Vision in Red by Sajjad Rasool - HTML preview

Children of Olive

The older woman's face crumpled. She pressed the handkerchief to her mouth, trying to hold back a sob. "My grandson. My little Adam. He was at the water distribution center yesterday. With his mother. They were just trying to fill some bottles, Amal. Just trying to get water for the house. And then—"

She couldn't continue. Amal gathered her into an embrace, feeling the woman's body shake with grief.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"He was seven years old." Um Khalil's voice was muffled against Amal's shoulder. "Seven years old, and they killed him for standing in a line. For wanting a drink of water. What kind of world —" She broke off, pulling back, wiping her face. "His mother is in the hospital. Shrapnel in her side. They don't know if she'll..." She couldn't finish the sentence.

They stood together in the dim apartment, two women bound by grief and the terrible geography of their lives. On the television, the images of the water point gave way to a list of names—the dead, scrolling past too quickly to read, too numerous to absorb.

"He used to come to my door every morning," Um Khalil said quietly. "Asking if I had any sweets. I always pretended to be annoyed, but I always had something for him. A piece of chocolate. A cookie. Something sweet to start his day." She laughed, but there was no joy in it. "He had such a sweet tooth. His mother was always scolding me for spoiling him."

"He was a good boy."

"He was perfect. All children are perfect." Um Khalil straightened, some of the steel returning to her spine. She was a woman who had survived much —Amal knew fragments of her story, the decades of occupation, the losses that had accumulated like stones building a wall around her heart. This was not her first grief. It would not break her.

But it had wounded her in ways that might never heal.

"I came to ask if you could watch Noor for a few hours," Amal said. "But Um Khalil, if today isn't—"

"No. No, bring her." Um Khalil straightened, some of the steel returning to her spine. "Children are a blessing. Even now. Especially now. Noor will be a light in this dark house."

Amal hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." The older woman managed a watery smile. "Besides, your daughter is a good child. She sees things. She understands things. Maybe she can help me understand why—" She stopped, shook her head. "Never mind. Bring her. We'll be fine."

Amal went to get Noor, her heart heavy with a new weight. Adam. Seven years old. A child she had probably seen playing in the courtyard, running through the halls, living his ordinary life in their

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