Tariq is 57. He has been detained. He has long suffered from gout. His feet hurt, he’s hardly able to bend his knees. The cold breeze is biting into his back. He is in his underwear. They took him out of queue. He was waiting to get some bread for his three grandchildren. Layla (11), Yara (9) and Kareem (4). They don’t know why their grandfather hasn’t returned. Thoughts of them hurt a million times more than the cold. Their father, Adam, is in the Gulf states. He’s an engineer. He helps set up industrial installations in new factories. Their mother, Rana, hasn’t been heard of since October 9th. She went to visit family up north on October 5th. On the morning of October 9th she messaged she was on her way home.

She never arrived. There’s been no news as to her whereabouts. Her phone is dead. Tariq is worried sick. He tells the IDF soldier in broken Hebrew he picked up as floorer in Tel-Aviv in his twenties that three small children need him. The soldier answers in grammatically perfect Arabic, but with a heavy accent: ‘Should have thought about that when you raped our women.’ Tariq hasn’t left the Gaza strip in almost 20 years. Since losing his wife to breast cancer in 2014 he hasn’t so much as looked at a woman, let alone raped one. Other detainees ask where they are being taken. The soldier barks back that they are not in any position to be asking questions. They are told to stand up. Tariq’s knees are chafed from kneeling in the rubble. They are not allowed to wear their sandals. They shuffle along right behind several IDF soldiers. Some along side them, some behind them. All pointing their guns directly at them. It gets dark early these days so when they arrive at a ditch in the sand it’s already dusk. The ditch looks ominous. They are told nothing more.

One IDF soldier throws a small package at each one of them. It’s a thin blanket. Another soldier uses a stick to draw a circle in the sand around them. The one who speaks perfect Arabic, but with a clear accent, says: ‘Whoever crosses this line is dead. This line stands between who lives or dies.’ They spend a harrowing night in the sand. Whoever needs to urgently relieve himself is forced to do it right there. Dig a hole with his hands. Pee or shit in front of all the others. At least there is the darkness to provide some privacy. Tariq hears one of the soldiers say: ‘It’s true, all Arabs stink.’ At sun up a small detail of other IDF soldiers appears. They are women this time. They have a list with all the names of the detainees. ‘If you hear your name, come and stand on the other side of this ditch.’ Tariq is terrified when he hears his name called. He is sure that they will kill him now. Or will they kill the ones whose name hasn’t been read?

Tariq decides to submit to his fate, gets up and joins the group of detainees forming on the other side of the ditch. When the female IDF soldier is done reading the names the Arabic speaker says: ‘Get out of here, you filthy animals, go back to your pig sty.’ Tariq isn’t sure if he’s hear the command clearly. Then one the men next to him gets the butt of a rifle in his rib cage. The Arabic speaker repeats the command: ‘Go home to your whores!’. Tariq starts walking. Still expecting it’s some kind of game and he will soon hear shots ring out. He keeps walking and doesn’t dare look back until he is in front of the entrance of his apartment block. The whole way he was praying that it would still be there. For the first time he notices that his feet are covered in bloody cuts. The walk has made some of the sand drop off.

The whole way he was praying the children would be alright. He doesn’t have his personal belongings anymore, so no key. Noor, the 72 year old who lives downstairs, is the first to spot him, she lets him in. She offers to wash his feet, but he races up the stairs to see the children. Noor yells: ‘When we realized you were gone, we’ve all tried to get in, but they have barricaded themselves. They won’t listen to anyone.’ He bangs on the door, but the children won’t let him in. ‘It’s me your grandfather.’ He hears one of the kids say that the Israelis have a device that can fake anyone’s voice. ‘It’s really me, it’s your grandfather.’ No answer. He tries again. ‘Layla, your favorite spread is apricot jam. You have a scar on your left cheek from when a dog bit you on the way to school when you were 7, Yara, you can name 200 different Pokemon monsters, and Kareem, you want to be a bus driver later and you like to put all our chairs in one straight line and pretend it is a bus.’ First there is more silence, but then he can hear some discussion going on in hushed voice. His relief is immense when he hears the door slowly open. All three jump on him at once.

Their combined weight round his neck hurts him in all his joints, but it’s the happiest feeling he’s ever felt. ‘You must all be so hungry’, he cries. They tell him they ate the last remaining pot of honey with spoons. They also found two tins of chickpeas behind a few pots and pans in one cupboard. ‘We thought you were dead.’ Luckily Tariq had left his phone behind when he went out to get bread. They were in touch with their father and other family members. None of them could get to them, but at least they could comfort them. But even they couldn’t convince them to open the door to anyone. There are at least 30 pleas from their father to let the neighbours in. The oldest says: ‘We weren’t sure if it was really father.’ Tariq doesn’t understand. ‘Who would it be then?’ The youngest says: ‘A spy.’ Then little Kareem asks: ‘Why did you leave us here? Were we bad?’ At that tears start streaming down the older man’s cheeks. ‘No, my angel, you haven’t been bad, you are never bad. Only grown-ups can be bad.’ The children ask: ‘When do grown-ups become bad?’ Tariq hears the words come out of his mouth, but perhaps because he is so tired he has the eery feeling that it’s not him who is saying them: ‘When they start thinking that for them to be happy, they have to take happiness away from others. This is true with material things, perhaps, but with happiness it’s the opposite, the more you give it away, the more you get it in return.’

The pilot who right at that moment dropped the bomb that killed Tariq, Kareem and Layla in a split second had never heard those words. It’s doubtful he would have acted any differently if did hear them. His bomb killed three and tore off the legs and one arm of Yara. She survived for three hours mumbling: ‘mum, please come, I will give you happiness, so much happiness.’