A Child’s heroism in one sentence


Having impatiently waited for a whole year for the eventful day when we Palestinians would commemorate the anniversary of the first Intifada, streaming with heavy sweat that moved down my eyebrows like two little streams of tears on the cheeks of a little baby who while tired, hungry and scared lost his mother in the middle of nowhere, trying to move as cautiously as possible, my heart beating frantically, my eyes unblinkingly focused wherever I glance, crouching down behind a wreck of a burnt car, looking carefully behind my shoulders lest should another Jeep comes from the opposite direction, a technique the Israeli occupation army soldiers started to follow to ambush youngsters before they think of throwing stones at the passing jeeps, catching some of my friends, a thing that both made me boil with rage and anger seeing how brutally the soldiers beat them, I, who learnt the hard way how to evade them, hurled the stone, my stone, hitting the ugly, grinning Rambo-like Israeli soldier, sitting in the passenger seat in the face, his blood spilling on the asphalt exactly where my 6th grade classmate, with whom I had a fierce row a week before and who courageously decided to come to my home to apologise for what he did to me, was shot dead by an Israeli settler, not because he was throwing stones, not because he was running away, not because he was wearing a mask or helping the stone-throwers but simply because he happened to be there, so excited of what I did, running breathlessly home, scarcely managing to tell my grandma how with a tiny mossy rock I can take revenge for what they did to my friend, depriving me of a final handshake, a blood for a blood but never accepting a handshake for the lost handshake.