One Small Miracle In Gaza

Present

"You will not fail," says Karim. I fight the urge to spit on the ground. I could. But I have been doing that too much today, and he'll understand it is a show, although one I've put on in the privacy of our brother-sister relationship for years. After Yasser died, I took Karim under special protection. He was the youngest after all, and the next youngest after me. Plus, if I could perhaps keep him from harm, if I could, perhaps, help raise him to be a real warrior for Allah, then maybe...

Karim examines the black stick he's holding in his palms. There's a small red button at the end. I shiver, for the first time the realization of it all hitting me. I am doing this. I am really about to blow myself to bits.

"The Jews will never expect it," says Karim.

I had not planned on this course of action, not immediately, at least. Back when I had studied to become a nurse, Karim, who had already taken on some sort of protective role over me, had nodded in approval. "Achti," he had said, "You could not choose a better career for our cause." And I had known exactly what he had meant. I had nodded and smiled. There had been a part of me dying to surround young patients with love and affection, to sweep them up in my arms and soak away all of my regrets: to bring life back.

But I knew what Karim meant: my ultimate job was not to bring life, only victory.

So I had swallowed and forced a laugh. "Why do you think I chose this?" I had asked him.

But a small part of me had known, deep down in the back crevices of my spirit, tucked somewhere between my heart and my ribs, that I was doing it for Yasser, that I would always be doing it for Yasser, and that maybe, just maybe, in some shrapnel-filled child screaming in pain, I could find my brother again.