“The War of the Watermelon”

By: Lana Basem

 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 against the hard packed earth.
Billows of dust stirred in his wake.

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

“Why am I so slow?” A miserable Ibrahim thought. He watched his friends shrink in the
distance, and he urged his feet 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, the wind was knocked out of him. He found himself sprawled faced down on
the ground, gasping for breath. He lay there for a few moments collecting his wits. With his
heart hammering and 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.
 Attendance

I glance up from the papers at my desk to find the children settling in after lunch break.
Those who live near the olive groves outside the village have finished their za’atar sandwiches
and have their noses industriously buried in books. One by one, the town children trickle in,
their pockets full of dried figs and toasted watermelon seeds. They delicately snap the seeds
open on their walk to and from school using their front two teeth and then discard the shells
along the path - a testament of their journey. 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 trill replaces the
classroom’s usual colloquy. My gaze reverts back to the students, and I survey the room with
narrowed eyes.

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

Hamza wriggles uncomfortably in his seat. After a short pause, he manages a

confession.

“Um, Miss Layla…,”

“Yes…”

“The soldiers took him...”

“AGAIN!?”

I make a mad dash to the window.

 There isn’t much to see across the courtyard wall other than a flock of pigeons roosting
on the roof of a low-rise structure and a lone soldier outside the entrance. He’s idly smoking a
cigarette. With the close proximity of the building to the school, the cigarette smoke
permeates the air, bastardizing the sweet scent of jasmine on my desk. Sunlight glints off the
metal strapped to his shoulder.

I feel a brush on my skirt as the children join me and jostle one another for a better
view. The vantage point from the second-story classroom allows a peek into the Magav
precinct that resides next door. It had previously been a post office, but when the Occupation
arrived, the soldiers decided that the delivery of letters, mail, and newspapers were no longer
necessary services needed by the community.

After surveying the idle scene, I clap my hands and herd my sullen flock back into their
seats. There is no sign of Ibrahim.

“All right. Have a seat.” 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 school gates!” Hamza cuts in. “They wouldn’t let us pass through
the courtyard entrance.”

I ignored his interjection and continue addressing the class. I am 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. The farm
children had to walk two extra kilometers each day to reach the school. Two weeks prior, the
soldiers had frisked the children and searched their schoolbags. Forced to dump their
belongings on wet pavement, their schoolbooks were damaged by the rain.

“I want to see maps on desks and books open,” I call out. “You have ten extra minutes
to study.” Resigning myself to the task ahead, I give the children a final set of instructions
before turning and leaving the classroom. “I want it silent as the grave in here until I get back.
If a single student is out of their seat, you’ll be writing lines on the 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, a scraping of chairs is followed by the patter of little feet as the
children race back to the window.
 History Class

Things had been different before the Balfour Declaration. Palestinians were able to walk
the streets of Ramla without having to worry about soldiers questioning their whereabouts or
carrying identification cards. Church bells chimed off cobbled streets echoing the calls from
adjacent mosques; beckoning all devout worshipers to prayer regardless if their prayers were
whispered on Fridays or Sundays. During the harvest season, Muslim and Jewish mothers
traded children while the olives were cleaned and pressed for liquid gold, taking it in turn to
keep village youths out of trouble. Laughter filled evening skies as Mazrahi children helped
recapture escaped sheep for Eid day sacrifices, and Muslim children helped hide the afikomen
while Passover Sedar was being prepared.

Then, the British arrived with their Great War. They divided the world in half like the
spine of a book - creating two parts of a whole, one incomplete without the other, yet forever
separated by an imaginary divide. Layla’s own grandfather had fought in the Middle Eastern
theatre of World War I and had believed Britain’s false promises of independence and freedom
from Ottoman rule in exchange for the call of arms.

Layla sighed. She was grateful her grandfather had passed without having to witness
the razed orchards, daily harassment campaigns, and forced displacement that was now
rampant in the village. Outside, the street had hit an afternoon lull, and the shops were closed
for their midday reprieve from the hot sun. Watching Miss Layla make her way down the dusty
street, Hamza let out a low whistle among the curious heads of his classmates, all lined up
behind the windowsill like larks on a wire.

“I wouldn’t want to be Ibrahim right about now,” he murmured.

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

Miss Layla’s little larks watched as she stalked down Main Street and turned the corner
towards the station.
 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. The child who sat there was longer the same one his mother sent out into the world
that morning.

Ignoring the officers in the precinct, 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 seated behind desks look on in
amusement. The tallest of the group stands with a casual hand on the metal strapped to his
side. His giant figure nearly 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 throwing rocks. Big crime.” He barks.

I look him over coldly and wordlessly shove past, dragging Ibrahim along with me.
Behind me, I feel Ibrahim stagger. 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 the narrow
opening. Disgusted by his actions, I steady Ibrahim and push the young child out into the
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.
It does little to sooth my fury. Even the abandoned balls on the playground roll away upon my
approach, desperate to escape my wrath. When we pass beneath the second story window,
familiar heads and ponytails bob out of view. Once inside the school, I hurry through the
hallway. 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 stop - stopped bleeding. I’m … I’m okay. It’s
just…” His face contorts as he struggles to reign in his tears. “It’s just … my parents can’t pay
6,000 Shekels!” He wails. “Mama’s going to be mad that I tore my trousers. She can’t buy me
another pair. These are Rumzy’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 right now is passing my geography test.” I say
gently. “We’ll get your trousers stitched up before you go home. As for the money, I really
don’t think your parents have to worry about the fine. They wouldn’t have released you
otherwise. ”

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

“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 step out of line. They think that by making our
lives difficult, they can continue to do whatever they want. But, we are not going to allow that
to happen, are we?”

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

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

“No, Miss Layla.” He answers softly.

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

As we near the classroom door, there is a 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 dutifully bowed heads, all 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 the discarded shells of watermelon seeds.
Every child in the room knows it’s my greatest pet peeve. I march over to Laith, grab the
remaining toasted seeds from his desk and fling them through the open window.

The children’s heads snap in attention. Ignoring their bewildered stares, I begin to pass
out geography exams. They look at me as though I’m deranged.

“Perhaps, you’ll understand tomorrow.” I respond.

The students do not look assured.

 The War of the Watermelon Seeds

The next day at school 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. Laith’s watermelon seeds had been roasted with salt
and cayenne pepper. That day, the school children all learned that 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 biology lesson on the
digestive tracks of birds.
 The Return of the Hyena

The final bell released the students from my confinement , and I armed myself with a
cup of tea and slice of date cake in order to sit down and grade the children’s math sheets.
After spending several minutes of trying to discern if Saif’s three is an eight, pragmatism wins,
and I scavenge my bag for my reading glasses. 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. Throwing my
glasses on the table, I make a mad dash to the courtyard. Sometimes, it’s better to be blind
when forced to view the ugliness that takes hold of the 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 uniformed hyena’s jaw. Before I can intervene, Ayah manages a swift
kick to the soldier’s shin. She breaks free and takes off running towards the school gates. The
other children sprint home. I pull Ayah back inside the safety of the school and watch as the
pack of children disappear down the street.
 A Gazelle Among the Hyenas

With soldiers in hot pursuit of the children, Laith was momentarily startled when he
glanced back to find Little Ibrahim, huffing and puffing, just behind him. Moments later,
Ibrahim passed him, running with a steady gait. As realization finally dawned on Laith, he let
out a joyous whoop of laughter.

“Faster! Faster!” Laith yells ahead to Ibrahim in encouragement.

One by one, Little 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 and classmates 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 to thank her.