Right of Return
To my good pal, Sithu.
My property deeds have been approved for me to return home. Home as in, where I truly belong. All the furniture is held up in a shack at my family villa. Had the resistance not reached there in time, I wouldn’t write this letter to you.
If you can, come to Palestine to give me an extra lift. I’ll treat you to some Knafeh.
From my freed homeland,
Tariq Safadi
Sithu finishes reading the letter. His eyes stare at the white color that was spared from Tariq’s ink. He smiles, looking out the window as the plane touches down on Gaza. It is no longer caged. But the rubble remains, reminding the people the price of returning home.
As the plane lands, his seat starts to wobble. Clattering can be heard from the backroom. Sithu sits up straight, resting his elbows on the armrests. His left hand held the letter as his right-hand folds it. He remains unbothered by the turbulence, watching the runway enlarge as the wheels squeal on the ground.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant greets. “Palestinian Airlines welcomes you to Gaza, Palestine. Although the view isn’t ideal for your stay in our liberated homeland, we encourage you to make the best memories during your time here. Have a wonderful day!” the flight attendant announces. Then, she gave her farewell in Arabic.
Sithu’s ears tune out.
Then, the doors open. Everyone jumps from their seats. Hands fly into the air, latching onto compartment knobs to grab their luggage. Sithu remains seated, witnessing the jostling as passengers shove one another.
“Everyone, cool it!” another attendant yells. No one complies.
Her agony entertains Sithu. He looks outside the window, witnessing the commotion spill onto the runway. Friends and families ran to embrace each other. Many wept. Others rejoice.
In the middle of it all stood a fine man, whose top stretched to the maximum, defining his broad shoulders. His arms crossed. Legs firmly rooted on the soil. His head doesn’t look down. He looks up. Gaza sand made him a fighter, a proud son, and a father who avenged his family’s martyrdom.
Inside the cabin, silence return. Sithu observes the room, making sure he won’t have to jostle with another passenger. He peeks across the walkway, unable to find a single head floating.
Coast is clear. He unfastens his seatbelt, racing his hand to fetch his luggage.
“Mr. Sithu,” the flight attendant said, walking up to him. “We may have to ask you to leave the plane. The janitors are waiting for your exit”. Her voice sounded tender, blinding Sithu with her shiny teeth.
He exits the plane, finding it a burden to respond.
From the ground, Tariq can hear Sithu’s shoes clamp on the metal staircase as it speeds down.
“My friend!” he called Sithu, reaching his arms out.
Sithu rush into his arms while giving Tariq a hug. They embrace chest to chest. Their arms loop around each other, patting their rocky backs.
“Ooh,” Sithu blurted. “You’re in your Gaza arc, I feel”.
Tariq blush. “I’m in my Safad arc, actually”. His voice softens. His arms slid across Sithu’s shoulders, hanging off the other side of his neck.
“I promised you knafeh,” he reminded. “Want some now?”
“Sure!” Sithu cheers.
Occupied Hauran Plain
Hiding amongst the pines, he watched from afar as a bus carrying settlers arrive in their newly built homes. He inhaled a volley of pine scent, closing his eyes as his breath reaches deep inside his lungs. Qays’ throat releases from the strangle of his rage as he witnesses his land being squatted by foreigners claiming nativity to a place his ancestors called home for hundreds of years. Now, he’s the last man standing.
As his breath blew against his upper lip, his informant approaches from behind.
“Qays,” the informant calls.
Qays looks on. “Any updates, Zack?”
“Sithu’s in Gaza,” Zack replied.
His head turns around. “Now?”
“Yes. A man picked him up from the airport,” Zack explained.
Qays holds onto the trunk, looking back as the bus can be seen departing.
His eyes tear up.
“We’ll have to buy time for the moment”. He lets go of the trunk, glancing at his scarred land for the final time. His legs drag through the crisp grass as Zack follows him from behind.
“Come stay at my house,” Zack invites Qays.
“Was it promised to me three thousand years ago?” Qays jokes.
Zack chuckles. “You wish”.
Upon climbing onto the gravel road, the bus speeds past them. Dust billows, flowing towards the men’s direction. Their heads followed the bus as it disappears behind a rocky hill.
“Where do you think it’s heading?” Zack asks.
Qays stares at it, sensing the potential to follow the trail. “I don’t know. But it sure gives us the lead”.
“I’ll go fetch the jeep,” Zack said as he starts sprinting.
Gaza City
Waves upon waves crash ashore, as the Mediterranean soaks beachgoers flooding the city for the holidays. Their patronage provided financial relief for shopkeepers to start rebuilding their homes. Cranes dominate the skyline, as private investors splash their cash into the city’s tourism industry.
At the beach, the men sat on a concrete bench, biting their knafehs as cheese oozes out.
The sweetness overwhelms Sithu’s tastebud. “Ummmmm,” he moans in satisfaction. He licks the cheese stuck on his lips. “This sure will be my first and last time I have this bad boy”.
“You’ll puff into a pillow the next day,” Tariq teases.
Sithu leans back and squeezes his throat of laughter.
After taking deep breaths, he asks, “When are we heading to your villa?”
“6 p.m. sharp,” Tariq said, checking his watch. “We have two more hours to kill”.
His schedule caught the attention of a nearby food vendor. He glances at the men, turning his head back and forth as he stuffs the pita bread with chickpea balls. Drizzling it with tahini sauce, he hands the sandwich to the customer.
“80 cents,” he tells him.
The customer dumps the coins onto the staller’s palm, before grabbing the sandwich. “Thanks,” he said, waltzing away.
The staller shoves the coins in his front pouch, shuttering his food cart while keeping his eyes on the men.
Damascus, evening
The moon casts its light on Umayyad Square, where Colonel Kessler spends the evening issuing directives with a stroke of his pen. He has an hour left to scan through a final document before curfew comes into force. He intensely grips the paper, on the verge of being crumpled.
His eyes were fixed.
Later, his deputy arrives at the office.
“Come in,” Kessler replies to the knocking.
The deputy opens the door, entering the office as he saw the colonel’s eyebrows curl on his way in. “The car’s waiting for you outside, colonel”.
Kessler isn’t finished. He pedals his seat, positioning it to face the desk. He gently places the paper back, letting go of it before his hand lands on his lap.
“Our people were betrayed...” he mutters.
The deputy lowers his head, nodding in agreement.
Kessler stares at him for another second. A steam of rage has to go somewhere. So, his rear launches off his seat. He grabs it just before it can roll away. He lifts it, then chugs it at the wall. The seat punctures through, clinging on as its weight fails to dislodge.
“THE WHOLE WORLD’S HAMAS!!!” he rants. According to his logic, the wall is Hamas.
“We were fighting animals the whole time,” Kessler continued. “But everyone gave cover to these terrorists”. His finger was piercing through the air.
“All for these fucking Arabs, who don’t even want to move to Arabia! To Egypt! TO FUCKING JORDAN!!!”
He saw the television playing behind the deputy, broadcasting the news.
FORMER MYANMAR PRESIDENT SPOTTED IN PALESTINE, the headline reads in all caps. The screen displays amateur pictures of Sithu and Tariq wandering the streets of Gaza.
The deputy keeps silent.
“So it was you, huh?” the colonel grumbles. He points at the screen, aiming his index finger at Sithu’s face. His head tilts, continuing his rant. “The man who promise to provide better arms support and convinced our leaders to pivot away from the Americans”.
He lights a cigarette, puffing out a ball of smoke. Shaking off the ashes, Kessler asks, “Any updates on Sithu’s movement?”
The deputy looks up. “Our drone footage captures him riding a truck with an unidentified man”.
“Where they heading to?” Kessler asks.
“To Safad,” the deputy replies.
Kessler went to his closet, grabbing his headwear before leaving the office. Pointing his headwear at the deputy, he commands him to keep a close watch on Sithu.
Safad
On the other side of the valley, Sithu and Tariq settle in his family villa. They stay up past midnight, refurbishing the interiors. Sithu is in the living room, coating the walls with paint. Tariq is upstairs smearing the walls with lime plaster in the hallway. Paint stained their skins. Their faces were damped with sweat. Furniture was stacked and shuttered inside an old shack.
Tariq comes downstairs to check on Sithu. “Sithu,” he calls, gesturing a thumbs up to know if he's okay.
Sithu looks back, giving a thumbs up in return.
“I’ll go shower for bedtime,” Tariq tells him, pointing upstairs.
Sithu stands up, placing the paint roller on the ground to wash up too.
Standing on a slope from the distance, Zack watches the villa’s light gloom in the dark. The food vendor stands next to him, also gazing at the villa.
“You sure this is the place?” Zack asks, lighting up a cigarette.
“Affirmative,” the staller said, crossing his arms. “Only a curtain hung at his apartment entrance back in Gaza, so I slipped right through to find his property deeds. It says it’s here, so...”
“And Sithu?” Zack interrupts.
“That’s how my boys end up here. Frankly, he’s the only foreigner on this land,” the staller continues.
“And he’ll be the last,” Zack responds, puffing smoke out.
“I should head back to Gaza,” the staller said. As he leaves, Zack grabs him by his shoulder.
“Qays has decided, brother. We’ll raid the Zionists' ammunition depot,” he reveals. “Surely, your men in Gaza are in short supply, no?”
The staller’s legs are stiff, hesitant whether to stay or leave.
But Zack senses it as a stay, wrapping his arms around him before leaving.
The villa is left alone, but forever on the grid.
