I’m using a flashlight to write this in my closet. I always hide in my closet when my father gets mad with me. And, as usual, like today, it’s not my fault but my brother’s but more of that later.
Today is my 12th birthday. It should be a day of celebration not hiding in a closet! My brother? I have no idea where he was today. My mother made my favourite meal ‘Musakhan’ as a special treat for my birthday. And my brother didn’t even turn up.
Halfway through the meal he arrived home. His eyes were sort of red and glazed over, like when he had been taking drugs with his friends. And this always makes my father mad. He shouts at him and then my father gets angry with me even though I have done nothing wrong. I’m small for my age, which makes it easier to hide in the closet but I’m always worried that my father might hit me, which is why I hide.
So my father shouted at my brother ‘Where have you been?’ ‘I’m 22 and I’m an adult’ he shouted back. My father believes as head of the house he has the right to know where all of us are at all times. Even my mother. In some ways this is caring for us, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like we have individual identities. So I end up in my closet writing my thoughts in this notebook.
My mother and I went to Friday prayers as we always do. Mum and I get on well, but she is as frightened of my father as I am.
Friday prayers: All Muslims are the same and we all recite them at the same time in the same way. Of course, the men are separate from the women, but otherwise it’s all the same. I’m like one grain of sand on a vast beach.
And my brother? Where is my brother? Off with his friends no doubt.
Then there is the sermon from the Imam. I listened, as I always did. My mind drifted, as it always did. Who am I? I am an Arab and I am a Muslim. But what does that really mean? What does it mean to be Arab? What does it mean to be Muslim? As my mind drifted I felt myself almost floating and somewhere else. Is this God? Taking me somewhere like he did Mohammed? No, it’s not possible. I’m a 12-year-old girl, not the prophet, peace be upon him.
I’m pulled back to reality as the Imam mentioned paradise. And he talked about the virgins for men to enjoy in paradise. I’m a virgin! If I die tomorrow, am I just to be some plaything to be enjoyed by older men? But I’m a Muslim. My destiny is to be decided by God.
I listen to the BBC in English on the Internet. My dad said he used to listen to the BBC in Arabic on the radio but it’s not available on the radio any longer. So because I’m learning English I sometimes translate for them. And today I was struggling to keep up!
Hamas attacked Israel. Thank God my brother is not here. He and my dad would be shouting at each other. As the day went on the news got worse and worse. Hamas were firing thousands of rockets at Israel. Not that I don’t think they deserve it. They have imprisoned the Palestinians for 70 years and it’s time for freedom.
My father and mother sat at the table worried expressions on their faces as I told them more and more of what was being reported. I heard of attacks on regular Jews in Kibbutz and at a music concert where young people, like me and my brother might go in different circumstances. Where is my brother?
The day wore on the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows from the trees on our farm. My mother waited anxiously for my brother’s return, even though he is 22 and never tells her where is going. The silence of his absence lingered in our home.
As I retreated to my closet with my notebook, I am writing now with the swirling thoughts that consume me. My world seems to be unravelling and I can’t escape the harsh reality that my identity is intricately tied to a conflict that stretches far beyond my understanding.
I will go to bed frightened. I know Israel will not let this pass, nor the USA. What will it mean to be Arab? What will it mean to be Muslim? In a world at war?
My father was sleeping late which was unusual. As a farmer he’s normally up very early. My mother and I went to buy bread for our breakfast. Fresh bread is always so much better. Maybe to be Arabic is to enjoy our Taboon and Labneh!
At the shops the air was thick with a mixture of fear and defiance. Some shopkeepers were boarding up their stores, and there was the echo of hushed voices of a community on edge. I caught snippets of conversations about resistance, about freedom, about the relentless pursuit of a life unburdened by conflict. My mother rushed me past them trying to protect me, but I caught the words nevertheless.
However, nothing could have prepared us for when we got home. Sitting tied up with a blindfold was a boy about my age. And my brother sitting and smoking and holding a gun.
My mother screamed. My dad bleary eyed appeared from the bedroom. He shouted at my bother using rude words I didn’t understand, and I thought I knew all his rude words because he had used them against me often enough.
‘What is he doing here?’ my father shouted at my brother in a louder voice than I had ever heard before. ‘He’s our hostage’ my brother shouted back. ‘What are you trying to do, get us all killed?’ responded my father. ‘Then we will all be martyrs’ shouted my brother.
I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be the sexual plaything of a man.
Eventually everyone calmed down and the boy was put in the cellar his hands chained behind him. My brother gave my father a gun and said ‘Shoot him if he tries to escape’. I’m told my job will be to feed him. We got him a bucket for a toilet and my job will also be to empty the bucket. These are my jobs as the daughter in the house.
Then my brother left us with our hostage in the basement and with no idea what the future will hold.
The routine in the cellar persists—feeding, emptying buckets and the deafening silence that has hung heavy in the air since my brother left. Today, I whispered a question in Arabic ‘Are you Jewish?’ I know it’s obvious that he must be, but I’ve never met someone Jewish.
The boy’s answer in English left me with more confusion than clarity. ‘Sort of Jewish.’ I didn’t even know that ‘sort of Jewish’ was possible. He spoke in a different English to the one I was used to from the BBC, it was an accent I’d only heard on American movies and I’ve not seen many of them.
That was all we said. One question and one answer I didn’t understand. What does sort of Jewish mean? I’m Arab, Palestinian Arab. It’s clear.
Being Palestinian Arab is to be Muslim and it is as clear as the sky over Gaza… except for the times when my mind drifts in Friday prayers that is. And the times in my closet when it feels like God is close to me. That’s not very Muslim.
Now I find myself sitting in my room, grappling with the complexities of identity. What does it mean to be ‘sort of’ Jewish? Is identity a fluid concept, shifting and evolving in the crucible of conflict?
With my brother away at least the house is quiet now. I’m not hiding in my closet but writing in my bedroom.
The weight of impending doom is hanging in the air as I hear the BBC news broadcasts of the escalating conflict. The atmosphere in our home mirrors the uncertainty outside—anger, depression and a silence that echoes with unspoken fears my parents won’t share with me—being a child and a girl.
My father, a pendulum swinging between anger and despair, reflects the turmoil that grips our besieged Gaza. My mother, usually the calming force in our home, now sits in quiet contemplation, her eyes betraying the fear she refuses to voice. And my brother, elusive and absent, leaves me with a gnawing uncertainty about his role in this tangled web of crisis.
I took the hostage food. I whispered, ‘What is your name?’ this time in English. My English isn’t very good but at least my parents won’t understand if they hear us whispering in that language. He answered ‘Joseph’.
But when he inquired about my name, fear gripped me, and I retreated into the safety of silence. I’ve never been the holder of a hostage before and the rules of this dark game are as unclear as the murky future that looms over us. The BBC talks a lot about the hostages. Though Joseph is probably about my age there are old women and even babies as hostages. What if my brother had brought us an old woman or a baby?
I’m still wondering what it means to be ‘sort of Jewish’ but I’m not sure how to ask.
Alone in my room, I am left with more questions than answers, and the shadows of doubt are like silent ghosts in the dim light of a war-torn home.
The question of identity is still there. Am I sort of Arab? Sort of Muslim? The parallels between Joseph’s ambiguous answer and my own questions about identity strike me. In this confined space of uncertainty, we both seem to be grappling with labels that seem too rigid for the complexities of our lived experiences.
The relentless bombing casts a dark shadow over our small farm, turning the distant landscape of Gaza city into a battleground of destruction. The city is heading towards being reduced to rubble and bear the scars of a conflict that seems to have no end. This is not the first time it has been bombed. I can’t help but wonder if our secluded farm offers some respite or if the presence of a hostage makes us more vulnerable.
The absence of news about my brother intensifies the worry that gnaws at my insides. Has he become another victim of the bombings or has he become a participant in the chaos that engulfs our corner of the world?
Today I asked Joseph about his family. His story unfolded in fragments—six siblings, a family that migrated from the USA before he was born and occasional visits to relatives across the ocean. The USA, a distant land I’ve only glimpsed through Joseph’s fragmented words and the distorted lens of war.
When I inquire about life in the USA, Joseph’s answers contradicted the lessons at school. He paints a picture of abundance—plenty of food, lots of money. But my education tells me otherwise. Is he lying to protect a reality too painful to admit or is this the truth he believes in?
The lingering question about what ‘sort of Jewish’ means persists, echoing in the caverns of my uncertainty. Does it imply a mix of Jewish and American identity? Or is it a label as fluid and elusive as the shadows that dance across the war-torn landscape outside?
Oh, how I hate the bombing. I just want to sleep in peace. Maybe death is better than the bombing. But I don’t want to be a virgin plaything in paradise.
In the midst of the chaos, the silent prayer for God to intervene lingers on my lips, unanswered and unheard. Is God real? The question echoes in my mind like a haunting refrain, fuelled by the relentless onslaught that seems to defy divine intervention.
The news further complicates my understanding of this war. Our people insist that only military targets were under attack, yet Joseph, the boy chained up in our basement, stands as a living contradiction. A year older than me, he seems like someone I could be friends with under different circumstances. But those circumstances are impossible—he is our hostage.
Today I got the courage to ask him ‘What does sort of Jewish mean?’ His response was even more confusing. ‘I am Messianic Jewish’ he said. I asked him if that meant he was really a Christian. ‘Sort of’ he replied, leaving me more bewildered than before. Sort of Jewish and sort of Christian. Does my drifting in Friday sermons make me ‘Sort of Muslim’?
Oh, and we have been told we should move south out of Gaza district by Israel. My parents anchored by their identity as farmers, have resisted the call. We will remain in this besieged land, the soundtrack of explosions accompanying our every waking moment. I feel sick at the thought.
As the war rages on, the question of identity, indeed my identity, becomes a beacon of uncertainty, shining a light on the fluidity of our existence in a world torn apart by conflict.
I’m beginning to think in my father’s bad words that I’m not allowed to voice in the house. The bombing. The pictures I see on the Internet. And a video I wish I hadn’t seen of one of our people beheading an Israeli with a spade like we use on the farm for digging ditches. The video keeps replaying in my mind like I’m seeing it again and again.
I haven’t seen my brother for days. Maybe he is in the tunnels fighting Israel. Maybe he is dead. Death, a constant companion in our war-torn world, leaves me grappling with questions of justice and revenge.
Qisas allows a death for a death but Israel is killing more of us than we killed of them. This means we should kill more of them. Should Joseph be killed?
As I continue to feed Joseph, the boy in the basement, I feel a strange connection. The act of nourishing him, like a caregiver for a baby, blurs the lines of our roles in this twisted dance of conflict. I find myself wondering about his eyes, hidden behind the blindfold, and if they hold the same fear and uncertainty that reside in mine that he will never see.
Oh, and the basement is beginning to smell bad. I’m emptying the bucket but it still smells bad down there.
In the brief moments of whispered conversation, I confront the question that has lingered like a shadow—what does ‘sort of Jewish, sort of Christian’ mean? Joseph’s explanation unravels layers of complexity. A background and culture rooted in Judaism, yet a belief system guided by a living Messiah. ‘But he’s dead,’ I whisper, challenging the contradiction. ‘No, he’s very much alive,’ Joseph responds, leaving me with more questions than answers.
The basement, a makeshift prison, now bears the weight of the unbearable. The stench, a grim reminder of our hostage’s captivity, mingles with the echoes of war that penetrate even the deepest recesses of our confinement. In this dimly lit space, I grapple with the contradictions of identity and the morality that unravels in the face of unrelenting violence.
The weight of despair hangs heavy as the news continues to unravel a tapestry of destruction. Again the news says to move south, and again my parents refuse. And the USA is bringing war planes out to the region. The incessant bombing, the refusal to move south, the spectre of the warplanes from the USA—each piece of information adds to the suffocating fear that grips our lives. Will this conflict spiral into a world war, an abyss of chaos we are powerless to escape?
Chaos: Because of the number of Palestinians Israel has killed we have thousands more Israelis we need to kill for justice. This call for justice reverberates in my mind, a haunting echo of the lives lost on both sides. Thousands of Israelis for the thousands of Palestinians killed.
And it’s our land anyway! The notion of reclaiming our land, a sentiment etched in the scars of generational conflict. The complexity of identity and ownership entwined in a conflict that defies resolution.
In the dimly lit basement, I sense the stiffness that Joseph endures, a physical manifestation of the captivity that binds us both. The thought of my closet, a sanctuary turned prison, resonates with the stiffness that accompanies fear and uncertainty.
Today I told him about this diary of my life that I am writing and asked him to take it if I get killed and he survives. He asked if he is in it. I told him he is and that all my private questions are there like what does ‘Sort of Jewish, sort of Christian mean?’ This was my way of asking him what he meant without it seeming I was uneducated.
Joseph’s response introduces a new perspective: ‘Sort of’ is about identity, a relational bridge to God that transcends the rigid labels of Jew, Christian or Muslim. He inquired if I have ever sensed God’s presence so close you could almost touch him. This struck a chord, a silent acknowledgment of moments when divinity feels close, like the drifting during the Friday sermon or sometimes in my closet sanctuary. Of course, I would never admit that to him.
As I left the basement and returned to my room, a swirl of conflicting emotions lingered. The realization that God might care about me, a seemingly inconsequential individual in the grand tapestry of conflict, challenged all the narratives I’ve been taught. In this crucible of war, where identity blurs and questions linger like shadows, the search for meaning becomes a lantern in the darkness of uncertainty.
The news unfolds like a relentless nightmare—hospitals running out of supplies, our people, civilians, bearing the brunt of the attacks. The line between oppressor and oppressed blurs in the chaos of this conflict. Gaza, a prison camp without escape, becomes the stage for this tragedy that unfolds with merciless brutality. And I am a player not an observer.
In the midst of this madness, my prayers become a desperate plea, a mix of tears and words that feel like they’re reaching out to some unseen force. Is it God, or is it the unravelling grip of sanity in the face of unrelenting violence? The war paints a distorted reality, a canvas of despair that seeps into every corner of my existence.
Joseph, with his strange American accent, is a tether to a world beyond the confines of our captivity. The act of feeding him, a routine born out of necessity, is taking on a strange familiarity. Yet, the spectre of an uncertain future looms, if the war ends and Joseph is freed, I will never see him again.
In our whispered conversations, Joseph unveils a new perspective on Isa, the Messiah. A bringer of a new identity, a guide to a passionate relationship with God. His words open a door to a realm of possibilities, challenging the rigid boundaries of labels and faith. The Messiah, more than a prophet to Joseph, becomes a figure that blurs the lines of religious divides.
The questions multiply in my mind like a relentless tide. I am less sure of who I am than I was a week ago. Could I be a Muslim follower of the Messiah like Joseph is a Jewish follower of the Messiah? Could Jews and Arabs ever be common followers of the Messiah? Or even just as fellow human beings and friends?
That’s where the diary ends. An Israeli shell hit Fatima’s house at 2:43 am on Monday 16 killing her and all her family in the blast. Her diary was not destroyed and Joseph, safe in the basement, escaped taking it with him as he promised he would.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.