Alnihayya

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F o r t y  S  i x
This one is for Sashos16
:)

•WARNING•

This chapter contains strong opinions which could prove offensive to some people. If you are someone who can't bear criticism then please don't read and if you do read but disagree with what is written then understand that those are just one person's opinions and even though I take them as the truth, it doesn't mean everyone else has to think like that. This book is my voice and my way of getting my voice out there to the rest of the world.

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And Allah is most knowing of your enemies; and sufficient is Allah as an ally, and sufficient is Allah as a helper.

-Surat An-Nisa, Verse 45-

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Mashal

Being out in the streets of Gaza for the first time in my life, I realised, the people who have lost their loved ones are the people who actually know how to love.

We walked from door to door, distributing Ramadan packages, food hampers to the families.
They were huge cardboard boxes with the Alnihayya logo on them, stuffed with a gas cylinder, cooking oil, lentils, coffee, rice, flour, sugar and spices enough for a month.

The people were hesitant to open their doors for us, especially when Zeyara was wearing a balaclava mask but Ibrahim's clean white thobe, attar- fragrant oil, friendly smiles and the mention of Alnihayya took their fears away.

Nearly every house we went to, offered us to come in for coffee even though we knew that they didn't even have enough mugs to serve us.
We got to hear phrases like,

'We are with you Alnihayya, get rid of Israel!'

'Those parasites have infected our holy land! We will fight them with you.'

'If they had not killed my sons I would've sent them to Alnihayya.'

Only a few last hampers were left when we knocked at the door of another house.
A woman opened the door. As soon as her eyes fell on Ibrahim, she started crying out loud. "Fadi!! My Fadi is back! Fadi!!"

With her wrinkled face and wet eyes, framed by a pale hijab, she kept on wailing, her hands reaching out to caress Ibrahim's face as if to make sure he was real.

Zeyara translated her arabic for me and we watched in silence as she cried. Ibrahim didn't move, he let the woman imagine him as Fadi, who was probably her deceased son.

A young man, around Zeyara's age came running a few seconds later. He grabbed the woman's frail hand and pulled it off Ibrahim's face. He said something to the woman and the woman replied back harshly, crying and screaming in Arabic.
The boy grabbed her arm and forced her back into the house, closing the door behind him.

We stood there frozen, staring at the closed door for a minute before the door opened again and the boy returned to greet us with a salam, along with an apology.

Zeyara and Ibrahim conversed with him in Arabic, hugged him, gave him the food hamper and then we continued walking.

"What did he say?" I asked out of curiosity when we were a few blocks away from the house.

"Fadi was his brother." Zeyara took in a deep breath, as if thinking of a way to answer my question. "He went to pray juma'h last Friday, wearing a white thobe but never returned. Probably got killed by an Israeli bomb."