Ramallah, Palestine; “Shira? Shira, get up.” My mother roused me from my cramped bed while my brother still slept. Her eyes were dark and ran with circles. She was worried and sleepless after so many nights without my father. She had to work extra shifts over the past few days and the work had ripped calluses in her hands and frazzled her. Every time he left for work across the border, it took him as many as five days to return. The ordeal sent my mother spiraling, worrying each time that he would not come back from his job, and sent me in a cold panic. His footsteps had not darkened our doorstep in over three days. The neighborhood was full of families waiting on their parents to arrive from across the border. There was barely much work left in our neighborhood, which was already overpopulated by the innumerable families and whitewashed buildings.
So far, my father had always come back, graying and quiet. He never spoke much of his time across the border. I wanted to know what life was like for the Israelis, but I was only rewarded with stern looks and hurried shushes. Any words spoken of life across the border distressed my parents. My mother ushered me to get dressed for school while she muttered prayers. School was wonderful. I went to school in the morning while my brother went in the evening, and we spent every evening laughing about what had happened with our classmates by our dinner of bread and shakshuka. There was no breakfast in this season, for the harvest had not been collected yet from the arid lands that were barely ours. I remember how I told my family one evening.
“Tamar’s father’s land, it’s gone. The Israeli government took it. Most of the land on the Gaza strip is gone. They – they are struggling, Ma. Her father’s job is gone. They barely ate.”
My mother could only nod. My brother could not understand. My father was not there that night. This news was common for my mother, who had watched her family and friends struggle to keep their jobs and find new ones as our lives became more unstable every day. I was glad to go to school, where I worried about learning and homework. My father’s job was yet to be taken, and it meant that I could have an education along with my forty other classmates.
I dressed in my simple uniform as my mother combed my hair. My bags were heavy and the school was far, a long walk through the winding path of our neighborhood, with its endless brick buildings of white paint and scratched windows. I said goodbye to my mother and brother, peppering quick kisses on their forehead before leaving. My stomach dropped slightly as I got ready to leave, every moment away from them, sometimes made me wonder if I would see them again. Our family was lucky to be far from the border, in the capital, but I had known far too many friends who had come back to broken homes and injured families. Like my mother, I whispered to myself, hoping that they would be safe.
I pulled on the door and gasped softly, before breaking into a small smile. My father stood on the cobblestones, tired and reserved. He was unharmed, and he was alive, and he was back home. My heart stopped racing and my mother rushed out to greet him much too warmly. Each time he came back, each time I came back from school, each time my brother did, I know she rested better at night. “Baba!” I called.
I rushed over to hug him and he winced. His pink salmon shirt was stained brown with dried blood, and the sight only made me hug him tighter. “What happened?” I asked
“It didn’t go so smoothly on the border, Shira. I’m fine. We can’t do anything do now. I’m alright.” he responded, ending the matter
I wondered how the Israeli children lived. If they worried about their family when they left for school. If they were worried about their parent’s safety. If they were scared to come back home every evening.
I didn’t think they did.
