Vision in Red by Sajjad Rasool - HTML preview

Children of Olive

They retraced their steps. But the alleyway they had just walked down was gone. Instead of a T-junction, there was a dead end. Another wall.

Amal felt a cold sweat breaking out on her back. "It's a maze," she whispered. "Huda said they were building a pen. It's shifting."

"Don't say that," Yasmin snapped. "It's just dark. We got turned around."

They started walking again, choosing the only open path —a narrow slat between two towering apartment blocks. The walls were so close Amal’s shoulders brushed against them.

The graffiti here was strange. Usually, the walls were covered in slogans—Free Palestine, Return is a Right, portraits of martyrs.

But here, the graffiti was nonsensical.

THE SILENCE IS A DOOR.

WE FORGOT THE WORDS.

THEY ARE LISTENING TO YOUR BLOOD.

And drawings. Crude, black spray-paint drawings of figures with long limbs and no faces.

"Who wrote these?" Amal asked, tracing a jagged line with her eyes.

"Kids," Yasmin said, but she didn't sound convinced.

Suddenly, a ball rolled out from a side alley. A beat-up, deflated football.

It stopped at Amal's feet.

"Can we have our ball back?" a voice asked.

Amal looked up. Standing in the shadow of the side alley were three boys. They couldn't have been more than ten years old. They wore dusty jeans and t-shirts.

"Here," Amal said, kicking the ball gently toward them.

The boy in the center stepped forward to stop it.

And Amal saw his feet.

Or rather, she didn't.

Where his sneakers should have been touching the ground, there was a blur. A smudge. Like a photograph taken with a shaky hand. His legs seemed to fade into the dust.

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