He saw it in the drawn lines of her face as she faced her children and attempted to smile, faltering when her youngest began to cry because of the lack of food. Jihad closed his burning eyes, and when he opened them again, the mother’s face was set into grim determination as she reassured her kids that they would have bread for dinner tonight. They cheered as she left the tent to ask a passerby where she could find animal feed. Jihad swallowed the lump in his throat, the palpable proof of his anger. Not at her, but at those who put her in this impossible and difficult situation. She wouldn’t risk getting flour, so she had decided to follow the other desperate mothers and make bread from animal feed. They were starving his people, his family, him. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with them, none of them did, yet they seemed hellbent on destroying everything he stood for, as the world silently watched, abandoning him. Abandoning them all.
When they finally made it home, his younger brother rushing ahead of him to show the money to the rest of his siblings, Jihad settled down in the corner. He was so very tired. The rest of his family remained preoccupied with the earnings, counting each coin, but his father looked him over with soft, watchful eyes. He beckoned to Jihad, who used the last of his energy to get up and plop down besides his father. Jihad leaned on his shoulder as his father murmured to him what he did everyday. “My son, repeat after me. God is enough for us, and He is the best of caretakers.” Jihad repeated, feeling his anger dissipate and his spirit return.
He remembered what his name meant. Struggle. The ability to strive. It didn’t matter that these soldiers and settlers were his enemy, and his father’s enemy, and his father’s father’s enemy. It didn’t matter that his family had been displaced, and most likely would be again soon. It didn’t even matter that he was eight with the weight on his shoulders of an eighty year old. God was with them.
He inhaled deeply and exhaled loudly. His clothes still smelled like swiss chard and dirt from this morning. The pattering of rain began against the rooftops and windows. He glanced out the window as people, neighbors and his own siblings, flooded the streets with their empty buckets, ready to fill them with water to quench their thirst. Children jumped around with their mouths open to the sky, watering their parched throats. Indeed, it wouldn’t matter at all. Because they were not abandoned. And if they weren’t abandoned, then justice would eventually be served. His mouth tilted slightly up into a small smile as he leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes and listening to the joyous sounds of his people. The calm before the storm.
