From blood and dust of Gaza to the lucky country Australia

Souleiman Ould Mohameden

When 12-year-old Mohammed stepped out of his home, he didn’t expect to be shot. Well, that’s because he wasn’t.

His mother dropped, dead. A bullet hole was what Mohammed saw, right through her temple.

Aasma screamed. Mohammed ran over to his little sister. Another shot was fired at the window as their father cursed in agony. Aasma was bleeding out. She was starting to feel lightheaded.

“This isn’t good,” he thought.

He carried Aasma in his arms and ran.

Mohammed heard his sister moving on the bench.

“Mohammed?” she groaned.

“Oh! You’re awake!” He responded with a small humourless smile.

Aasma winced as she tried to sit up, she had a white bandage, with red splotches tightened across her stomach.

“What is this?” She asked.

“You were shot”, Mohammed responded with his smile fading.

Aasma looked around, she saw an old man and his son in a corner with rifles in their hands.

“Where are -”Aasma started, but was cut off.

“Mama and Baba are dead”; Mohammed whispered.

Aasma’s chest tightened trying not to cry. Their parents were killed by the Israelites. Mohammed told her where they were and why they were here. They were in a base- ment of a Masjid.

The Imam of the masjid was an old man, and his son was an army veteran. The Israelites were oppressive people and were trying to take Palestine from the Palestinians.

Mohammed explained that he didn’t know much because it just started and that they were going to be fine. Aasma believed him and had a little hope still left in her.

A bomb siren sounded; this was the third one in the last hour. Mohammed now only found it annoying. No longer alarming.

It was night, a cool breeze blew under the basement door. It had been hours since Mohammed had been outside; he felt comforted by the wind and its sound.

Mohammed stood on his feet and slowly inched toward the door. The dry desert air licked his ankles, beckoning him on. He reached his hand toward the door, when he finally grasped the smooth cold handle; the son of the Imam began to wake.

Mohammed started to twist. The man was now fully awake and watched as Mohammed, unknowingly, put all of their lives in imminent danger.

“NO DON-” The man screamed.

It was the last thing Mohammed heard before smoke filled his lungs, and an angry red flash blew him across the room.

Mohammed woke up and sat there, not knowing what to do. He realised Aasma was sleeping on his lap with her face streaked with tears. Mohammed smiled and thought, ‘She assumed thought I was dead.’

Mohammed’s nose was bleeding. Cuts and bruises painted his body like a purple, blue, and red canvas. Dust from the debris started to settle in the injuries and made Mohammed groan in pain.

Two hours passed. His pain was getting worse. He didn’t want to wake up Aasma. Mohammed finally found the strength to crawl. Mohammed started in the direction of a tap in the corner of the bunker, one of the only parts that wasn’t obliterated by the bomb.

He slowly reached the tap and stretched his hand towards it. Mohammed’s hand gripped the rusty metal when he twisted. Water is the elixir of life. Mohammed believed it to be. Water poured onto his face, cleaning it from the blood and dust. He opened his mouth and let the liquid flow into his dry, parched throat. He splashed some water on his wounds, it stung a little, but after, felt like heaven.

Mohammed knew that he had to get out of the basement, but he couldn’t leave Aasma behind. He slowly crawled back to where Aasma was sleeping and woke her up. They had to leave the basement, and Mohammed had to find a way to get them to safety.

As they stepped out of the basement, the world outside was a war zone. Buildings were destroyed, and there was chaos everywhere. Mohammed assessed their surroundings and decided that their best chance of survival was to make their way to the nearby mountains. He had heard stories of people who had escaped the war by hiding in the mountains and he knew that they had a better chance of surviving.

With Aasma by his side, Mohammed started walking towards the mountains, avoiding the main roads, and sticking to the back alleys and side streets. They had to be careful and avoid getting caught by the Israelites. Scenes of destruction lay in their wake. Bodies of civilians scattered like leaves in autumn. But they had to keep walking.

Two days passed, and the kids were camping out in a small, abandoned convenience. Mohammed found a bag of chips his dad always used to eat. It made him cry. Aasma looked in the aisle, so Mohammed turned and wiped away his tears. He had to be strong for his sister.

“W-what’s wrong?” Aasma said.

“Oh! n-nothing.” Mohammed stammered. “Go sit down somewhere, I’ll look for something to eat.”

Aasma listened and walked away. Mohammed walked to the canned foods aisle when she screamed. Mohammed ran towards her when a masked man struck him across the chin with the butt of a rifle. He lay in pain as his eyesight got blurry, when he saw a sign on the man’s mask that he had seen saw before in school. It was blue with stars and the southern cross.

“It’s AUST-” Mohammed thought right before he passed out.

Mohammed woke up to the sound of a boat engine. He rubbed his chin. It was swollen after the violent strike of the soldier. Aasma was sitting next to him.

“Mohammed…” she whispered. “They’re taking us to A-Australia.”

Salam! I’m Souleiman, a high school student of Islamic School of Canberra. I like write stories. InshaAllah I want to be a doctor who is hafidz when I grow up.