Blood and Dust on The Last Palestine Pound

A fictional short story taking place in the Gaza.

Mama hands me the shekels to find some food. Find. It’s a scavenger hunt now.

We do this everyday. Oh, how I hate it!

I hate holding this cursed paper in my hand. The shekel. Or shackle, as my older brother calls it. He says that it is a symbol of our imprisonment. A sign that even our currency had been erased.

“Here you take it.” I hand the shekel to Hamza and wipe my hands.

In my eyes it is filthy. I see it smirking at the people who work day and night to get it. The way has flowers and leaves on it. Flowers they stole and leaves they burnt. But the shekel does not acknowledge that. It replaced our own money, like how they replaced our homes with settler paradises.

I raise my head up; Mama will be impressed when I tell her this later.

“Come on, Fatima!” Hamza tugs my hair and takes off running. I giggle and chase after him.

It takes the whole day to find a loaf of bread. Better than most days. The entire time, my stomach was growling.

“Can I eat a bit now? Pleeease?” I skip to match Hamza’s pace.

“Fatima, stop whining; you already ate some.”

“Barely!” I exclaim.

Hamza sighs and slows down. “Here.” He opens the bag and rips a piece of the bread, giving it to me. “Now do not ask me for anymore.”

I nod enthusiastically, biting the bread. “Bis is owd,” I declare through a mouth-full.

He gives me a face. “Yucky, Fatima! Wait until you finish eating to talk.”

I swallow. “This is old.”

He frowns. “I know.”

I take Hamza’s hand and drag my feet on the dusty ground, all my excitement fizzling away. “I’m tired.”

He squeezes my hand. “I know.”

I sketch the rectangle carefully, then color the shape green. I scribble our flag and Arabic words on it. I write a large 1 to the side and smile. Finally, I cut it out.

“Mama! Mama! see what I made!” I grab the paper and run to the balcony, where Mama is lecturing Hamza. I show her proudly.

Hamza raises an eyebrow. “What is that supposed to be?”

“None of your business.” I stick out my tongue at him.

“Hamza, be nice. Fatima, I love your colors! What is it?” Mama says.

“Read this!” I hand her the paper and point at my scribbles.

Mama’s smile tightens. “Your handwriting is very nice, but I like it more when you read it.”

I look at my scrawls, then realise that they are too messy to read. So, instead I say what I had meant to put. “I wrote ‘Lira falastini’ there.”

Mama raises an eyebrow, impressed. I puff out my chest, full of pride.

“My dear, you know I have a real Palestine pound.” Mama stands.

My eyes widen. “Is there really such a thing?”

“Of course, no one uses it now, but we would pay with it from before.”

Hamza crosses his arms, skeptical. “When?”

“Before I was born.” Mama turns to Hamza. I blow a breath; that must be a long time ago.

“Do you have one now?” Hamza leans forward, more curious than disbelieving.

Mama nods and walks out of the balcony. I trail behind her eagerly. She reaches her room and opens a drawer, rummaging a bit before pulling the paper out. My heart beats in my ears and a smile forms on my face as I take the bill from her. It is crumpled and dusty, but in my eyes it glimmers.

“This is from before israel occupied us.” Mama pats my head.

“So when Britain had control over us,” Hamza says from the doorway. “We never get a break, do we?” Mama chuckles and shakes her head.

I muster my very best act — with wide, cute eyes and my back straight — I tug Mama’s A’bayah. She looks down. “Yes?”

“Mama, I love you so much, and it would really, really make my day if I owned a Palestine pound.” I blink innocently and hold the bill to my chest.

Hamza rolls his eyes, and Mama smirks as if she expected it. “Okay, keep it. But take good care of it.”

I hug Mama, squealing with delight.

We walk through an old alley to reach the center of the village. We are going to visit Amto Layal. I clutch the Palestine pound tightly in my hand as we head there. The center is crowded, but that is normal. Merchants are yelling out passersby and children are scrambling around. Some men are seated in chairs to the sides, smoking Argilahs, and women are standing in corners exchanging gossip. And of course, drones watch overhead, their humming normalized.

The wind picks up, and I slip. I grab Mama’s hand to balance myself, and suddenly the paper flies. The wind snatches it from my hand and carries it away.

My eyes widen in horror. I yelp in surprise and run after the paper fluttering in the air.

“Fatima!” Hamza and Mama yell out behind me. I push between swarms of people, keeping my eyes on the bill soaring ahead.

A BOOM sounds.

And the world erupts.

I scream as I stumble and roll onto the ground. A building far behind me explodes.

My ears ring. I stumble, choking on thick smoke. Rocks and glass fly everywhere. A broken piece of cement knocks the Palestine pound from the air, trapping it to the ground.

Everyone is yelling, but I hear nothing but the flapping of the bill. Smoke spreads everywhere, I focus on the green bill stuck under the gray cement.

I get up and force my legs to run — over bodies, between people rushing to safety. Finally, I reach the rock and push it with all my might. It shifts and I grab the bill. Relief floods through me, I almost smile.

“Fatima, leave it!” It is Hamza. He reaches me panting, his face scratched and blood oozing out. He picks me up, sprints to a merchant’s table, and scrambles underneath, pulling me with him.

“Where is Mama?” I whisper, my voice shakes, just like the trembling ground. My heart slows as I see Hamza’s furious face.

“Why would you do that?” He snaps. I look around, finding the streets empty; everybody has found a shelter like ours. I hug the paper as more jets fly by.

Buildings explode in the distance, people scream. I move, on my knees, further under the table. Hamza wraps a hand around me and we wait. We wait until the jets bomb farther away and the sky turns dark. We wait even after people emerge from where they were hiding and life moves on. We wait and the stars shine ahead. Never have the seconds been so long.

“We need to find Mama,” Hamza whispers, finally moving up. He crawls out from under the table and helps me out gently. I stand, allowing what had happened slowly seep in. Why do I feel guilty for the blood on Hamza’s face and the confusion that surrounds me?

I sit back on the ground and tug Hamza’s shirt. He kneels. “Are you okay?”

I look at my pants, which are now ripped, and so is my skin, with blood sneaking out slyly. Did that happen when I fell? “I’m sorry I ran away from you, Hamza.” I turn my head back up at him and grip the bill tighter.

He shakes his head. “No time for that; we need to find Mama.” He picks me up and walks slowly, not quite knowing where to go.

“Maybe she went to Amto Layal.” He mutters.

We stand looking around. Maybe if we look hard enough at the destruction, it will disappear.

“Hamza! Fatima!” Someone yells out from behind. My heart swells. Mama! Instead, we turn to find Amto Layal running out of her house.

Hamza puts me down and blinks as she reaches us, panting, with puffy eyes. She pulls Hamza and I into a too-tight embrace.

Hamza steps back, to break out of her hug and frown at her. “Do you know where Mama is?” His eyes scan the area before returning to her. She swallows, and not meeting his eyes.

I wish I had never run after the bill.

I wish we were allowed a better life.

One Palestine Pound. Source. Edited by author.