Creative Writing: The Last Witness, A short story.

 

The Last Witness

(Old Title: Ya Karim!? Can you hear me?)

By Sara Baloum

It was a Monday when your brother Ayman called, informing me that your mother had died. I had parked my car in the corner illegally, just far enough so I could watch my sister during her dance practice, boxed in a glass building, harshly lit from the inside. My eyes shifted nervously back and forth between my sister and the busy street for any stray cops. His name lit up my phone—2’yman (Cousin)— and a feeling stirred, one I knew well in Gaza, but that felt distant and strange in the person I’d become since I left. While Ayman talked, memories of our home in Khan Younis tapped faintly at the edge of my mind, like a knock I never answered, and I saw us as kids in the living room. We didn’t have much. The furniture with its worn wooden curves and black leather cushions was arranged in small clusters around the coffee table, covered by a round lace tablecloth. Old rugs stretched toward the old TV, while the concrete floor beneath unapologetically displayed its age. Nonetheless, I saw how happy we were, as we watched old Egyptian films with your mother every night—laughing, crying, pulling them apart scene by scene—until my father called me upstairs to sleep.

This vivid memory, wrapped in a lavender haze, was suddenly shattered by my sister, who shouted at me, “Yalla! I’m hungry. What did Mom cook today?” Not realizing that Zainab had already finished her practice 30 minutes prior and was already in the car, I did not tell her about your mother, Aunt Halima, and just drove away. When we got home, Zainab and I helped set the table for dinner, only to find my mom had prepared Warak Enab. The food never tasted the same as it did in Gaza. According to my Mom, it was because the leaves in the United States did not have the Hadaka (savory taste) that leaves back home sucked out of the soil in Kahn Younis, this Texan one was undesirable and bland because those Ajaanib –term used to describe White people of European descent— simply did not care about their land. My Mom made sure to make this comment about the food each time she cooked a dish from back home for Zainab and me. She was right, but part of me used to get bothered by her constant remark about this note. However, this time, I was the one to call it out, and I shoved the pieces aggressively in my mouth as the tears ran down my face to the plate. Each piece was now drenched in the Hadaka from my tears, something I tasted now that had been absent since the second intifada erupted when my family moved, when it meant I couldn’t visit you anymore. During this scene, my mom and sister looked confused and concerned, thus spending the next hour squeezing the news of Aunt Halima’s death and Ayman’s call inviting us to the funeral out of my Warak Enab stuffed, crying face.

What stung me most about your mother’s death was that she was the last witness— taking with her the memory of our movie nights and now leaving me as the only one who still remembered the conversations they once sparked. Remember, when we watched the film Tayih fee Amreeka (Lost in America) for the first time? We were so fascinated by this new alien western world, presented to us through the eyes of an Egyptian guy seeking the whispers of the American dream. I remember that night, the giggles and whispers, the restless talk that stretched until morning. Our curiosity was relentless, and what once felt strange slowly became a preview of everything we dreamed our future might be. Because somehow, Amreeka seemed like a place where you can write your own story, becoming your own pen, when it felt most sinful. Our parents always told us that we didn’t have the privilege those Ajaanib did, so keep your head down because we are different. Who we are is already written on our foreheads, they’d say, and stepping outside our destined path will only shorten it.

Leaving Gaza, I carried nothing but my Palestinian passport; somehow, I felt anchored with a forged dignity and a blooming love. But returning for Aunt Halima’s funeral, I felt a profound emptiness. Now, I truly had nothing but a blue passport with the words “United States of America” stamped on it, a document that once promised me the world… but oh, how I was a fool. It felt void of belonging because it was never meant for people like you and me. The journey from the Rafah crossing was daunting, weaving through a sea of bodies pressed close by circumstance. My mother and I moved slowly shoulder to shoulder, not out of choice but necessity. Around us, each person carried the weight of pain, of lives uprooted; it was more than the bags, more than the papers. Their eyes did the speaking: silent, pleading, tired. It was the kind of weariness that sits deep in the bones, made heavier by the knowledge that no one here could afford to fall apart. Ayman picked us up. I stared out at the streets. Some buildings were stripped down to bare brick, some were new, some looked familiar, and some weren’t there anymore. I can’t lie, but how do I even begin to admit that everything’s changed?

We drove by our old elementary school. There it was, our old hangout spot, standing still under the olive tree. The bench looked worn and crooked, like it had been waiting for us all this time. Remember the kids we used to fight with under that tree? How you held yourself and your old-fashioned metal box that you wrapped in a keffiyeh? Other kids ridiculed you for it and shoved their trendy Spider-Man lunchboxes in your face, but you wouldn’t budge, you pitied them. I could never understand why you were so attached to that old thing. Even when Aunt Halima tried to get you to try new ones, you always said no. Why? We sat on the same bench for six years with your keffiyeh-wrapped lunchbox by your side. We ate every kind of Baladi foods, or if we were late, a pita smeared with labneh and Za’tar that oozed from the bottom—what a mess it must’ve been!! I was in awe of your commitment to that lunch tradition. I looked up to you because even when the stares lingered, you held on to who you were with me. You wanted to write your own story, to make your own labels, not the ones the reporter on TV tried to pin on you. Oh! How I wish to see you again…just once, just long enough to catch a glimpse of us then.

We didn’t have a home there anymore—it had fallen into rubble—so my Mom and I stayed at yours. After all, Zainab had school, and someone had to stay behind to take care of my father. I know you never liked it when people overcrowded your home. We used to vent to each other through our facing windows, laughing about how Arab families never seemed to understand personal space. I remember how you'd rush to the window whenever guests showed up, lock your door to escape the noise, and toss a scrap of paper onto my desk beneath the window so we could talk. Ayman, let me stay in your room. It was frozen in time. Everything you loved was still there. Your pictures. Your toys. Your rugged jacket. It almost felt like I could smell your cologne because it was still there. But you weren’t. I sat on your bed as my tears started to soak your jacket. Then I heard your voice calling out, “Ya Hind! Ya Hind! Why are you crying?” I looked up and there you were, still twelve. I reached out to take your hand, but then you disappeared. I ran outside, hoping to find you, only to realize that you will always be twelve. And why do I get to be twenty-nine? I called out your name,” Karim! Can you hear me?” But the only response was the hollow echo of my own voice, ricocheting off the walls of your home. I knew then I was too late.