One Small Miracle In Gaza

Present

An announcement comes on the loudspeaker, a voice in Arabic, like my own, but the words send chills down my spine.

"This is the Israeli Military. We have taken control of Al Shifa Hospital. I repeat, we have taken control of Al Shifa Hospital."

I can feel the rage welling up in my blood, the temperature of my veins rising. It is a war cry, a call to fight, and I reach to touch the thin vest over my naked body, shivering again as the metallic bits brush my skin.

Karim has turned his back as I change into my hospital clothes, which is best, for although he is my blood brother, it is still haram to look on a woman one is not married to, at least in our understanding of things. Not that I did not peek over and see Karim scrolling through pictures of naked women before, just last week even - it is a weakness afforded to them, a temptation to test their resolve.

And it is the evil of the West, the Great Satan, that has wormed its way onto our phones and seared itself into our men's brains, another attempt at occupation, another attempt to steal them from us and corrupt them all at once.

Still, I had said nothing to him. For if his sin were so great, then mine would be larger than the entire planet. Filled with shame at having even caught him in the act, I had instead prayed.

"No healthcare workers will be harmed. I repeat: no healthcare workers will be harmed."

The voice again crackles through the loudspeaker.

My blood boils hotter. Karim, standing just a few paces from me, his hand on the hilt of his Kalashnikov. And me, now slipping my white nurse's coat over the vest, feeling the soft coolness of it as it fits snug over the vest. It is a new development: smaller, more compact, and therefore, less easily detectable.

"Every healthcare worker must strip down to their underwear, bring their badge, and present themselves inside the main entrance within ten minutes. I repeat..."

I button up my nurse's coat and clear my throat. "Ready," I say. I am anything but. Now my hands are trembling. Now my voice is hoarse.

"Bismillah," says Karim, turning to look at me, taking me in as if I am an angel.

"Father would be proud." And my stomach drops. We both know we can never be sure of that. For all we know it is him barking out orders through the loudspeaker.

Still, I nod, then turn.

But before I do, Karim lifts a small remote. "You will not fail, sister," he says. "I will make sure of it." And then he nods to the closed captioned feed in the corner, where one nurse is undressing in front of thirty-three tiny bundles lined up on the two hospital beds to her left.