“The War of the Watermelon”

By: Lana Basem

 Chapter 1: What’s Afoot?

Thump…. Thump… Thump…

Ibrahim’s heart hammered in his narrow chest.
It drummed faster with each jagged breath.

Thump…. Thump…
His feet pounded hard, packed earth.
Billows of dust stirred in his wake.

Thump….
His pulse thrummed and whooshed.
The pulsating beat in his ears drowned the shouts of the other children ahead.

“Why am I so slow?” Ibrahim thought to himself miserably. He watched his friends

shrink in the distance, and he urged his legs to move faster. A strangled “please…” escaped his
lips as he huffed and puffed to keep pace. His left leg heard this desperate supplication. His
right leg, three inches shorter than the left, remained deaf. Suddenly, Ibrahim found himself
sprawled, faced down on the ground, the wind knocked out of him, gasping for breath.

He lay there for a few moments collecting his wits. His heart hammering, his mind
racing, Ibrahim didn’t know who he should fear most: his mother – for tearing the knee of his
school uniform; Miss Layla – for missing that afternoon’s geography test; or the soldier –
whose knee was savagely planted on his narrow back, pinning him to the ground.
 Chapter 2: Attendance

I glance up from the papers at my desk to find the children settling in after their lunch
break. Those who live near the groves, outside the village, have finished their za’atar
sandwiches, figs, and pears and have their noses industriously buried in books. One by one, the
town children trickle in, their pockets full of toasted watermelon seeds that their teeth snapped
on the journey back. Maryam makes a stop at my desk and carefully hands me a damp tissue
filled with fresh jasmine blossoms. My favourite.

I raise an eyebrow. “You know you have a test today?”

“Yes, Miss Layla.” She laughs.

“I hope you studied,” I respond.

“Yes, Miss Layla.” She repeats, laughing at my riposte. She takes a seat, her ponytail
swinging in sync with the hem of her pleated skirt. As I wait for my beehive to settle down from
their lunch time outing, I notice an empty chair by the front.

“Where’s Ibrahim?” I ask.

Silence.

Alarmed, my eyes shoot to the window where the white-eared bulbul’s lush trill has
replaced the classroom’s usual colloquy. I revert my gaze back to the children and survey the
room with narrowed eyes.

“Where. Is. Ibrahim?” I repeat, my voice dropping an octave.

“Um, Miss Layla…,” Hamza wriggles uncomfortably in his seat. After a short pause, he
manages a confession.

“The soldiers took him.”

“AGAIN!?”

I make a mad dash to the window.

As the children join me, I feel a brush on my skirt as they jostle one another for a better
view. The vantage point of the second-story classroom allows a peek into the building next
door, where the Magav precinct resides. It was previously a post office, but when the
Occupation arrived, the soldiers decided that the delivery of letters, mail, and newspapers were
no longer a necessary service needed by the community.
 There isn’t much to see across the courtyard wall other than a flock of pigeons roosting
on the roof of the low-rise structure, and a lone soldier outside the entrance, idly smoking a
cigarette. With the close proximity of the two buildings, the cigarette smoke permeates the air,
bastardizing the sweet scent of the jasmine on my desk. Sunlight glints off the metal strapped
to his shoulder.

After taking a moment to mentally collect myself, I clap my hands and herd my sullen
flock back into their seats.

“All right, back into your chairs.” I call out. “You have a geography test to take.”

“What about Ibrahim?” Saif asks.

I shake my head disapprovingly.

“The boy has got to learn to STOP throwing rocks at soldiers. How many times does he
need to be caught before he learns he can’t outrun the Occu–“

“But they blocked the entrance to the courtyard.” Hamza cuts in. “They wouldn’t let us
enter the school gates.”

I ignored his interjection and continue addressing the class. I was quite familiar with the
Occupation’s daily harassment campaign. Last week, a tank rolled into the main village square
to set up a “temporary” checkpoint. It blocked access to three of the major roads, and the farm
children had to walk two extra kilometers each day to reach the school. Three weeks prior, the
soldiers frisked the children and their schoolbags. Forced to dump their belongings on wet
pavement, their schoolbooks were damaged by the rain.

Resigning myself to the task ahead, I give the students a final set of instructions before I
turn and leave. “You have ten extra minutes to study.” I inform them. “I want to see maps on
desks and books open. This classroom should be silent as the grave until I get back. If a single
one of you is out of your seats when I return, you’ll be writing lines on chalkboard till your
hands cramp.” I threaten.

I grab my shawl and purse and storm out of the classroom in a whirlwind of thought. As
the door clicks shut behind me, I hear the scraping of chairs and patter of feet as the children
race back to the window.

It’s a short walk to reach the precinct from the school gates. Outside, the street has hit
an afternoon lull. Most of the shops are closed for midday break and reprieve from the hot sun.
From their perch at the windowsill, Hamza lets out a low whistle among the curious heads of his
classmates, all lined up like little larks on a wire.
 “I wouldn’t want to be Ibrahim right about now,” he murmurs.

“I wouldn’t want to be one of those soldiers right about now,” Saif retorts. “I’ll take jail
over Miss Layla’s wrath any day.”

Miss Layla’s little larks watched as she stalked down the main street and turned the
corner towards the station.
 Chapter 3: The Hyenas and the Giraffe

Entering the precinct, I notice a dejected figure in the corner. Dark lashes turned
auburn from the dust, clothes as disheveled as his thick chestnut curls, Ibrahim is a pitiful sight.
Hardly recognizable from the boy he was an hour ago, his uniform is no longer clean and
pressed; he’s no longer the same child his mother sent out into the world that morning.

Ignoring everyone, I stride across the room with the confidence of King Louis entering
Versailles to where Ibrahim is balanced on a rickety stool. His legs dangle off the edge of the
stool, one slender calf significantly shorter than the other. Placing a viselike grip on his delicate
wrist, I pull him to his feet and shuffle him clumsily toward the precinct door.

“Let’s go.” I command.

Two hyenas in khaki fatigues block my exit; three others are seated behind desks. They
look on in amusement. The tallest of the group stands with a casual hand on thr metal
strapped to his side. His giant figure fills the door frame, blocking the light.

“No. He stay.” The hyena-giraffe hybrid announces, pointing to Ibrahim. “The boy give
6,000 Shekels. His father pay, then he go. No good throw rock. Crime.”

I look him over coldly and shove past, dragging Ibrahim through the narrow opening. I
feel Ibrahim stagger and glance back. From the corner of my eye, I catch the soldier
withdrawing his long giraffe leg - the same one he used to trip the small boy as he squeezed
past. Disgusted by his actions, I steady Ibrahim and push the young child out into sunshine and
fresh air, escaping the cackle of laughter behind us.

I waste little time in dragging the boy back inside the safety of our school gates.
Although the midday sun is hot, a gentle breeze blows through the olive trees in the courtyard.
However, it does little to sooth my fury. Even the abandoned balls on the playground roll away
upon my approach, desperate to escape my wrath. As I pass underneath my classroom
window, small heads and ponytails bob out of view.

It isn’t until I hear Ibrahim’s pitiful sniffles that I slow my pace.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, finally letting go of his arm. “Did they hurt you?”

“No, Miss Layla.” He sniffles. “My knee stopped bleeding. I’m… I’m okay. It’s just… it’s
just … my parents can’t pay 6,000 Shekels. I don’t want to go to jail!” He wails. “And mama’s
going to be mad for tearing my trousers. She can’t buy me another pair. These are Ramzy’s.”
He sobs.
 Seeing his dirt-streaked face wiped clean by fresh tears nearly sets off tears of my own.
My heart breaks. I kneel down beside the small boy and try to pat the dust off his small frame
and curly locks.

“The only thing you have to worry about is passing my geography test right now.” I say
gently. “Don’t worry. We’ll get your trousers stitched up before you go home. As for the
money, they wouldn’t let you go if you had to pay. I really don’t think your parents have to
worry about the fine.”

His crying subsids long enough for him to ask, “Then why did they say that?”

“Because they’re fools.” I respond. “ Because they think that when they pick on small
children, they’ll be too scared to grow up and fight back. Because they think that by making our
lives difficult, we’ll let them do whatever they want. But, we are not going to let them, are
we?”

I don’t hear a reply, so I lift his chin and repeat the question.

“We’re not going to allow that, are we?”

“No, Miss Layla.” He answers softly.

“Good.” I affirm, standing up and grabbing his hand.

“Now, let’s see what we can do to get you cleaned up.”

As we near the classroom door, I hear the frenzied scurry of little feet as fifteen peeping
Toms return to their seats. Just as I’m about to enter, Ibrahim’s little voice pipes up.

“Miss Layla…”

“Yes, love?”

“Do I still have to take the test today?” He asks.

I smile, relieved his primary concern is the exam. Not soldiers.

“I’ll tell you what,” I propose. “If you get the highest mark in class, I’ll tell you how to
become the fastest boy at school.”

“Even with my short leg?”

“Even with your short leg.” I respond.

 “Deal?”

“Deal.

Entering the classroom, I find neat rows of heads bowed dutifully, engrossed in maps
and books. Their academic façade fools no one. Even Ibrahim lets out an amused snort.

Littered near the floor of Laith’s desk are shells of discarded watermelon seeds. A pet
peeve. I march over to him, grab the remaining toasted seeds from his desk and fling them
through the open window with all my might.

The children’s heads snap in attention. They look at me as though deranged.

“You’ll understand tomorrow.” I say and begin passing out geography exams.

Bewildered by my behaviour, the students do not look assured.

 Chapter 5: Chapter 4: The War of Watermelon Seeds

The next school day was less eventful. The children arrived safely in the morning, their
lunch break yielded no hostility, and the afternoon lessons dragged on a bit too long for
everyone’s liking. Upon arriving at school that morning, the children rejoiced in finding the
precinct streaked in brown pigeon shite. Apparently, Laith’s watermelon seeds had been
roasted with salt and cayenne pepper, and cayenne pepper gives pigeons diarrhea. The
soldiers were unable to step foot outside the precinct without an arial attack from above. In
the quiet of the afternoon, Miss Layla focused her science lesson on the digestive tracks of
avifauna.
 Chapter 6: A Gazelle Among the Hyenas

After the final bell rings, armed with a cup of tea and a slice of date cake, I sit down to
grade the children’s math worksheets. I should scavenger in my bag for my reading glasses, but
my vanity objects. After spending five full minutes trying to discern if Saif’s three is an eight,
pragmatism wins. Moments later, the sound of the children outside draws my attention. Just
as a mother distinguishes her baby’s cries, their shouts and yells forebode calamity. I run to the
window and find an all too familiar sight. I throw my glasses back into my purse, and rush down
to the courtyard. Sometimes, it’s better to be blind when viewing ugliness in this world.

One of the soldiers has Ayah captive by the scruff of her neck, her school bag and
belongings dumped unceremoniously beside her. Several children hurtle stones, attempting to
release Ayah from the hyena’s jaws. With a swift kick to the shin, Ayah breaks free and takes
off running towards the school gates; the other children sprint towards home. As the pack of
children disappear down the street, Laith glances back and is startled to find Ibrahim just
behind him. Moments later, he’s overpassed. Realizing what is happening, Laith lets out a
joyous whoop of laughter.

“Faster! Faster!” He yells in encouragement.

One by one, Ibrahim overtook each of his classmates as they fled from the hyena. The
little gazelle, with one foot shorter than the other, ran with all his might, supported by the
cheers of his friends behind him. By running with his right leg on the curb and his left leg on the
pavement, the little gazelle made it safely home that afternoon.

The next day, Ibrahim brought Miss Layla some toasted watermelon seeds in thanks.