The Last of Her Family

Context: A historical fiction narrative about a Palestinian girl who is the sole survivor of an attack on her village.

I gazed at the freshly dug grave in front of me. I glanced at the other recent graves. Tears blurred my vision as I realised that I was the only one left in my family. I was the sole survivor from a great lineage. The burden of remembering traditions, stories and people was on me alone. Sudden anger enveloped me – anger at the invaders who ravaged my homeland. Anger at the rest of the world who did not do anything about us and kept quiet as they watched millions of lives extinguished right before their eyes. Anger at my family for leaving me alone and making me bear the responsibility of keeping the memories of our family.I walked away, surveying the colossal wall separating us from the enemies. How could a person be so cruel as to kill innocent children and take away another’s sense of safety and freedom? I surveyed the ruins around me. Homes once filled with laughing, happy and cheerful children now lay in destruction. Smoke rose from destroyed memories of laughter, joy, pride, comfort and liveliness.Why? Why would they do this to innocent, pure people who have done no wrong? Why is the world silent in the face of this oppression? This injustice? This discrimination? I walked away from the debris and carnage surrounding me, feeling ashamed, angry, sorrowful and anguished over the demise of my people.I walked through the ruins and looked for any remains from my home… well, not my home anymore. Something caught my eye – a red, faded journal with the year 1973. It was a thin diary. Overcome with curiosity, I took it with me to the misshapen structure made of debris that I called home now. As I walked to it, narrowly avoiding the rubble which could pierce through my skin, I heard voices. I stopped. There was a building partially standing next to me, and the voices were coming through there.“Make sure there are no survivors,” a voice commanded. My heart started beating rapidly. What if they found me? What would they do? Gruesome images came to my mind – bloody executions, being buried alive, drowning – so I ran. I didn’t care if they heard me. I needed to live. I needed to preserve my heritage. I needed to show the world the cruelty of the occupation, the social injustice and the evil that has ruled over our land for years and years and years.“There’s someone alive! CHASE THEM,” the order was given. I heard shouts; guns were loaded and soldiers chased after me, but I still ran. I felt sticks and stones pierce my skin, but I didn’t care. I was used to it. At one point, a soldier shot at me, but the bullet narrowly missed my legs. I ran into an alleyway and climbed the walls. I looked behind me. Two soldiers were rapidly gaining ground towards me. I ran to the edge of the roof I was on and jumped to the next, nearly losing my footing after my landing and almost careening to a ghastly death. Childhood memories of me doing this with my siblings and cousins played in my head, urging me on to find safety.One of the soldiers behind me was not so lucky. The sound of his body hitting the cement resounded in my ear. One down, another to lose. He spoke into his radio in a language I couldn’t understand. Hebrew maybe? I don’t know. I reached another alleyway, climbed down and hid in an alcove. I was so close to that misshapen structure, my home.The soldier reached the edge of the roof. I heard his radio crackling with the sound of many men shouting at once. “Abandon the search,” an angry voice stated. “We’re wasting resources; the hunger will kill her anyway.” Voices of agreement sounded throughout the radio. My heart was still racing. What if he decided to come down here? I would be done for. Sweat trickled down my face as I waited for the radio sounds to die down. Footsteps started going off in the opposite direction. I breathed a sigh of relief.I waited a few moments before I emerged from my hiding spot like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. After I made it inside, the adrenaline left my body, and I crashed onto my worn mattress. Before my mind drifted off to sleep, I felt something in my pocket. THE DIARY. I immediately sat up and took it out. “1973,” the faded cover read. I opened it and started reading.October 6th, 1973I’m hiding in my room right now. They’re calling me to eat but I’m not going to go. As soon as I go downstairs my mother will start yelling at me for not completing the chores etc etc, but it’s not my fault my brother decided to run away and join the Egyptians in fighting the war against the occupation. My mother was heartbroken when she read the letter he left behind. “For freedom. For my homeland. For my family.” My brother’s last words, I guess. But I’m proud of him. He will redeem my family’s legacy. My father’s death will not be in vain. May Allah aid him in his struggles. Well, someone is banging on my door now. I’ll be right back.Was this my mother’s diary? She did tell me about how my uncle ran away to join the other countries in fighting against the occupation…Tears filled my eyes as I remembered my mother stroking my hair and telling me stories of her childhood. I continued reading.October 6th, 1973 ~ continuedTHE GREATEST NEWS! THE EGYPTIANS AND SYRIANS HAVE SUCCESSFULLY ATTACKED THE OCCUPATION FORCES. THEY HAVE TAKEN OVER THE CANAL AND BREACHED THE LINES. I AM SO HAPPY. The first defeats of the occupation. My family is celebrating and I will join them soon. THIS, THIS PROVES THAT THE OCCUPATION CAN BE DEFEATED. THEY HAVE A WEAKNESS. Insha’Allah one day, one day we will be able to strike back, regain our land and deal more blows to the occupation.Wait. THE OCCUPATION WAS DEFEATED BEFORE? A huge smile crossed my face, and now tears of happiness flowed out of my eyes. But how were they still in power…?October 15th, 1973The occupation has won again. The armies tried, but they couldn’t. They couldn’t stand their ground. But it’s fine. The initial victory of 6 October proves their vulnerability. They can still be defeated. They will be in the future, with the help of Allah.…Oh, so that’s why. My happiness from the first few entries dulled a bit, but I still felt a sense of pride. They were defeated before; they will be defeated once again. I wrapped up the diary and placed it under all my blankets. My mother’s memories must not be destroyed. As sleep was about to overcome me, I heard footsteps and whispered voices. Oh, no. They were back again. “Check that wooden enclosure for any signs of life,” a male voice ordered. I reached for the nearest weapon available – a wooden stick. I would not go down without a fight. I would seek revenge for my family.As footsteps steadily approached my shelter, one of their radios crackled. “REQUESTING IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE. ALL UNITS REPORT TO JENIN. URGENT ASSISTANCE REQUIRED. THE RESISTANCE FIGHTERS HAVE TAKEN OVER. I REPEAT, ALL UNITS REPORT TO HEADQUARTERS IN JENIN.”“What? The resistance fighters have taken over?”“Retreat. We will come back later. GO NOW.”I heard a flurry of footsteps, a sense of urgency and purpose in the stride of the soldiers as they rushed to wherever they were summoned. I was saved. A smile crossed my face once again. My body erupted in laughter and joy, and happiness flooded me as I digested the news. The occupation was defeated once again.July 5th, 2023The occupation was once again defeated. With the help of Allah, many more defeats will come.