Ali had been there since the start of the war, October 7th. He had also crossed the border into Israel with the first wave of attackers and had seen a lot of Jews killed but he hadn’t killed anyone.
He had shouted ‘Long live Allah!’ and waved his gun and shot it in the air as he helped corral some hostages that had then been dragged back into Gaza, but he did not take a single life.
For that he had his friend Tarif to thank.
Tarif was his closest friend ever. They were both now 18 and had grown up together in Gaza but 4 years before, Qasim, Tarif’s uncle in Germany, had asked his mother if Tarif could go live with him in Berlin.
Tarif’s mother had cried when she had got the offer. She had cried because she didn’t want to let him go but cried, too, because she knew it was best for her son.
So Tarif went to live with his uncle Qasim.
Ali and Tarif had promised each other to keep in touch and they had done so. They spoke on the phone once a week, sometimes more.
What struck Ali was how different their lives had become. Tarif was learning so many more things. And after school he could do various sports or take art classes or spend time in a computer lab. And on weekends he’d go to the movies or on short trips to the countryside with his uncle and his family.
It was a world of difference, thought Ali. For him, after-school was instruction on how to handle a weapon. How to take it apart and put it back together, taking target practice and…
Writer and psychiatrist. Writing is thinking -> integrating -> connecting -> enhancing our being. Though we can think without writing.