"The Carnation and the Thorn" – Yahya Sinwar (story, part 24)

We woke up on Friday morning in front of the prison in central Gaza. Despite our early arrival, hundreds of families were already waiting outside the prison gates. A metal walkway was built close to the wall of the building to keep the lines of people in line. A guard opened the door and, looking at the sheet of paper in his hand , We sat in the waiting area until the people on the list were called by their names. When he looked at the list and said, "So-and-so, piston," those who heard his name from among the pilgrims would raise their hands and say, "Me," and move to the corridor in front of the wall. After calling every thirty people, he would take the men and women into a separate inspection room. After the inspection, they would go inside and go to the pilgrimage.

With excitement hotter than a hot coal, we waited for my brother Mahmud's name to be called. Finally, on the fifth roll call, my brother Mahmud's name was called. We also went to the corridor. After thirty names were called, we entered the inspection. As we passed the inspection and entered, we witnessed those who had come in before us returning. The pain in their eyes was like the prologue to an unread book for us . We walked through long, dimly lit corridors and entered the pilgrimage section. A concrete wall and rows of barred windows greeted us. Young children were running in. I ran in with them. The adults entered slowly, but their gazes, searching for their loved ones, penetrated faster than the children's running. Everyone began to search for their loved ones. I caught sight of my brother Mahmud behind one of the windows and said, "Mom! My brother. . ". Here is my brother Mahmud," I shouted. But my mother couldn't hear me because of the noise in the room. They noticed me waving my hand and hurried over to us. As my mother came to the window, Mahmud bombarded my brother with hundreds of questions:

- Oh . .. My child, my child. . . Did they beat you? Did they torture you? Where did they hit you? Did they feed you? What did they do to your body? Why is your leg limping ? Did they break your arm?

The answers to these questions were within him. Although he did not answer the questions one after another, the answer to each question was visible in his body. He could not even ask the question in a hurry. My brother Mahmud would try to calm my mother down:

- Everything is fine , mother. I am fine. We met. God willing , I will return to you soon. I am standing in front of you. I am safe and sound , thank God! Are you and me okay? How are my brothers and sisters ? Fatima, are you okay? Maryuma (her affectionate name for Maryam) , how are you?

My sister Fatima wiped her tears and said, "Thank God, I'm fine, brother!" Maryam replied, "Alhamdulillah!" Then she greeted me. My mother asked again:

"What charges have they brought , my son? When will the trial be?"

"Don't worry, they didn't charge you anything major. They probably won't give you more than a year or a year and a half."

My mother, who had been listening to me by the window, was so shocked that she almost fainted. She sat down, her face pale and dry:

"A year or a year and a half?! What am I going to do now?! My luck has run out! "

While my brother Mahmud tried to calm my mother, she caught herself and said she was going to hire a better lawyer. At that moment, the guards standing behind the pilgrims and prisoners began to clap and cheer:

- The pilgrimage is over! The pilgrimage is over!

The guards inside dragged the prisoners away and us out. We barely had time to say goodbye.

To be continued...