Girl from Jenin (The princess and the pea)

 

They came for Shazad before dawn. No warning, no mercy, just cable ties and a hood. Then the sensation of their boots breaking his ribs.

He was throwing stones at the outpost, they said. They had found a slingshot at his cousins’ house.

They sprayed the house with skunk water. Arab cologne they called it, sneering under their masks as the harsh chemicals burned and blistered anything they touched. The last memory of his home was the sound of his mother and sister screaming.

Shut it you Nablus rat!  We’ll teach you Arab princes not to throw stones. You won’t even remember your name when we’re done, they laughed.

In the back of the van they beat and kicked him until he was barely conscious. He said nothing. The pain in his side was excruciating.

When they were bored of beating him they took turns insulting him in the worst ways possible, before taking him to Megiddo prison and handing him over to the soldiers.

His shoes were taken, and he was thrown roughly into cell 7A. It smelled of piss, and vomit, and the rotting stench of pure fear. Sixteen children, no beds, and one bucket.

The harsh fluorescent lighting never went off, and for hours the white noise blared horrifyingly, masking the sound of distant screams echoing inside the fortress walls.

Somehow, he drifted off but was jolted awake painfully when the soldiers came to take one of the older boys.

When they brought the boy back after two days, his clothes were wet. One of his eyes was closed, and blood was crusted around his nose and mouth. He limped to an empty space and collapsed on the floor, murmuring something about electricity.

Slurping coffee from plastic cups, the soldiers mocked and jeered them. A few of the children cried out in their fitful sleep. Many never spoke at all, but the expressions in their eyes screamed out their pain and suffering. They were constantly hungry, and the cold was almost unbearable.

At 14, Shazad was older than most, and knew to keep silent. The boy nearest to him was staring into space, apparently oblivious to the maggots that twisted nauseatingly on his infected foot.

 After six days the soldiers arrived with a girl. Shazad guessed she was about twelve. She was dirty and barefoot, and her lip was split, but she had that look of defiance in her eyes.

At a checkpoint they had found a photo on her phone of a ruined Gaza. That was reason enough to take her. She was Palestinian.

They kicked her into the cell.

This little Jenin bitch will show you boys how to fight, they mocked.

Shazad watched her as she slowly sat down and stared at the wall. For the entire day she didn’t eat or speak.

She didn’t even flinch when the soldiers dragged away two little ones by their necks, and returned them in tears. Blackened, blood encrusted stumps where their nails used to be.

Their agonized cries brought others huddling around them, in an attempt at comfort, until the soldiers hosed them away with filthy water. She continued to stare at the wall as if it was whispering secrets only she could hear.

The soldiers enjoyed playing mind games with their captives. Tormenting them with insults about their very existence. She acted as if they didn’t exist.

Jenin people. You can’t break them, but you can’t trust them either, his mother had always said. Shazad decided he didn’t like her.

The soldiers didn’t like her either. They liked noise. They liked the sound of Arabs in pain.

Two days later they came for her.

You won’t be back anytime soon you little Jenin bitch, they laughed, you’ll be having too much fun.

Two more days passed. Shazad held on. Didn’t say much. Kept a low profile.  Best not to draw attention to himself.

Barely audible whispers.

They’ll break her for sure.

Not even a Jenin girl can withstand them.

Shazad edged towards the bars of the cell where a discarded plastic cup lay. There was still some undissolved sugar in the bottom. Swiftly he scooped it out and wrapped it in a tiny scrap of tissue. He stashed it in his sleeve. It was something special. It was the only thing he had.

It was forbidden to speak in prison. Though his ribs throbbed and his voice was restricted to a whisper, his thoughts were free. He recalled better times, when his world had seemed more civilised.

Four days later they dragged her back to the cell. She had only a few scraps of clothing covering her body.

Amira’s been a bad girl, haven’t you? jeered the soldiers.

Her back was bent at an awkward angle, and her nose was broken. Her entire body was covered in welts and bruises. One of the children threw up at the ugly sight of the wire lashes on her back. Dried bloodstains ran down her thighs. She looked different.

 Shazad tried not to look at her but he couldn’t help himself.

She glanced briefly in his direction before staring once again at the wall.

Had she not been so dehydrated, her tears would have flowed as surely as the Jordan River.

Shazad waited until she fell asleep before placing the tiny parcel of sugar under the bucket.

She found his package the next day and silently pocketed it, looking around the cell puzzled before finally locking eyes with him.

Then she scanned the room again, her eyes resting on the small boy with the infected foot. The stench was appalling now, and the limb was black and red. She crawled over the empty space to reach him and gently placed the packet of sugar on his lips.

That’s it, thought Shazad.

The child’s eyes widened at the sweet memory, and as the grains of sugar dissolved he looked at her with deep gratitude. She had helped him remember his home. That was the most valuable thing to anyone in prison. Slowly, weakly, he reached under his shirt and passed her a piece of stale naan bread that he had been unable to eat.

He died that night, and in the morning after the soldiers came to take his corpse away, Shazad shuffled his way over to where she lay.

Are you okay? They used the chair on you, made you taste electricity, didn’t they? he whispered.

Yes, looking away then back again. I know they broke your ribs, she said. He just nodded.

Amira from Jenin, he thought. He recalled from his mother that the name meant Princess.

My mother said never trust people from Jenin, he said.

What do you say? she whispered.

Shazad half-smiled. Maybe Jenin girls don’t cry, even when they should.

Then.

You didn’t keep it for yourself, he said.

He needed it more, she said hoarsely.

Then she looked at him quizzically for a while, the corners of her mouth twitching, broke the bread in three, and gave him a piece. The other pieces she silently passed to the little ones.

You passed, said Shazad.

So did you, she said.