Dear Allah,
Yesterday, Mr. Hussam and Mr. Awni locked the school gate so we couldn’t go after the
jeeps. The shots had stopped, but my ears were still buzzing like after a firecracker.
The air smelled like burned rubber and metal. Someone had thrown up—I could smell
that too.
The ambulance came. Two big guys in orange came out. They looked like cartoon
characters. One of them kept rubbing the back of his neck. The other one bent down, then stood up again like he forgot why he bent down in the first place.
The whole school had gathered around the ambulance in the teachers’ parking lot. One big circle.
Some of us tried to help, but the men in orange kept pushing us back.
There was a dark red line across the asphalt, from the gate all the way to the parking lot.
Not like a straight line you draw with a ruler. This one was wobbly. Thicker in some places, like
paint someone spilled and didn’t clean up.
But it wasn’t paint. It was blood. Real blood.
That’s where they dragged Zahi.
Mr. Awni had him by the arms, and Mr. Hussam held his legs. They weren’t carrying
him—just dragging, because the soldiers were still firing shots.
His head kept bumping against the asphalt. I could hear the sound it made. Like a
basketball that lost its air.
basketball that lost its air.
One of his shoes slipped off and spun a little before stopping near the gate’s curb. I
crawled over and picked it up. It was warm. I didn’t know if I should put it back, or if he still
needed it.
The two men in orange couldn’t stop the blood that was still coming out of Zahi’s nose,
his ears, and the back of his head. I didn’t even know why anyone had called them. They were
big and useless.
Mr. Hussam asked us to read Surat Al-Fatiha on the speaker, right after one of the guys in
orange shook his head at him from the parking lot. He said You took Zahi because he was
special—that You made him an angel.
Angel? Zahi?
Zahi wouldn’t sit still in any class—he used to fart all the time and stink up the
room. He never finished his homework. He used to laugh when the teacher turned around and
sometimes threw chalk at him.
I went up to Mr. Hussam’s office after the ambulance took Zahi and asked him what was
special about Zahi.
He took Zahi’s shoe from me and said I should wash the blood off my hands and face.
What was so special about Zahi?
Is it because he used to share his lunch with me?
Or is it because he said I could have my red marbles back, even the shiny ones, after he
won them?
Or is it because he told Ahmed to stop making fun of my shoes because I was still
waiting for my dad to buy me new ones?
Or because he gave me the shoes his dad got him from the family whose house he was
painting in Tel Aviv?
Was any of those the special thing? Because honestly, they’re not very special.
Really, Zahi isn’t that special; he is the opposite.
Zahi is a liar. He lied to his father about the shoes. He told him they were stolen. He also
told me never to wear them to his house so his dad wouldn’t find out he gave them to me.
Zahi beat up Ahmad. He was a bigger bully, and I was just lucky to be his best friend.
Zahi stole marbles from other kids.
Zahi used to cheat off me all the time. He once copied my name on his math paper and
got us both in trouble.
Zahi slashed the tires of Mr. Awni’s car. Twice.
Zahi used to pee on Mr. Hussam’s car all the time—used to spend a long time aiming at
the handle of the driver’s door.
Everyone knows Mr. Hussam never washes his hands, even after he goes to the
bathroom, and loves to play with his teeth. Zahi would look at me every time Mr. Hussam’s
fingers were in his mouth.
bathroom, and loves to play with his teeth. Zahi would look at me every time Mr. Hussam’s
fingers were in his mouth.
I am sorry to say this, but what if You made a mistake?
What if You took the wrong kid?
I heard You took two more kids today from Askar’s middle school.
Are the soldiers working for you?
What was so special about them?
Do You still need more?
Because I can come.
I think I am special.
I’m really good at Math.
I only peed once at Mr. Hussam’s car but only because Zahi told me to. You can ask him.
He’ll tell you. I know he would.
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L.F. Khouri is a writer who has studied in the U.S. and abroad. His work explores war, memory, and the inheritance of silence. His creative work have appeared or are forthcoming in literary journals such as SmokeLong Quarterly, scaffold, miniMAG, Literally Stories, and Eunoia Review.
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Giuliana Eggleston is a writer and photographer living in Acme, Michigan.
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