One Small Miracle In Gaza

Past

"Sinners will be destroyed by Allah," says Khalti Ameena. She has us for the next block too, which is supposed to be Arabic, but is actually just more of the Qur'an.

"Sinners are absolute filth, a blot on the face of our beautiful planet, a spitting in the face of Allah."

We shift in our chairs. We do not buy it, not really. And the school day has dragged on for at least six hours now. I am ready to go home. We all are, but me more than anyone.

"How do we ensure our sin does not disgust Allah to the point that he spits us out?" she asks, pacing back and forth, still that strange, cheery smile on her face, as if she's asked us who wants another piece of chocolate. I do, by the way. Or maybe five. My stomach is rumbling even harder, and all I can think of doing is running home, grabbing the last of the coins I found hidden in the back pocket of Mother's best dress, then running down to the bakery and getting a whole loaf of bread all for myself.

I will do it, as soon as the bell rings.

"Nada, how do we ensure this?" she asks.

I stiffen. I have no idea. The Qur'an is a foreign book to me, something preserved and held on a stand on our highest shelf, sitting and collecting dust. Father used to read it, but only when he was prostrating himself in the corner for long periods of time. And since he had been taken, not one of us had touched it, treating it like it was diseased or perhaps cursed. Which it had to have been: Father had loved it so, hadn't he? He had told us, proudly, "We must live by this book, every letter of it."

And look what had happened to him?

I shudder. Traitor. The words ring in my head, and I push them out. It's not true, I think. But now it has been nearly a year, and little Karim has yet to hear his father's voice.

"We must...pray," I say. The class titters. I'm not sure why, and Khalti Ameena nods to me. "Good, and what else?"

"Be loyal to Islam," shouts Amir, and the word traitor again flashes through my mind, even as my cheeks turn red.

"And fighting jihad," I shoot back, turning to Amir with a sudden fire in my eyes. "Instead of sitting at home and getting fat."

The whole class titters. Amir's face goes red. His father is an important man at the university, and kids joke that he's fat because he eats his students who mess up their Qur'an recitation at Friday prayers.

"Enough," says Khalti Ameena, looking at both of us. Her smile is gone, but a moment later, it is back at full brightness again. "It is true, we must fight Jihad, all in our own ways. I am fighting Jihad now by educating you. Your mothers are fighting Jihad by having plenty of Palestinian babies."

We roll our eyes.

"And you, you must all find a way to fight Jihad too. But remember what Jihad is - it is not against one another, it is against them." And she points behind us, towards the border fence, and nods and suddenly, the smile on her face is absolutely, thoroughly gone and there is only a strange glint in her eyes, and just then, the bell rings.