Vision in Red by Sajjad Rasool - HTML preview

Children of Olive

The rhythm of normal domesticity felt like a performance now—a thin veneer spread over something that was cracking and breaking underneath. She stirred the lentils and listened to the scratch of Noor's crayons against paper and tried to pretend that the world beyond their walls made sense.

Fadi came home earlier than expected, the door closing behind him with a heavy thunk. He looked exhausted—more than usual, the kind of bone-deep tired that came from seeing too much and being able to fix too little. His clinic scrubs were wrinkled, his hair was uncombed, and there was something in his eyes that Amal hadn't seen in a long time. Something that looked almost like fear.

"You're home early," she said.

"The clinic is closed." He dropped his bag by the door and sank into a kitchen chair. "There was an... incident. During the operation today. A family was caught in the crossfire. We couldn't—" He stopped, shook his head. "We did what we could."

Amal set down the spoon and crossed the kitchen to stand beside him. "How bad?"

"Three children. Two of them didn't make it. The third..." He looked at Noor, still drawing at the table, and lowered his voice. "The third is in surgery now. They don't know if she'll survive the night."

Amal's heart clenched. She thought of the nightmare Noor had described —the car, the shooting, the girl crying for her mama. She thought of the watchers standing at the places where violence happened, waiting for the world to forget.

"What were their names?" she asked.

Fadi looked at her, confused. "What?"

"The children. The ones who died. Do you know their names?"

"I..." He frowned, trying to remember. "The girl who survived —her name is Hiba. The others... I don't know. The parents were in shock. They didn't... I didn't ask."

Amal thought of Yasmin's notebook. Thought of Layla's list. Thought of all the names that slipped through the cracks, all the children who became statistics before they could become stories.

"We need to find out," she said. "We need to remember them."

Fadi stared at her as if she'd said something incomprehensible. "Amal, I've had the worst day of my career. Dozens of patients, not enough supplies, children dying on tables because we don't have the equipment to save them. And you want me to —what? Write down names? Keep a ledger of the dead?"

"Yes." Her voice was quiet but firm. "That's exactly what I want you to do."

Before Fadi could respond, Noor's voice cut through the kitchen.

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