The Gaza Project: Political Thriller

By Cyrill Delvin

"At the same time eight year old Abdul heard a familiar hissing noise. He had heard the sound several times before. But never as close, as loud and as short. He and his little brother hadn't yet fully turned around when they saw the two missiles. After that they didn't perceive anything for a long time. The explosion tore the two brothers apart and severed them from everything they loved – forever. Even time had abandoned the moment." –––––

Middle East. Senator Reeds, a multi-billionaire, has big plans. His aim: to substitute a useless peace summit with a promising economic summit. He regards the availability of drinking water as the key to resolving the conflict between Israel and Palestine. Hence his international consortium undertakes further research in improving the treatment of sea water. Money and power for the benefit of humankind instead of war. But this is a provocation to those who have benefited from the regional instability so far. –––––

In its frantic course of events, history has no place for the fears and hopes, the despair and hatred of individuals. But nevertheless, three people brace themselves against it with all their force and power: the Palestinian Abdoul Rahim, the Israeli Abarron Preiss and the American Charles Reed. They cannot and will not accept what is given. Their motivation for pursuing what they personally believe in links their three destinies inextricably together.

cyrill-delvin.net

• Language: English
• Publisher: epubli
• Release date: Aug 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9783737502931

Cyrill Delvin

Cyrill Delvin, born in 1963, studied philosophy and biology. He lives and works in the Swiss mountains. His books are dedicated to current political and social questions. Be it in the Arab cultural area, where his first two stories are set. »The Gaza Project« and »The Lost Legend of Afghanistan«; be it in Western Europe, where the novella »Swiss Memories of the Future« and the most recently published detective story »Duster's Cat« are set. Delvin is currently working on an unconventional critique of modernity, idiosyncratic in form and content, and highly topical in every respect ... (Translated with DeepL.com, free version)

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The Gaza Project

a Thriller

by Cyrill Delvin

The following is a fictional narrative. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, locations and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, be they dead or alive, events or places is purely coincidental.

The Gaza-Project

E-Book, first English edition

All rights reserved

Published by: epubli GmbH, Berlin, www.epubli.de

Copyright © 2014 Cyrill Delvin

ISBN 978-3-7375-0293-1

Contents

Imprint

The Plan

PART I - Dawn

Two Brothers

The Escape

Arrival

Whalers

Almanac

Beyond

Caught

The Heatwave

Assassin

Quo vadis

Salt Water

Stella 2

Prélude

Breathless

Change of Tack

Stranded

Fata Morgana

Part II - Five Years Later

Factor 77

A Medal

Lanternulae

Second Death

The Serviette

Treasure Hunt

Protectorate

Legacy

Roller-Coaster

Mosaic

Cycle

Mirror Image

Black and White

Two Heirs

Taking a Dive

Part III - Ṣadafah-a-llha The Seashell Allah’s

Colour Spectrum

t minus 7

Castling

The Meeting

The Falcon

Operation ›Wolffish‹

Laboratory

Sea of Flames

Like the Phoenix from the Ashes

›The fruits of my labour will soon be on offer everywhere. Regardless wether they are bought or left to rot, they already carry the seed for new growth inside them, because one isn’t only responsible for one’s actions, but also for one’s inaction!‹

Senator Charles William Reeds

The Plan

»These are times when children are born into war; into a cradle of violence. They live constantly on the brink of death. In the end, they die before the battle is over. These are times when there’s no hope, only impotence. Where hatred doesn’t blind people but shows them the way. Times like these never end and will always start anew.«

Charles took a sip of water from the glass in front of him on the wooden table.

»We are here together because it’s time to act. We are in a position to do something. We shall change the course of history. Not globally, but locally. In a place where change is badly needed – in Gaza. Together, with a lot of persistence and a little luck, we’ll go down in the annals of history.«

Those present knew the lean man in his mid-fifties well enough by now not to say anything. In any case, the high-ranking guests hadn’t come together for a discussion, but to reach a decision. Collectively. And still each for themselves.

With a dismissive gesture, Charles continued: »Anyway, today we shall agree that the IWAC will arrive at the Gaza Strip without attracting public attention.«

On his right, quite unmoved, sat the tall Israeli Prime Minister Eizenburg. On his left, the delicate Šarīf seemed like a little boy by comparison. He had resigned recently as the head of the Fatḥ to found the Palestinian Brotherhood Party. Attempting to unite the estranged Palestinian parties put him under immense pressure. The American Minister of Foreign Affairs, Doris Whiteford, completed the illustrious round.

The salon was randomly furnished with precious pieces of furniture, creating a rather tawdry and not very stylish impression. The mansion was located high above the Bay of Marseille in the east of the city on the secluded country estate Trois-Ruisselets. Charles, who used to be the American Ambassador in Paris, had acquired the property some years earlier and had had it restored.

He preferred hosting the unofficial meeting in this virtually neutral zone. Naturally, the estate had its own helipad and was, as usual, guarded by the French police. This afternoon, it was also protected by French, American and Israeli secret service agents.

Today, the club, as he derisively yet affectionately referred to the assembled circle to his friends, had their third meeting. Through his diverse political activities, Charles had established close ties to all the leading political figures and organisations over the years. It was short of a miracle that he had managed to assemble the opposing camps, which had been warring for decades, under the one roof.

Absolute secrecy was the condition and the key to success. The deal was simple: Should they succeed, each politician could individually claim to have been the driving force behind the change. If they didn’t, none of the dialogue partners had to expose him or herself and embark on potentially politically destructive discussions. What they all had in common was the will to solve the problems at the Levantine coast. The task was to inconspicuously engineer the individual steps that would eventually lead to peace in the Middle East. So inconspicuous that it could be achieved without resistance.

The IWAC’s plans, however, were more far-reaching than the Levant. When Charles found himself on his own, sitting in front of the mansion’s magnificent fireplace, he therefore frequently pondered the situation.

What right do I have to interfere to such an extent in the course of events? Or do my influence and means oblige me all the more to do something?

Who was Senator Charles William Reeds, this apparently carefree American? A naive megalomaniac or a genius? The responsibility he had imposed on himself to implement his ideas was a heavy burden indeed.

While he was lost in thought, the two cast-iron brackets to the left and the right of the fireplace, petering into lions claws, started performing a manic dance. The claws jumped from side to side and the imaginary lion’s head with them. To the same extent that the light and the shadow of the crackling fire became increasingly wild, the predator‘s purring and growling escalated in a crescendo permeating the whole room. The desperate screams of a young black boy, Johnny, merged with the noise. Charles covered his ears. Thankfully he only rarely had the time to muse in front of the fire at Trois-Ruisselets.

»The IWAC’s first step will be to ship relief supplies to Gaza and distribute them among the population. We procure the food and the basic medical supplies as far as possible from the surrounding regions and label everything neutrally. Not even the IWAC logo will be visible. We organise the sourcing, the logistics and the transport up to the coast. For local distribution, we involve people in Gaza. All the helpers, insofar as they are not Palestinians, will be recruited from the neighbouring countries except Israel.«

He looked at Eizenburg who nodded imperceptibly. Charles had had to persistently champion his cause to arrange these talks. In the end, it had only been possible because all the details had been negotiated with the attending parties in advance during one-to-one sessions. Comments were not encouraged. The power brokers‘ participation had been contingent on this condition. That the climate would remain frosty was a given. But the American was convinced that this meeting was crucial for his plans to progress.

»Israel will relax the sea blockade for the IWAC. Of course, the Israelis have the unconditional right to inspect our ships at any time. On the other hand, they are pushing the erection of the wall around the Gaza Strip and also to the south against Egypt. This will effectively protect the Israeli population. The task of the Palestinian interim government is to keep a check on the inner-party turf wars in the region it controls. Terrorist activities against Israel and inside the Gaza Strip are to be prevented at any price. And President Šarīf will do anything within his power to ensure this won’t happen.«

Šarīf himself was just about to interject: Israel is an occupying force and the Palestinians are freedom fighters, not terrorists! But Charles stopped him short: »The Israeli Prime Minister cannot and does not want to avert possible reprisals! We have to be clear on that point.«

Šarīf resembled a whipped puppy and the IWAC chairperson understood only too well how the Palestinian felt. Among all those present he had the least influence over the political environment and the people he represented. And still, he played a key part in this critical initial phase.

From that perspective, it was easier to negotiate with Israel. Not only because of the American Minister of Foreign Affairs‘ presence, but also because of the contributions of the absent high-ranking initiates from Russian and China.

»Everyone in this room is convinced that Israel and Palestine can only peacefully coexist if both have a healthy economy. We believe in a balance of interests and not in a balance of power. That’s why we are here. The IWAC is willing to create such a balance on the Gaza Strip. We want the people to take responsibility for the future. We do not believe in a military solution to the Middle East conflict. It is therefore the objective of every one of us to create the framework. In secret, without the world’s media getting wind of it. Officially, the IWAC does not take a stance regarding the conflict. We support a humanitarian programme for the redevelopment of the Gaza Strip just like so many other non-government organisations.«

It was late afternoon before Trois-Ruisselets was once again at the sole disposal of its proprietor. The additional security personnel and the French police had vacated the premises together with the politicians. However, two guests, who hadn’t taken part in the meeting, remained in the house: Françoise, the IWAC’s chief of operations, and Ted, in charge of the activities on the Gaza Strip. After dinner, they sat together in the study.

»It’s hard to believe, but in just two years you‘ve achieved what others unsuccessfully fought for their whole live.« Françoise raised her glass in a toast: »To you and the IWAC!«

»Thank you, Françoise. It wasn’t easy to get those in charge together, but it’s child’s play compared to what’s ahead of us. How valuable our work is will be apparent when we actually become active in Gaza. The real challenges are still out there.«

»A bit of excitement during the work can do no harm.«

»I agree. Let’s take the bull by the horns, but if things get hairy, nobody is going to divert the beast’s attention the way they do in a bullfight, Ted! Despite all the security precautions and agreements, the Gaza Strip is and remains a loose cannon!«

»You know me, Charles. I only come out with my flippant remarks to score points with the ladies.«

Nobody commented.

»Professor Liu Cheng from the Peking Polytechnic rang a while ago. He’s accepted the position as head of research and development.«

»Are you serious?!« Françoise exclaimed. »That means we’ve already won half the battle.«

»Have we? Next week, he’ll meet you in Paris and in the fall he will start in Cyprus.«

»That’s just wonderful. You’re a true miracle worker.«

That moment, there was a knock on the door and the private secretary entered the room.

»Pardon the interruption, Sir, the Israeli Prime Minister is on the line.«

»Thank you, Brad, put him through.«

»Very well, Sir.«

»Liron, where are you? I see …«

All the others could hear was something being uttered in an agitated voice from the other end of the line.

»Yes, but…« Charles fell silent. »Thank you, Liron. Yes, we are still staying on course. Have a good flight, Liron.«

He slowly turned around to the others. »During our meeting this afternoon, Israeli fighter planes attacked the Ḥamās post at the coast in the south of the Gaza Strip in retaliation for the suicide bombings in Jerusalem three weeks ago. The Palestinians suffered a considerable loss of civilian life.«

The flames in the fireplace seemed to flicker with particular intensity.

»Damn it!« Ted cried out from the depths of his armchair. »You simply can’t trust those lunatics, on either side. And here they were just a while ago playing at charades. If only we could build a wall high enough to reach Yahweh and Allah! Then there would be no more jet fighters and ping-pong matches with human bombs.«

»Did Eizenburg know about it? Can we trust him?«

»The actual problem is that Liron wasn’t involved.«

»Do you really believe that?« Françoise asked.

»I do, but that means that he isn’t as much in charge as he wants to be – or should be. One way or the other, I now have to make a few calls and smooth things over.«

Addressing Ted, he said: »We’ll meet the logistics specialists in Washington on Sunday, as agreed. And Ted, we will build a wall. An invisible wall. To break through it will cost Israel a lot of money in the end. Too much money.«

Before he hurried from the study, he hugged Françoise. »As I said, we’re only just starting. It’s going to be fine. And look after Cheng. We need him.«

PART I - Dawn

Two Brothers

Abdoul and his younger brother Qadim were combing the beach for floating debris. They often did. And they were doing it now on this late summer afternoon they were spending at the seaside with their whole family. Searching for jetsam in the hot sand was not only a useful, but also one of the few enjoyable diversions for the children. The best part for the brothers was the guessing game.

»Look at that, Abdoul. There’s a blue ball over there. I think it’s a broken floating cork.«

»Not at all. It’s a stuffed pufferfish. That’s his mouth, see.«

»But there is a hook like the ones on granddad’s fishing net.«

»Exactly, that’s the hook – it’s a hooked pufferfish.«

»Can we eat it?«

»Why don’t you try. But don’t bite too hard, or you’ll get caught on the hook yourself,« Abdoul said seriously.

Qadim pulled a face, pretending to have been caught and being towed away by a fishing boat. The brothers laughed and put the blue cork in their pocket.

Granddad Amir always knew how to use things. But Abdoul was only truly happy when he found a beautiful seashell. He only ever took one of them home, the most beautiful one of the day. He was very selective about his collection. Whenever he found a shell he liked even more, the ugliest one had to go.

That afternoon he hadn’t yet spotted a shell he considered worthy enough. Except the blue cork, the rest of the jetsam, too, wasn’t up to scratch. Until he discovered a few inches wide shell in the wet sand. At a first glance, it looked unimpressive; dark brown with a ribbed surface and a series of small serrations in the middle. All in all it resembled the carapace of a small lizard. No disruptive colour stains or patterns; just an even brown. He had never found a shell like that before. After he had opened it and rinsed it in the water, he gasped. The inside was lined with the purest mother-of-pearl. More flawless and whiter than anything he had ever seen.

Just as he wanted to show his treasure to Qadim, who was rummaging around in the sand quite nearby, it announced itself through absolute silence. For a fraction of a second all noise ceased. What was to change the brothers‘ lives forever was taking place right beside them. As the adults tried to chase the eerie silence away with their screams, everything happened at once. At first Abdoul thought his father would call Qadim and him back. Then the calls and screams merged with the thundering roars of an Israeli fighter plane squadron above the sand dunes.

At the same time he heard a familiar hissing noise. He had heard the sound several times before. But never as close, as loud and as short. The boys hadn’t yet fully turned around when they saw the two missiles. After that they didn’t perceive anything for a long time. The explosion tore the two brothers apart and severed them from everything they loved – forever. Even time had abandoned the moment.

Their entire family had been killed. The parents, three siblings, the grandfather, five cousins, one uncle and two aunts.

The first thing Abdoul believed he heard was Amir’s gentle voice: The most beautiful of all seashells is your pass into a better world. You found it today!

The boy didn’t scream. His eyes mirrored the sheer horror of an animal cornered after the chase. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks. He was simply lying there until time thought better of it and bashfully returned to reality.

Qadim ran to where the grenade had exploded and had left a deep hole in his heart. People were staggering aimlessly. As time re-emerged, Abdoul could hear them screaming and wailing. He got up and just stood there. He sensed there was nothing to move him back to where he had stood just moments before. No thought, no love would ever erase those seconds.

The settling dust cleared his senses. A vitriolic stench invaded his nostrils. Something warm oozed from his clenched fist. The mussel shell had cut deep into his flesh. But that didn’t hurt. He walked over to his brother who was cowering on the ground, screaming. Not floating debris, but death and pain were now scattered along the seashore. The setting sun endlessly elongated the shadows of terror. Only with the onset of darkness was the shore relieved from its horrors.

Abdoul knelt beside Qadim who was crying while holding their mother’s colourful headscarf. It hadn’t been damaged and even the acrid smell of explosives and burned flesh couldn’t supplant her sweet scent. It never would. Without a word, Abdoul grabbed Qadim’s arm. There was nothing left for them here to look for or to find. Even the people they knew had nothing to give.

Their house, more of a shack really, was outside the settlement behind an outcrop of rock close to the sea. Gan Or was a little village between Rafah and Ḫān Yūnis, only a few miles from the Egyptian border. As far back as his grandfather and his grandfather’s father, the family had lived here. They had all been fishermen and moored their little boat at the shore since time immemorial. His father though had only rarely gone to sea anymore. Nobody could any longer feed their family from fishing alone. The fish had long since moved on and the people had followed their example. Not further into the sea but into the country’s interior, to the large centres or to Gaza town. To find work, they ventured as far as the big wall and beyond.

Or they would go underground in one of the numerous tunnels that led to Egypt. Only a rare few stayed and found paid employment on the farms. His father had been lucky to work at a brother-in-law’s olive grove. Everyone everywhere depended on help to survive.

Abdoul realised that they wouldn’t find anyone at home. Only eight years old, he already knew that there was nothing he could do. The shack was comprised of a kitchen and a small room where the five children slept on a mattress on the floor. The parents slept in the kitchen which also served as everyone’s living quarters. Now there was nobody there. No fire and no pot on the stove.

The little brother occasionally sobbed. Without having eaten anything, they lay down beside each other. But sleep didn’t come that lonely night. With time, Abdoul’s shock gave way to silent but bitter tears. Until dawn announced itself with the summons to Fadschr in Rafah. Whenever the wind blew from the interior of the country, the Muezzin’s prayers had to be guessed rather than heard.

The Palestinian boy had merely vague memories of the events that were to follow. Torn between his growing sense of responsibility towards the younger brother and his grief and rage about the loss of his family it was hard for him to form coherent thoughts. During the funeral, attended by the whole village and half of Rafah and Ḫān Yūnis, the ocean glistened full of promise in the distance. But none of the promise was fulfilled. Left were nothing but images of grieving people and angry mobs. As usual on occasions like these, there were Ḥamās representatives and activists. The injustice of it all was noisily lamented and their own cause eagerly promoted.

Israel’s official response sounded cynical: Five armed Palestinian extremists, who intended dropping missiles on Israel, dead. Civilian victims were unavoidable as long as Ḥamās misuses the population as shields.

The international press, too, was present at the funeral. But nobody who could have made the brothers‘ loss more bearable. Eventually Abdoul no longer knew where he belonged. All he did know was that he didn’t want to stay here anymore. Here, where past happiness and present sorrow lived side by side.

Uncle Imad was also aware that the orphans couldn’t stay with him. There simply wasn’t enough money and food for them all. There was only one place for the nephews; the Ibn Marwān Madrasa. Steeped in tradition, but misused by radical Islamists to further their fanatical aims as a Qur’anic school where all those children and juveniles were sent who had nowhere else to turn to. ‘Boy or girl, we shall satisfy the young people’s hunger!’ So much for the motto.

The night before they had to leave, Abdoul went to the shore. There he stood for the first time since the missiles had done their dirty work and looked at the ocean. The waves caressed the sandy beach and his feet as if nothing had happened or would ever happen. He would miss the sea the most. He was nowhere sure that the seashell he was wearing on a piece of string around his neck would suffice as an invitation by the mermaids.

You call that the most beautiful shell? Go back and don’t return until you find a truly beautiful one, they mocked him. The boy sank down unto the damp sand and heard his grandfather as clearly as if it had been yesterday:

You know, Abdoul, Mohammed said that the fish are there for catching and eating. I’ve no problem eating them, but when it comes to the catching part it sometimes gets tricky. Amir smiled mischievously. It’s obvious, isn’t it? What self-respecting fish lets itself get caught voluntarily? He can as easily swim away from the net as into it after all. Or do the fish think if they throw themselves at people’s mercy, Allah will reward them in paradise?

No, no, there’s something else driving them. Something older, stronger and more beautiful. And I’ll tell you what it is: The mermaids. They are our true friends. Every present from the ocean, every fish and every seashell is one of their gifts to us. Someday, you will find the most beautiful shell on the beach. Sparkling in all colours and of incredible purity it will enchant you. A mermaid will have put it there, just for you. This most beautiful of all seashells will be your pass to a better world. A world without worry and grief.

Ever since his grandfather had told him the story, he had dreamed about finding this mermaid. He spent every free minute searching for the right shell. Now he sat there holding the best one of his collection in his hand. But deep down he sensed that a yet more beautiful one was waiting for him. The feeling lent him confidence. He finally looked forward to the school where he could learn something. For the first time since that terrible day he found some restful sleep.

He didn’t yet know that this particular school didn’t teach anything. The curriculum did nothing but indoctrinate the pupils with a subconscious hatred for the overpowering Israel. Not a school to satisfy hunger, but a school to starve the silence. The ultimate purpose would be achieved after death and not before. The uncle considered it the only true path. The path to revenge and the salvation of the family of Ibrahim Rahim, his murdered brother.

»I shall take the house for getting you the place at the school,« he announced. In reality, he had already rented the place to a brother of his sister-in-law. A small but necessary contribution to his budget.

»But the house is ours,« Abdoul remarked quietly.

»Shut up, you! You can count yourself lucky that anyone looks after you at all!« He knew that the boy was right, but who cared? They were still children and completely at his mercy.

»Get lost and be grateful that Allah provides for you!« With that, he turned his back to the boys and ran away from the truck. Abdoul took Qadim by the hand and was about to climb onto the loading platform when the driver stormed at them: »Back off! I don’t carry lowlifes like you!«

Without knowing where he found the courage, Abdoul shouted back: »Go to hell, you mangy mongrel – first you take the money and then…« That was as far as he got. Hit by a brutal slap in the face, he stumbled to the ground. Another man said in a deep voice: »It’s okay, Farouk. They’ve paid and they’re coming with us.«

The driver cursed and got into his cabin. Abdoul picked himself up and climbed onto the platform with Qadim.

»Thank you,« he said to the man who steadily averted his gaze. All through the rough and dusty journey, Abdoul held on tight to his seashell.

The Escape

Rashid and Kaden were holding Abdoul in a tight grip. Without any emotion, Barek punched him with full tilt in the stomach. Abdoul gasped for air, tears welling up in his eyes. It wasn’t the first time the older pupils gave him a thrashing. He was generally able to defend himself, was of sturdy build and no coward. But faced by three attackers, he didn’t stand a chance. The bigger boy looked at him with a blank expression and hit Abdoul again. This time right in the face.

Abdoul could taste the iron in the blood running into his mouth from the wound on his cheek. He didn’t let on that it was hurting.

»Where did you hide the damn shell?« Barek hissed. »You are a disgrace to the whole school! We should blow you up together with the infidels. We’re not going to leave you alone until we’ve found your precious idol and destroyed it!«

They had known each other long enough to realise that it was no use. Abdoul would rather let himself be beaten to a pulp than give them his seashell. The teachers usually separated the fighters, but this time nobody interfered and Barek kept on hitting the defenceless boy. The city noises after Maghrib, the prayer just after sunset, dully penetrated the Madrasa’s inner courtyard. The Palestinian gritted his teeth so he wouldn’t cry out.

Someone approached them across the stone-paved yard. In the twilight he didn’t recognise Qadim soon enough. Qadim himself only noticed the three adolescents and his brother lying on the ground when he had nearly slipped through the archway to the living quarters. Attempting to help his older brother would be fruitless. Qadim wouldn’t be able to do a thing.

And anyway, he didn’t understand why his brother hadn’t handed the shell over to the teachers long ago. Then they would leave him in peace. Instead he hid it as if it were his most prized possession. And yet it was so simple: Allah and the prophet Mohammed were the only ones to be obeyed by following the laws set out in the Koran. That way everything was fine, or at least better. Nowhere in the Koran did it mention a shell one should let oneself be punished for. Especially when the teachers demanded to throw it away.

A thought flashed through Abdoul’s mind: Maybe they’re having me beaten to death? Maybe the others are right. Maybe I’ll never find the right path. This is it then.

But it wasn’t time yet. Barek grabbed Qadim and Abdoul instinctively jumped up and lunged at the older pupil. Rashid and Kaden were not able to push him back to the ground. Abdoul, suddenly endowed with superhuman strength, thrashed around him like a fury. Only later did he notice the stone he was holding in his hand. Qadim screamed and fought back with everything he had. In the midst of the wild scuffle, they suddenly heard a muffled bang. It sounded like an earthenware jug being smashed inside a bag. The four boys stared at Qadim who was lying motionless on the ground.

Before Abdoul could do anything, Barek grabbed his throat and sneered: »See what you have done, Abdoul ibn Ṣadafah. Bastard son of a seashell! You’re going to pay for this, you can bet your life on it.« The older boys let him be and disappeared through the archway. Abdoul knelt beside Qadim and turned the lifeless body towards him. Something warm spread over his hands. His little brother’s blood. Dazed, he crouched down and pressed Qadim’s head to his chest. His tears merged with the blood in a smudgy trickle.

What self-respecting fish lets itself get caught voluntarily? It can as easily swim away from the net as into it after all…

He didn’t want to hear the voice. Why hadn’t granddad simply told him the truth? Why had he talked about mermaids if all there was were Allah and the Prophets? Nobody had come to save Qadim. No prophet, no Allah, no mermaid, no granddad, nobody!

He felt his whole being fill with rage. Everything started to immerse in it. This Madrasa where only hatred towards all others was taught. He cursed Amir, who had told him nothing but fairy tales and instilled him with false hope. His classmates and the Jews who brought only destruction and misery. He hated himself for being so powerless. He hadn’t even been able to protect his own brother.

Rage was followed by despair. Despair that Qadim would never be able to save his father’s honour. It was now up to him alone. A thought which made him sad. Not because he was scared, but because he felt powerless in the face of the duty now imposed on him.

Why did granddad not tell me that there are no mermaids? That the fish either get caught in the net through their own stupidity or because Mohammed chased them into it?

How much he missed him! Granddad would explain everything and give him courage. But he was dead. Now Abdoul had to revenge his family. Justice supported by faith, which he had been taught, was the path to paradise. But where was the justice for Qadim? Abdoul wanted to act, wanted to seek revenge, and yet remained impotent.

Approaching steps made him come to his senses. When Barek got back with his mob he would be in for it. Panicking, he jumped up and ran through the front gate to the outside of the school. Only two elderly men strolled leisurely down the narrow lane. By now, it was dark. The