Chasing Sleep on a Hot Summer Night in Gaza by L.F. Khouri

It’s a scorcher of a summer night in Gaza City and Fadi lies naked in bed, sweating buckets in the dark. His mother shouts something from the kitchen, her voice bouncing off the walls, mixing with the clanging of pots and pans. From the bedroom, his father’s reply is a muffled murmur, drowned out by the blaring TV. A stray dog barks outside, and soon a few others join in from a distance, their barks blending together like a chorus of sirens.

The garbage truck screeches to a halt outside his window. The blinding orange glow of the headlight floods his room, and the deep rumble of the truck vibrates through the floor, shaking his bed, and rattling the picture frames on the walls. He hears the thunderous clatter of the bin lid opening, followed by the squelching of the ravenous compactor. The stench of rotting garbage turns his stomach, and he feels like he could throw up, even though he hasn’t eaten a thing in days. As he sits up in bed, he overhears the two garbage men plotting to sneak out of the Strip and leave their wives and kids behind.

A baby cries faintly in the distance. A sleep-deprived mother yells to the baby, and the baby screams back. The father yells at the mother for yelling to the baby and waking him up. A door opens and slams shut, a car engine rumbles, and the mother weeps.

Fadi leans down to pick up his boxers from the floor and a piercing whine, like a swarm of angry wasps, shakes the sky. He steps out of his room and through the living room’s backdoor into the sweltering summer night. The dogs are howling, the baby is crying, the mother is weeping, the fans are whirring away while the cicadas drone on, reveling.

He strikes a match, the orange glow illuminating his pale face and restless eyes, but hesitates to light the cigarette. He stares at the flame going out, and for a moment, considers sneaking out too, disappearing into the night like the flame. He squeezes his eyes shuts and pictures himself scrambling through the dirt barriers, with the barbed wire tearing at his back, arms, and legs, as he soldiers on.

Heart hammering, eyes darting from side to side, Fadi watches himself sprinting through the darkness, desperate to flee the watchful gaze of the towering sentry posts. On the horizon, the silhouette of dark brown Jeeps looms like a menacing predator, ready to pounce at any moment. Faceless, armed soldiers patrol the streets, their heavy boots thudding on the pavement like a war drum. It’s all in his mind, but to Fadi, it feels all too real.

He watches his breath coming in ragged gasps and feels his legs aching, but there’s no stopping now, he tells himself. No turning back. He keeps running inside his head, imagining himself finally breaking free from a war-torn strip of sand that he’s been shamefully hoping for a flood to wash away. He pushes on until the watchful light finds him, until the bullets swoosh past his ears, until—

A loud explosion echoes through his neighborhood, startles the crying baby, and silences the buzzing cicadas. Siren wails, and Fadi stares at an orange mushroom of smoke unfurling in the distance with amusement. Lucky them, he tells himself. Maybe next time. There is always next time.

A second explosion rocks the ground beneath him, and sends shockwaves through his body. The cigarette falls from his lips, and as he picks it up, he watches another orange mushroom cloud bloom, closer. Smoke and debris rain down on the neighborhood and the haze of dust and ash fills his lungs. He stumbles backward, coughing and gasping for air.

He strikes another match but hesitates to light the cigarette again. He stares at the match’s flame, and the orange mushroom drowning into the thick haze, and the sky suddenly rains white leaflets—a storm of wings cascading from the sky. Fadi races out the gate and snatches one from the back street. The words on the leaflet scream out at him like a death sentence: ONLY FIFTEEN MINUTES TO RUN FOR YOUR LIFE.  

The air is thick with chaos as people flood the streets in a frenzied panic, screaming and crying in terror. The sound of doors banging shut echoes through the neighborhood as families abandon their homes. Children clutch tightly to their parents, their faces twisted in fear, as they are dragged along the pavement.

Fadi feels strangely calm standing in the middle of the deserted back street. He strikes a match and lights the cigarette at last. He draws a deep drag and holds it in; a rippling sensation of ease washes over him. As he takes a second drag, he can’t help but think about his niece Muna, blown into smithereens, and recites a silent prayer for her spirit.

A low rumble reverberates through the sky. Fadi stubs out his cigarette and lies down on the street. The asphalt sears his flesh, and the rumble intensifies. He conjures Muna’s round face and it smiles at him, and he smiles back. Maybe this time, he tells himself, just maybe, sleep will finally come my way.

L.F. Khouri

https://www.flickr.com/people/45644610@N03, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons -view of Gaza City from above the rooftops showing houses and roads