Karim and I sit under the fluorescent light a few seconds, not looking at each other, me especially not looking at him. My palms are sweaty. There's much work to be done. The Israelis should be here within the hour. The plan is rehearsed, the button so close to my thumb.
"I will miss you, ochti," says Karim. He reaches out his hand to touch mine, and I recoil without thinking.
"Don't be afraid," he says. "When the time comes, you will be strong, I know it."
I let out a short little laugh. When the time comes.
"I'm not afraid Karim," I say. But the truth is, I am.
If I knew. If I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt I'd be flown directly to heaven, if I knew I'd first look into Allah's, and then my brother's forgiving eyes, then perhaps I would not be.
But the horror of the alternative lies heavy on my chest.
And yet...it is a catch-22: cling to life here as long as possible, and never have a chance of Allah redeeming me. Or, conversely, do the one thing to attract his mercy, and then surrender myself into his will, hoping against hope it is enough for him.
But deep in the back of my mind, I fear it will never be enough. Sometimes when I look at my hands, I can still see the red from that day. Ten thousand ablutions, but my brother's blood stains my hands.
I squint hard and smile. I have made my choice. Now is not the time to think, but instead to act.
I stand up. "I will go to pray," I say.
Karim nods in approval.
He was only a baby when it happened, and so he has no idea what I am facing.
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One Small Miracle In Gaza
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