The cold, metal hospital bed felt like an iron cage. My leg throbbed, blood seeping through the bandages.
Sham and Hayat, my nieces, lay beside me, their heads wrapped in white gauze, stained with the crimson evidence of the Israeli violence that had befallen us. Relatives trickled in, their faces a mix of disbelief and sorrow.
Then, my mother arrived.
“Where are my sons? Where is Bashaer? My grandsons? Where is Zakaria?”
Her voice was frantic, almost unrecognizable.
“They told me he was martyred. Is it true?”
Allah Yirhamu, came the reply. “May God have mercy on his soul.”
The words were heavy and final. ….more
