Tales from a genocide, playing out in full view of the world.
They've been hiding in a hole for two days, behind the rubble of what was once a house. They are sisters. Susan is eleven, Amal is eight. The building was not on a main road but tucked among other homes, all of them now destroyed. Around the girls: only broken concrete slabs, dust, iron rods, crumbled plaster. And for the last few hours, only silence. They can't stay here any longer. They have to move.
They had arrived there at a run, fleeing a bombardment that had swallowed everything in a cloud of smoke. They had called and called, hand in hand, weeping, climbing up onto the rubble to see better. But no answer. They had screamed in desperation. A young man had noticed them and approached.
— Where are your parents?
— They were with us, we can't find them.
The young man looked around him: dead, wounded, blood everywhere. His eyes filled with tears. Then he looked at the two girls: they were trembling, clinging to each other.
— They've probably gone to hide — everyone's doing it. We need to get away from here, I'll take you somewhere safe. Then I'll go and look for your parents. But right now the important thing is that you hide.
The young man kept repeating these words, trying to speak over the cries of the two girls, who had no intention of moving. Then a sharp whistling sound, followed by a terrible explosion, convinced the two terrified sisters to leave.
— Run, run, quick, come on, move!
And the two girls and the young man started running — first along the main road, then through the rubble of all the destroyed houses. "Further, further," the boy kept saying. The two children continued to scream and cry but tried to keep up with the young man who jumped from one ruin to the next, as you move across rocks on a shore. Until he stopped, looked carefully around him, and chose a wrecked house, telling them to stay there, hidden, and not to move under any circumstances.
— Your parents did the same thing — we all do this. When the bombing stops we'll be able to come out again. I'm going to check the situation now — maybe I'll find your parents too. But you don't move from here. Stay hidden in this hole where no one can see you. There's nothing left to bomb here — you're safe.
Susan and Amal clung to each other again, still shaking. The young man didn't know whether the two girls had understood everything he'd said, but he had to go. His grandmother couldn't move and was waiting for him. He'd promised to get her out with a group of elderly people. He couldn't leave them there. He brushed Amal's hair with his hand — she flinched. He had to go, he had to go. Allah would watch over the two girls. He could do no more. "May God grant you long life," he said. And so, running and crying and shouting with rage all at once, the young man left.
Susan is now sucking the wound on Amal's arm. Nothing serious, but her father had taught her to do this when there was blood.
— It stings, says Amal.
— Yes, but now you have to suck this one on my leg too, and it'll sting me, so we're even.
They can't manage to smile. But Amal sucks the wound on her sister's leg, spitting constantly because the taste of blood disgusts her.
— What do you think — how are Mama and Baba?
— They're fine, of course they are. Baba is strong, and clever too. You'll see, they'll come when everything calms down.
— But when will all this end?
— Only Allah the merciful knows.
— They've broken everything. There's nothing left.
— Baba will rebuild it all — he always says he has. For now we need to stay here, keep hidden, don't let anyone find us, and you'll see, everything will come right.
— I'm hungry.
— Me too, but we have to wait. Don't think about it.
They hold each other and fall asleep, crying, this time in silence.
Night comes. The cold, the fear, the hunger keep them awake. They've eaten almost nothing for two days. Baba had brought some pieces of bread but it ran out quickly.
— I'm really hungry, says Amal.
— Me too, but we have to hold on.
— My stomach hurts. And I'm thirsty too. I can't stay here any longer.
— We'll wait until it gets light and then we'll leave, go out onto the road and find someone who'll give us something to eat and drink.
— And Mama and Baba?
— We'll find them too, if things have calmed down, you'll see. Let's sleep now. Sleep.
Yossef is on the roof of a half-destroyed building with his rifle. His is a job he likes — clean, quiet, sometimes even entertaining. He hates Palestinians. They're not human beings. They're worse than animals and they all need to die. One day that land will be entirely theirs and there will be peace and it will be beautiful. Yossef is here because they told him there should be no survivors in this section of the Strip. They'd even been warned: leave or we'll kill you. So if there's some idiot who doesn't want to go, that's his problem. Only thing is, he's been here since first light and it really does look like there's nobody left. Hell of a good bombing yesterday. The world needs to understand that Israel is untouchable. Yossef is proud that his work is recognized as something truly great. We're writing history, he thinks with satisfaction. He's heard they've set up observation points where you can watch the progress of the war, the bombardments. And every day there are more tourists who go there and applaud and take selfies. It's good that this hard work of theirs gets its recognition. The sun is starting to burn. Let's hope some animal wanders into my sightline soon, he says out loud, adjusting the scope.
— There's no sound anymore.
— Then we can go out.
— Yes, let's go to the road.
— I'm dying of hunger, Amal. My stomach really hurts, and I'm so thirsty.
— Me too, me too — but you'll see, we'll find something.
— Maybe we'll run into Mama and Baba, they'll be looking for us.
— Yes, yes, maybe we will. Let's move, but slowly and quietly.
In Yossef's scope, two figures slowly come into view. Yossef starts. Here we go, he thinks. Here we go. Let's see what these two little ones are doing, where they're headed.
Amal and Susan, hand in hand, walk slowly to the edge of the road. There's no one around. They sit on a stone, disappointed. Right now hunger and thirst are the only things tormenting them.
Yossef smiles. "Good girls, you've sat down — saves me the effort of aiming. Lift that little face, sweetheart. Lift it. There we go: bang — one shot to the forehead. Perfect."
Amal doesn't understand. She sees her sister slump forward. She lifts her face to look around, to understand what happened. And that's exactly what Yossef wanted. "Good girl, lift that little face of yours": bang — another shot to the forehead. Amal crumples, then falls forward.
Yossef smiles and raises his fist in triumph.
This story is freely inspired by events that actually happened and that continue to happen every day in Palestine.
Alessandro Ippolito