Life & War

By Diya Katyal

CRASH! BANG! BOOM! Bombs flew everywhere. A petrified toddler screamed and squirmed as he was scooped into the arms of his equally scared mother. I knew things were getting bad, but not THIS bad! 

“The war between Israel and Palestine is only getting worse, with Israel bombing the city of Gaza. People are evacuating the place with little or none of their belongings and both chaos and fire are spreading rapidly. No further information has been sent across as yet.” said the news reporter. 

Dad sighed and switched the TV off.

“More bad news?” I asked, and Dad turned around in surprise noticing me for the first time. To tell you the truth, it’s my only way of being properly informed. You see, ever since my mom died in the war, my dad retired from his job as a soldier for the army and began to look after me. He became VERY overprotective and acted as if I were a 5-year-old.

“No! Absolutely nothing to worry about!” he said, in a very obviously false cheery voice. But both of us knew the problem. Dad was one of Palestine’s best soldiers and after he retired and we moved to the USA, the country had suffered horribly. It’s no secret that the Palestinian army wants their best soldier back. ASAP. Time and again, I had seen letters addressed to ‘Major Amir Al Bhatib’ begging him to return to the army and ‘make his country proud’ or ‘fight for the honor.’ I’m not that worried, as Dad would not risk his life if it meant leaving his only child as an orphan. Though today, I was a teeny tiny bit scared, as Dad put his ‘I have a very serious matter to discuss with you’ face. Ever since Mom died, Dad’s face has been frozen in a permanent frown. Today, however, he looked more troubled than usual. I caught a glimpse of a letter sticking out of his coat pocket.

“What’s that?” I asked, attempting to yank the letter from his coat. Dad snatched it from me- after all, he was a soldier- and he screamed 

“You stupid, stupid child! Stop poking your long nose where it doesn’t belong!” I’d never heard him scream so loud since he vowed to destroy the people who cost his wife’s life. Some   kids at school think it would be cool to have a soldier as a dad, but I would do anything to change that. After stomping into my room and slamming the door, I got my diary out (the last gift from my mum) and wrote everything I knew-

• Dad is wanted by the Palestinian army 

• He received a letter from them this morning (I know because I saw the date)

• His letter contains the words ‘invasion,’ ‘hostage’ and force’

Notes

Invasion? Do they mean Israel invading them? Or could it be something else…

I thought about what Dad said. Am I really poking my nose in other people’s business? Even if I did have a long nose, technically it would be my family’s fault, not mine. Genes. I heard a knock on my door.

“Come in!” I called. Just as I had expected, Dad walked in. 

“We’re leaving.” he said, without acknowledging the event that took place a few minutes ago. “Pack a few of your belongings and meet me down in 10.” With that, he shut the door. Suddenly, it all made sense. If Dad didn’t agree to join the army again, they would invade our house, forcing him to join. If he disagreed, they may hold me hostage. I dumped my notebook, pen, storybooks, water bottle, my life savings and most of my wardrobe into the Samsonite that Dad had left on my bed.

Outside, Dad was waiting in the car. I got in, and when I asked him where we were going, he replied in one simple short word.

“Away.”

We passed the tall buildings, my school, and many other places that I knew I would miss. Before I knew it, I was fast asleep.

My head throbbed. My neck ached with the strain of trying to get up. The fluorescent light above was not helping. 

“Where am I?” I managed to whisper, surprised at how dry my voice sounded. “Where’s Dad?”

My eyes came into focus, and I saw a lady in a white coat, rubbing something on my head. She looked at me, and a half relived-half scared expression fell upon her face.

“Your car crashed. You came out with a serious head injury, but your father...” she bowed her head.

“NO!” I cried “NO!” Dad couldn’t die when I had so many things to tell him! I looked at the doctor’s face, but it said nothing but the truth. To think that Dad died thinking I was mad at him. That the last proper words he said to me were to keep my nose out of other people’s business. That he didn’t even have to go to the army for his daughter to be left and orphan. Tears were streaming down my cheeks, and the doctor showed me a letter that had come for me. It said-

To Whom It May Concern:

We have been informed of the death of Major Amir Al Bhatib and would like to offer our heartiest condolences. His contribution towards the country will be remembered forever (though it got a bit ugly near the end) and we want to offer him a medal for bravery.

Head of Palestinian Army

Ahmed Alam

I was furious. ‘A BIT ugly’? They cost me my father’s life! 

When I had cooled down a bit, I was told by the doctor that I was to stay in the hospital until my head was better. Then, my father’s funeral would take place and they would find me a suitable foster family. I wasn’t complaining. The hospital made me feel safe and warm, even if it did smell like a freshly opened Band-Aid.

“Oh, and one last thing,” the doctor turned “This was found in the remains of your car. I thought you’d like to keep it.” She held out the Samsonite, and inside -only slightly burned- were my books, clothes, water bottle, pen, and most importantly, my notebook. The only memory I had left of my parents.  

By Diya Katyal