A tale of hands and legs in Gaza.
Amir is squeezing Omar’s little hand. His sister’s legs are right in front of him. In one ear a sharp beep is drilling deeper into his head. In the other Amir hears his sister screaming. He can’t see her. Only her legs. He squeezes the hand of his youngest brother tighter. How did she survive that?
Those are her entire legs. From the hip down. He wants to get up and run to her. He mumbles: ‘How? She is the fastest runner on our block.’ He can’t get up. He also can’t just leave Omar. With his thumb he makes tender circles over Omar’s hand.
Should he comfort his 5 year old brother or run to his 16 year old sister? Screaming, legless in what must be what’s left of the kitchen.
Amir curses himself for not getting up. Amir is pinned to the ground. The blast threw him and little Omar against the radiator in the living room. A twisted steel tube is sticking through Amir’s side, but he hasn’t even noticed. He can’t take his eyes off the pair of scorched legs. The pants are torn off, but her slippers are still on her feet. Caked in blood.
When the screaming from the kitchen stops, Amir starts sobbing, like his eyes are vomitting water. He turns to Omar to apologize. He should stay strong for Omar. In turning he is aware of how light Omar feels.
Amir is only holding Omar’s little arm.
He spots the rest of Omar bundled up behind the ruined couch. He jumps forward so hard he yanks himself loose from the tube that’s penetrated his chest and he hears his own fluids splash on the floor. He thinks: ‘I need to clean that before mum comes home.’
He wraps Omar in a rug from the floor. He kisses his forehead. Then panicks and decides he should put Omar’s arm in the freezer. Maybe then it can be reattached.
But to get to the freezer he needs to go to the kitchen and he’ll see what’s left of Lubna.
He staggers towards the kitchen, carrying the arm reverently in both hands in front of him, even though it weighs next to nothing.
Lubna is not dead yet.
Her bowels are in a pile in front of her, but she looks at him.
She whispers ‘thirsty’.
It sounds like she’s saying it to someone who isn’t there.
Seeing what Amir is carrying she gasps, as if a storm arose from her lungs, a long winding word: ‘Omar.’
The last sound she’ll ever make.
Amir slips on his sister’s entrails, hits his head on the kitchen counter and passes out.
Things have been worse for other families.
Because nine days later Amir is up and about, standing next to Omar’s hospital cot and squeezing the hand Omar has left.
