Mother of the Martyrs

The night drew its curtains over the wounded city, enveloping it in impenetrable darkness, as it wept blood and tears in silence. Umm Iyad walked with heavy steps, dragging behind her all her pains and regrets. She entered her sons’ room, gazing at them with pity. Yesterday, they were five; tonight, they were four. She covered their bodies with the remnants of tattered blankets, then approached the empty spot of Iyad’s bed. She leaned over it, clutching his belongings to her chest, as tears streamed from her eyes, and she began to weep bitterly. She tried not to raise her voice, lest she wake her sons, but her sobs rose despite her efforts.

Hassam, Iyad’s second brother—who was only a year younger—turned toward his mother from the holes in the torn blanket. He hadn’t slept; how could he? The scent of his brother’s blood still clogged his nostrils, igniting vengeance in his chest, spreading the fever of rage through his entire body, and embedding wounds in his heart.

More than an hour passed with Umm Iyad shedding her tears and choking back her sobs before she left the room, pressing Iyad’s things to her aching heart. She stayed awake with her sorrows until dawn broke, pillowing her head on pain.

With the morning light, she began preparing food for her sons with great effort, until she spotted Samer, the six-year-old, darting outside with small stones in his hand. She called out in a broken voice: “Samer… where are you going? And what’s that in your hand?”

He answered from behind the door before standing before her: “These are stones Iyad gave me yesterday to throw at the Jews.”

His words fell on her ears like dagger stabs. Samer had been with Iyad yesterday, but he stayed far from the Zionist soldiers, close to the house door. He ran quickly, locked the door behind him, then reopened it and went out to the street, searching for Iyad. Why hadn’t he fled after throwing the stones? Where had he gone? Or where had he vanished?

He saw a group of people heading toward their house, carrying Iyad in their arms, his blood gushing profusely, tracing a red line on the ground that cried out for vengeance.

Afterward, Samer learned that his brother had died—no, he had been martyred. The martyr doesn’t die; he lives with God.

He kept the stones Iyad had given him—they were the martyr’s bequest. Samer stood long before his mother, replaying yesterday’s reel in his mind, then rushed to the street, tears wavering in his eyes, while grief wrung his mother’s heart violently. She collapsed onto the house floor, crumbling, drowning in her tears.

Evening returned, but Hassam, who was a year older than Samer, did not come home. The Zionists had arrested him on the pretext of throwing stones at the occupation soldiers. All attempts by his mother and neighbors to secure his release failed. What crime has childhood committed to be placed behind bars?

Umm Iyad spent the night guarding her three sons, who yesterday had been four. She covered them and kissed their foreheads, only to find Samer’s tears trickling down his small cheeks. So he wasn’t asleep? She pulled him to her chest, fighting back her own tears, and asked: “Why haven’t you slept, Samer?”

Samer looked at the beds of Iyad and Hassam with wandering eyes, murmuring: “Iyad died… Hassam is in detention, and we don’t know whose turn it is tomorrow.”

The mother’s heart shattered with grief at Samer’s words, but she composed herself, calming his fears, reminding him of the martyrs and their honors, instilling in him the love of jihad and resistance.

Samer cried out: “I want to be a martyr tomorrow.”

The mother burst into tears and said, battling her sobs: “No, you’ll become a doctor as you dreamed, healing the wounded so they can fight again.”

Dreams no longer held meaning. Their fate was to bury their dreams with the falling bodies in the martyrs’ square.

The mother held Samer to her chest, soothing his terror, and he didn’t know when sleep overtook him. But in the middle of the night, he awoke to the sound of occupation soldiers storming their home, wreaking havoc, terrifying Samer and his brothers, before leaving after hurling fear into the eyes of the children who, moments ago, had been dreaming of a homeland.

Samer stood before his mother, who had huddled in one corner of the house, exhausted by sorrow and the struggle with the occupation soldiers. Rage filled his chest, sparks flying from his eyes. They had been deprived of their childhood, born old with the depth of pain.

Samer calmed his brothers, rearranged the blankets over their bodies, stroking their heads until they returned to sleep. Then he went to his mother, took her hand to her bed so she could rest, smoothed the blanket over her body, and promised her vengeance against all who stole the essence of childhood and violated the sanctity of the nation.

All meanings of hatred and oppression churned in Samer’s soul, his eyes brimming with tears. He was now the man of the house, and he had to rise to the level of this responsibility.

He stood at the house door, appearing as a giant the size of the hope that still haunted him for the return of his land and its sanctities one day… his heart roaring with vengeance.