tragedy in One sentence

Oblivious to the likely new happenings around her, unable to fully grasp the faintest idea of the reason why not only all her relatives and beloved ones but also every Tom, Dick and Harry, even that hateful one-eyed shopkeeper, was there gathering in the tiny ragged tent, newly erected by little boys she only saw their look-alikes on TV hurling stones at something she could not form a complete image of as it used to pass those kids so quickly that they, dodging low to evade live bullets but not too low to miss the target, had to throw their stones perhaps 10 seconds before to make sure they hit it, seeing masked grown-ups covering the walls of her house with graffiti, feeling proud, a sense of finally belonging to whatever was going on around her, and she, of course, being unable to fathom what they are, a sense she longed for for ages because her first grader classmate, Heba, used to tease her that unlike the walls of Heba’s house, hers were, to quote Heba, ‘as white as snow’, something bad in itself in a culture that values any kind of resistance even if it is a slogan scribbled on the walls of their houses by a boy whose chicken scratch can be read by none but Champollion himself, going back home that afternoon to check on her mother, a plump young lady in her mid twenties who had to marry early as she was left orphan by an Israeli shell that destroyed their house and killed all her family members except her who happened to be sleeping over at her cousin, whose elder brother married her seven years later more out of pity than passion, and now  having to bear the awful harshness of going on through life with a husband buried two metres beneath with a Palestinian flag waving over his grave and a smiling picture on the headstone and on the walls of the neighbourhood waiting there not for the occupation to tear them down under their heavy boots but by killing another yet young, full-of-life person whose pictures will cover that of her husband, nothing but pictures of martyrs can cover the faces of other martyrs in Palestine, having now to bring a dozen of kids, the oldest of whom was approaching her with quizzical glances wondering what was going on, the mother trying to hide her emotions, smiled slightly, dragged her daughter not closer to her heart lest should the little one hears the deafening screams of the broken heart, unaware, again, that from now on she will be labelled an orphan, the little girl seeing her mother smiling, slept in her lap to be awakened minutes later by the bitter crying of her Mom, who, though trying to suppress her inner torture and agony yet failing to keep calm the moment her little daughter while asleep called for her dad not once but thrice, with her high-pitched wailing, caused her confused daughter to cry uncontrollably.


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