ABULHAWA, Susan

Mornings in Jenin

…..
The village was laid to ruin and Dalia lost all but two sisters that day. The father who had burned her hand lay charred in the same town square. It had taken only hours for the world to turn upside down and for Ismael to cry himself to exhaustion. Dalia kept him clutched to her chest, afraid to lay him down despite the heavy load. Like her, other survivors roamed in a wordless haze. It was a rotten quietude, devoid of fury, love, despair, or even fear. Dalia surveyed the land, burnt, lifeless. She was aware of an itch just behind her left knee, and she concentrated on it but could not will herself to reach for it.

Hasan had been in the stables when the bombing began and ran to collect his family as soon as he could. He found Dalia frozen in the awesome silence of the aftermath. Her rigid posture, unblinking eyes, and tight clutch around Ismael frightened him. “Dalia!” he called, running to her. She didn’t move.

Closer now, Hasan’s heart pulled him to his knees, where Yousef ’s little legs trembled violently and his little hands gripped tightly to Dalia’s thobe.

“Baba!” Yousef cried with relief at the sight of his father. His voice in the silence made Dalia blink.

“Come here, habibi.” Hasan lifted his son, rising in fear because Dalia still had not moved.

…..