One Small Miracle In Gaza

Present

The room is spacious, and they've already turned off the cameras. Everything is calm, save for the rustlings from the beds.

I walk over and peer at their tiny faces, skin wrinkled and baggy over their gaunt cheeks. They were not meant for this world, I remind myself. Although who among us can guarantee their fate? I stiffen and look away. That is not my concern. They will be martyrs. They will, if Allah wills it.

I take a deep breath and turn away. In a few moments, everything will be in the hands of Allah: the story has been set. An Israeli detonator to try to blow open a locked door. A grave malfunction. And they did it all in the room with the premature babies, knowingly, without even thinking to move them or get them on incubators first. The world will believe they did it. That is all that will matter. And the dead Jews.

I look over once more, and they are snuggling together, as if for warmth. Something in me wants to go over and pick them all up at once, tuck them under my arms and run with them to safety.

But I stiffen. This is weakness, pure and simple. The plan is set. And they are an integral part of it. Their suffering will be but for a moment, and then perhaps the world will finally see our endless suffering.

I stand and go to the babies. I wait a second, looking at my watch. The video feed will come back on for thirty seconds if everything is going to plan. I bend over them. With any luck, the Israelis will be up here soon to investigate. This room is far away from the main part of the hospital, far away from Hamas' entrance, and little else will be hurt by an explosion. It was all worked into the plan, all of it.

I look down into the eyes of the nearest baby. It looks like a boy, bundled up but lips still blue. He doesn't see me, just looks past me, and I wonder if we weren't doing this, if he'd have even a day to live. So it doesn't matter anyway.

I stiffen. An image has just popped into my mind. Big angry eyes, hands clutching to the plastic chair I've just thrown him against. He's yelling like a rabid dog, "Nooo!"

And me slamming the door behind him.

Yasser. I can feel him. I can feel his eyes on me here. I can feel his hands round my neck, and suddenly I cannot breathe.

I close my eyes tight, and the voice again speaks audible, sharp, and from right behind me: "Nada, don't do this."

I whirl around and see no one, but this time my skin is crawling and a terrible chill has entered the air.

"Who are you?" My voice has become a hiss. "How do you know my name?"

There is a moment, a long moment, and then the voice comes, not audibly, but inside my head. I am Jesus. I created you to live with me. But this will send you to hell. And then the room goes absolutely brilliantly white, and then back to normal, all in a moment.

I blink. I look at the babies. They're agitated suddenly. They've seen the flash. It was real. But it was a djinn.

"I am a martyr," I say aloud. "Stop tempting me with your lies! Martyrs go to paradise, and only Allah decides that."

The voice does not come again on the outside, but in my head, it is there.

"Nada, that is a lie."

At the sound of my name again, my knees go weak and my heart burns within me and gulp and I manage to choke out. "Stop talking! You're a djinn! Stop talking!" and I turn around once more in a circle, even as I hear the sounds of boots on the floor below. Behind me, the room is empty and I look down at my hands. They are trembling.