by Muhammad Khurram Salim

Mateo bled for the victims he read about, that late afternoon of a cloudy summer’s day. His first-floor study room, of education books and a jar of gladioli, had darkened and there was a faraway hum of life, somewhere in the high-street. His heart was sore, as more unarmed victims of bombings and shootings were falling off the branches of life, in the land of Palestine. Why were they not considered important? They needed help, along with Ukrainians, with any human that was being murdered brutally.

His friend Wyatt, weary after a long flight from Canberra, sat at the window overlooking a placid green garden where hollyhocks grew and dallied with the south breeze. He found the peace there, in London, in Russel Square, to be too much of a contrast to what was happening in Gaza. So many people had tried to get a bite to eat and something to drink, only to be burned and bloodied by bullets and explosions. Nothing about the Middle East violence made sense. He felt his eyes watering as he looked at pictures of the Palestinian dead, on his device.

“They have nowhere to go,” said Wyatt, about the Palestinians whom he thought were being treated like swarms of flies that needed getting rid of. “They should go, frankly. Like before. They should escape calumny like shoals somehow fast escaping a crazed inhuman predator.” 

“They’re being killed in their own country by bloodthirsty inhumans who have all those set words like ‘terrorists’ and ‘evil regime’ to justify their murders,” said Mateo drinking water, mindful of the many Gazans who just couldn’t get a drop to drink. 

“The Israeli soldiers are ruthless and vain,” said Wyatt sighing and wiping his eyes. “They’ve deadly weapons and are not “bullies” as in the song by Dylan, but murderers who are heedless of conscience, logic and humaneness. When will they stop slaying? When will America and other countries stop them?”

They conversed meaningfully as the sky and air hinted of the coming of twilight. Both had been teachers of English for many years, and Wyatt had taught in Palestine and Lebanon where the students had been kind and talented. They’d written him essays on Jesus and peace, and the humbleness of kind religious leaders. The students had spoken of fears of Israeli attacks and oppression. Mateo despaired that no one was barring rogues, in Israel, who had destructive plans, taking territory and being oppressors. The wall-clock ticked a passage of time to another hour.

“I’m seeing no future for the Gazans, if arms and munitions pile up in Israeli depots,” said Mateo and frowned. Tired birds flew back to their nests as evening whispered its entrance. “I bleed for the Palestinian victims, for the starving ones, for the wounded. May God show them mercy. The vicious soldiers of the demented Israeli government are targeting innocent people.”

“They need to be aware of peace and progress, not have hatred and murder,” said Wyatt who believed that education could solve many a political problem round the globe. “Teachers in Tel Aviv and other places in Israel need to teach morals and manners, as well as English. The more apt the education, the more the realisation that murder is never desired, only gentleness and charity.”

They sat in the golden light of a table-lamp and dreamt of a free Gaza. Outside a train sped through tracks to a nearing station. The two of them reached for their phones and meaningfully donated to Palestinians in need. An Arab tune played softly on a CD player.