Cyrill Delvin - The Gaza Project

At the same time he heard a familiar hissing noise. He had heard the sound several times before. But never as close, as loud and as short. The boys hadn’t yet fully turned around when they saw the two missiles. After that they didn’t perceive anything for a long time. The explosion tore the two brothers apart and severed them from everything they loved – forever. Even time had abandoned the moment.

Their entire family had been killed. The parents, three siblings, the grandfather, five cousins, one uncle and two aunts.

The first thing Abdoul believed he heard was Amir’s gentle voice: The most beautiful of all seashells is your pass into a better world. You found it today!

The boy didn’t scream. His eyes mirrored the sheer horror of an animal cornered after the chase. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks. He was simply lying there until time thought better of it and bashfully returned to reality.

Qadim ran to where the grenade had exploded and had left a deep hole in his heart. People were staggering aimlessly. As time re-emerged, Abdoul could hear them screaming and wailing. He got up and just stood there. He sensed there was nothing to move him back to where he had stood just moments before. No thought, no love would ever erase those seconds.

The settling dust cleared his senses. A vitriolic stench invaded his nostrils. Something warm oozed from his clenched fist. The mussel shell had cut deep into his flesh. But that didn’t hurt. He walked over to his brother who was cowering on the ground, screaming. Not floating debris, but death and pain were now scattered along the seashore. The setting sun endlessly elongated the shadows of terror. Only with the onset of darkness was the shore relieved from its horrors.

Abdoul knelt beside Qadim who was crying while holding their mother’s colourful headscarf. It hadn’t been damaged and even the acrid smell of explosives and burned flesh couldn’t supplant her sweet scent. It never would. Without a word, Abdoul grabbed Qadim’s arm. There was nothing left for them here to look for or to find. Even the people they knew had nothing to give.

Their house, more of a shack really, was outside the settlement behind an outcrop of rock close to the sea. Gan Or was a little village between Rafah and Ḫān Yūnis, only a few miles from the Egyptian border. As far back as his grandfather and his grandfather’s father, the family had lived here. They had all been fishermen and moored their little boat at the shore since time immemorial. His father though had only rarely gone to sea anymore. Nobody could any longer feed their family from fishing alone. The fish had long since moved on and the people had followed their example. Not further into the sea but into the country’s interior, to the large centres or to Gaza town. To find work, they ventured as far as the big wall and beyond.

Or they would go underground in one of the numerous tunnels that led to Egypt. Only a rare few stayed and found paid employment on the farms. His father had been lucky to work at a brother-in-law’s olive grove. Everyone everywhere depended on help to survive.

Abdoul realised that they wouldn’t find anyone at home. Only eight years old, he already knew that there was nothing he could do. The shack was comprised of a kitchen and a small room where the five children slept on a mattress on the floor. The parents slept in the kitchen which also served as everyone’s living quarters. Now there was nobody there. No fire and no pot on the stove.

The little brother occasionally sobbed. Without having eaten anything, they lay down beside each other. But sleep didn’t come that lonely night. With time, Abdoul’s shock gave way to silent but bitter tears. Until dawn announced itself with the summons to Fadschr in Rafah. Whenever the wind blew from the interior of the country, the Muezzin’s prayers had to be guessed rather than heard.

The Palestinian boy had merely vague memories of the events that were to follow. Torn between his growing sense of responsibility towards the younger brother and his grief and rage about the loss of his family it was hard for him to form coherent thoughts. During the funeral, attended by the whole village and half of Rafah and Ḫān Yūnis, the ocean glistened full of promise in the distance. But none of the promise was fulfilled. Left were nothing but images of grieving people and angry mobs. As usual on occasions like these, there were Ḥamās representatives and activists. The injustice of it all was noisily lamented and their own cause eagerly promoted.

Israel’s official response sounded cynical: Five armed Palestinian extremists, who intended dropping missiles on Israel, dead. Civilian victims were unavoidable as long as Ḥamās misuses the population as shields.

The international press, too, was present at the funeral. But nobody who could have made the brothers‘ loss more bearable. Eventually Abdoul no longer knew where he belonged. All he did know was that he didn’t want to stay here anymore. Here, where past happiness and present sorrow lived side by side.

Uncle Imad was also aware that the orphans couldn’t stay with him. There simply wasn’t enough money and food for them all. There was only one place for the nephews; the Ibn Marwān Madrasa. Steeped in tradition, but misused by radical Islamists to further their fanatical aims as a Qur’anic school where all those children and juveniles were sent who had nowhere else to turn to. ‘Boy or girl, we shall satisfy the young people’s hunger!’ So much for the motto.

The night before they had to leave, Abdoul went to the shore. There he stood for the first time since the missiles had done their dirty work and looked at the ocean. The waves caressed the sandy beach and his feet as if nothing had happened or would ever happen. He would miss the sea the most. He was nowhere sure that the seashell he was wearing on a piece of string around his neck would suffice as an invitation by the mermaids.

You call that the most beautiful shell? Go back and don’t return until you find a truly beautiful one, they mocked him. The boy sank down unto the damp sand and heard his grandfather as clearly as if it had been yesterday:

You know, Abdoul, Mohammed said that the fish are there for catching and eating. I’ve no problem eating them, but when it comes to the catching part it sometimes gets tricky. Amir smiled mischievously. It’s obvious, isn’t it? What self-respecting fish lets itself get caught voluntarily? He can as easily swim away from the net as into it after all. Or do the fish think if they throw themselves at people’s mercy, Allah will reward them in paradise?

No, no, there’s something else driving them. Something older, stronger and more beautiful. And I’ll tell you what it is: The mermaids. They are our true friends. Every present from the ocean, every fish and every seashell is one of their gifts to us. Someday, you will find the most beautiful shell on the beach. Sparkling in all colours and of incredible purity it will enchant you. A mermaid will have put it there, just for you. This most beautiful of all seashells will be your pass to a better world. A world without worry and grief.

Ever since his grandfather had told him the story, he had dreamed about finding this mermaid. He spent every free minute searching for the right shell. Now he sat there holding the best one of his collection in his hand. But deep down he sensed that a yet more beautiful one was waiting for him. The feeling lent him confidence. He finally looked forward to the school where he could learn something. For the first time since that terrible day he found some restful sleep.

He didn’t yet know that this particular school didn’t teach anything. The curriculum did nothing but indoctrinate the pupils with a subconscious hatred for the overpowering Israel. Not a school to satisfy hunger, but a school to starve the silence. The ultimate purpose would be achieved after death and not before. The uncle considered it the only true path. The path to revenge and the salvation of the family of Ibrahim Rahim, his murdered brother.