Sharief (8) is dancing in a storm of twirling white pieces. He grabs dozens and runs inside. He throws them in his mother’s lap. ‘Snow!’, he yells. Mum looks at Sharief’s harvest. Sheets of paper showing a huge arrow pointing south. Israeli evacuation orders.
Mum starts crying and Sharief says: ‘Don’t worry, mama, we can make a snowman and I promise to keep you warm.’
She kisses him and says nothing, but gets up. She walks into Sharief’s room, opens a wardrobe and starts stuffing his clothes into a backpack. Still crying, but with no sound, which is painful to pull off.
Sharief fetches the plastic shovel he used last summer on Gaza’s beaches and starts shoveling ‘snow’.
His father has arrived from selling roasted chestnuts all days on the street and is pacing around the inner courtyard with one of the flyers in his hands.
Sharief shows the pile of snow he is making. His father nods and puts the flyer on top of the pile. He strokes Sharief’s hair.
He asks what his mum is doing.
Sharief: ‘She’s looking for warm clothes for me. So I don’t get sick playing in the snow.’
His father walks in. Their flat is on the ground floor.
He stops her from packing.
‘There won’t be a safe square meter in all of Gaza in less than two weeks time.’
His wife asks what they should do instead then.
Sharief’s father says:
‘Join me in the courtyard. Let’s build a snowman. This is the last day our son gets to be a child.’
Sharief’s mum wails in her husband’s arms for some minutes, shaking and even pulling at her hair.
But then she finds two black buttons and a carrot and runs to Sharief.
Ready to drink in his smiles and giggles as if they are an elexir granting eternal life.
