Watermelon

ONE

I sit on the couch, the comfy couch. The couch that should be a household item that everyone has, yet a lot of people don't. I hold the T.V remote in my hands, as I look at the T.V. It's the image of war. A battlefield. What used to be neighborhoods, now looking like wastelands, like an apocalypse. And no, this place I speak of isn't abandoned, no. People walk through these wastelands everyday, these wastelands used to be their home. These people have nothing but their religion to restore themselves. The Palestinians.

I shove a handful of popcorn in my mouth, another thing they can't find. Everything I do, everything that should be a human right, it makes me think about them. How that's something they can't do. And it's all thanks to the Israelis.

TWO

My Ummi hysterically cries, her niqab soaked, as she holds Dad's pocket watch, the last we have of him. He only went to get us food- he found out there was a man who was selling food nearby. He was able to find some, and was sharing. We hadn't eaten in about three days, and so Dad went to go get our share. He never returned.

I pat Ummi's back gently. There's no space for me to be vulnerable. Not when other people are vulnerable. I watch as my little Brother, eight, looks at us from across the room. I put on a weak smile.

"Why don't you go get that stick? We can play catch".

He nods and leaves the room.

We were worried for about two days before someone had the concern to tell us that a man named Mohammed Raheem was brutally caught in a house that was then bombed- all the work of the Israeils.

I look around the house, and spot my Dad's favorite chocolate on the floor. Although the box is empty, I know what needs to be done. I pick up the box, as I return to my spot with Ummi on the cold, hard, cement floor.

I gently open the box, and carefully take the pocket watch. "Dads's favorite chocolate. We can keep the pocket watch in here, with one of Dad's favorite things. We'll even give it a special corner," I point to a corner.

Special corner. Not a special spot underneath the bed, not a special spot near the fireplace, a corner.

Ummi nods.

"We-" She sniffs. "We haven't eaten in days. Your Dad usually gets us food- one way or another. I don't see it being safe for any of us to leave. I can't leave the two of you alone, not in the middle of a war"..

The situation is difficult, if you think about it. We need food to live. If Ummi decides to leave me and my Brother could be unsafe. But on the other hand, one of us can't leave. It is also not safe for Ummi.

"We'll think about that tomorrow. I think you need some rest," I pull our prayer mat from the corner. We don't exactly have a bed to sleep on. The comfiest thing we have right now are our prayer mats.

I spread it nicely. "Lie down, it's alright".

"I found a stick, Mariam!" My Brother, Abu Bakr, runs inside. It's a three room house. A bathroom, a room for us to sleep in, and the living room. They're all mostly empty.

"Let's go play in the other room, Ummi's trying to sleep". I reassuringly smile. No matter how hard it is to stay brave, and not be vulnerable, there's an eight year old in the house.

We close the door in the room, as Abu Bakr throws me a stick.

"Mariam?" I throw the stick back.

"Uh huh?"

Abu Bakr throws the stick at me, as it lands in my arms. "Is Dad alright?"

I don't throw the stick back. Instead, I put the stick down, and walked up to Abu Bakr, putting an arm on his shoulder. My niqab presses against my lips, as I try to find the words.