Until it starts to rain.
"Ah, forgot the canvas again." I dash to the window and snatch the canvas roll that leaned against the wall. In 30 seconds a makeshift roof stands erect. There, I mutter. I walk back to the window. Without looking I grabbed the binocular and begin scanning the bridge. The rain is a mere drizzle, so visibility is still decent. The bridge is still intact despite all the bombing - talk about surgical precision - with piles of junk that used to be cars and vans and trucks piled to the side. Now they are broken, parts stripped away. All that's left are the frames and the chassis.
"Markaz Tsaalth, this is Samaa'ul Wahd. Bridge 12 is clear. No movements or activities as far as I can see."
"Thank you Samaa'ul Wahd, we copy that."
Most of the children on Earth – by that I mean most offspring – remember their mother in complete human anatomical figure. Head intact, hair flowing down the shoulders, all limbs present, face smiling. Me? Since 10 years ago whenever I recall things about my mother I can only recall a squished tomato. Or at least something close to squished tomato. Red pasty fluid smothering her, skin peeled off, stomach gutted, eyeballs missing, her left leg across the street. I had to walk around the suburb looking for a shovel and a wheat sack.
I collected every piece of her. It's impossible to glue her back together or whatever the medical jargon is. Ah, I think the word is 'stitch'. Yeah, it's impossible to stitch her back up so I could at least bury her properly, with white sheets wrapping her. But I can't find the eyeballs – maybe that's what the rat that passed by had in his mouth. You might wonder why I tell you all this without feeling sad.
Well, I've had enough of feeling sad, already. I'm sick of my family and friends dying left and right. I grew tired of it. I stopped mourning. It takes up too much useful energy doing such a meaningless task. Cry blood and spit curses, nobody's returning from the dead. During the relatively more peaceful periods where they didn't bother bombing us – yet – I wake up and expect breakfast after the morning prayer (just kidding – you can't expect food on the table here – you have to go out and scavenge yourself some). During the bombing periods and evacuation cues, I expect to bury more relatives and friends, if they're still bury-able. Most of the time they're all over the place like my mom was and we had to put any parts we can into one sack and bury them in it.
My neighbors stared down pitifully. I didn't even break a drop of tear. But my chest felt stuffy. And my eyes were bloodshot.
Uncle Hassan offered me a ride to the derelict mine field. He dug along with me – beside my sister's grave which I buried her in last week – and Uncle Hassan had a sack with his boy in it in the trunk too. Before we even began digging, we had to peel off the defused mines from the ground and pile them up somewhere else. Oh, you do not want to hear how the mines got defused. That's even worse than the bombing. At least when you get bombed, you don't get to choose to live or die. After we're done burying them, we read our prayers and left.
The ride home was silent, save for the noise of Uncle Hassan's old truck. Squeaking and whirring and rumbling all the way home. His one hand stood on the elbow and his temple leaned on his palm and the other hand on the steering wheel. With his head cocked to the window side, he stared straight to the horizon.
"You know what Haneef?" in all of a sudden, he broke into a chatter. "Sooner or later we will all of us die. It's a matter of when and how. It's genocide, anyways. They will kill us all until not one of use survived through. They will never stop until they're done."
"Tell me something I don't know, Uncle."
"Well, you're still young."
"I know that, too."
"Oh, stop it. You know what I mean."
"Not this again."
"Forget your education. There's nothing you could do with it! Not anymore! After all these years, Haneef, you are still here. No job, no money, no nothing. Your family – what's left of it – starving. But they, they are always recruiting. You can't just throw pebbles everyday. You have the strength. The motivation. The anger. You're not even crying anymore. Count the tombstones you drove down yourself!"
"Five pairs, Uncle. Five pairs."
"Two months ago, your brother. Your grandpa, the next week. Last week, your father and your sister. And now –"
"Uncle…"
"Dear Haneef, you are containing vengeance. Grudge. Forget about your family. Hold back nothing more. Mourning all your life will not make anything happen."
"You know what they say about revenge Uncle. Dig two graves – or more."
"Revenge? Who's talking about revenge? I'm saying that we, Palestinians, have to defend our country. This is our home. Our motherland. Not to mention our al-Quds."
Silence returned. My whole life slowly scrolled before my mind. Like an old picture play, in black and white. My childhood, the age where I began to take fondness to girls, and now. Now. Tomorrow. The day after tomorrow.
This was the part of my life where I began thinking about how I will die. Or how I think I should die. Or rather. "Why do people wage wars, eh Uncle?"
"Eh, you know. Nationality, ideology, ethnicity. What about profit? A lot of people profit from war. And religion, too. But I think religion goes in ideology. "
"Is religion an idea?"
*********
Stars lulling you to sleep. You wish. That doesn't apply here. In this part of the sky there are aerial drones, F-16s, Willie Pete visiting you every now and then. Too noisy, too bright. Clatters of gunfire. Explosions. Snipers. Almost every night, even in non-battle situation, people get mowed down. Mostly by snipers. Mostly their snipers.
"Samaa'ul Wahdah, report in, please."
"Not a muscle moving here, Markaz."
"A muscle moving… did you guys hear that?"
"Look who's spent too many time with the Americans."
"A muscle moving… yeah right, slang boy."
"Guys, cut the crap already. And stop using names over comms."
"Turns out your education was a waste of time."
"Hey Haneef, is it worse in Iraq or what?"
"Same thing, different place. But the Americans are much friendlier, I think. They even tried to hook me up with one of the girls, can you believe that?"
"A Marine girl? Oh come on, man. I hear they're sluts."
"She's cute, that's what's important. Plus, it's not like we'll stick around long enough to get married and die old in our wife's arms."
Right on cue they stopped talking. Here in the Brigade, death is a motivation. We keep in mind of our parents' death, of our siblings', of our relatives', and of ourselves' yet to come. Every breath we take is a breath closer to mortality.
"When do you think you will die, Haneef?"
"The one being asked knows no more than the one asking."
"Peace be upon him."
"Peace be upon him."
"Peace be upon him."
"Attention! This is Markaz Khams. Be advised: all overwatch units on Bridge 12 get your eyes on a swivel. We got 3 APCs and 4 armored technicals approaching from the Northeast end, currently south bound along the market road! We repeat, 3 APCs and 4 technicals approaching from the Northeast end, currently south bound along the market road around Bridge 12!"
"Copy that, Markaz. Thank you."
"Samaa' units, take out the leading technical out first, we need you to slow them down for the ambush. Proceed to provide cover fire for Ardh units."
"Copy that. All Ardh units, please wait for our clearance signal, copy?"
"Samaa', this is Ardh lead. All copy."
*********
"Aary, did you hear that?"
"What Yanis? I don't hear nothing."
"Exactly!"
"Shut the fuck up, man, and eyes on the road. Fucking IEDs are everywhere."
"Look, it's too quiet okay? Can't you realize?"
"Yeah, man. It's 4 a.m. in the goddamn morning. I wonder why is it too quiet huh? Look Yan, you just stick to the wheels and we'll be-"
The windshield shatters. The sky echoes. Blood splatters all over the passenger seat. The Hummer shakes violently and halts.
"What the-"
The turret-manner loses half his head.
"Shots fire-"
The driver screams, holding his left arm. In the next half-second a bullet drills through his brain.
"Hey, what's all the ruckus? Why are they stopping? Ah, lousy drunk assholes. Lev, you go check'em out now."
"Yes sir."
As soon as the corporal exits the APC, he screams, "It's an ambush! Haul ass! Ambush!!!" before sixteen year old boys spray him with lead.
In 3 minutes, the whole convoy was slaughtered by boys no older than 20 years old, using homemade explosives and looted weaponries of the Israeli's own.
