the daylight and half a dozen old women, all in black, squatted or stood about, one chanting a prayer while another prepared tea on a small wood-burning cooker in a corner.
She was not dead, though no one expected her to survive for long. Her breathing was so shallow the women frequently used a mirror kept by her side to see if she was still alive. The doctor had said that as long as she did not have the will to live nothing would stop her from dying. Since the day Abed left Gaza, his mother had hardly eaten or gone outside of her house. Neighbours took to bringing food and some spent time with her, cooking and trying to be comforting, but their efforts had been in vain. All meaning had gone from her existence; now that Abed had left, never to return, life had become utterly pointless to her. For the first few months after his departure, she could not resist clinging to the hope that he might one day walk back into the house. She dreamed of the times he used to take hold of her as if she were his daughter, and stroke her hair while holding her face against his chest. Few men showed such affection for their mothers. She had been lucky. Abed was the finest son a mother could ask for. But their luck ran out that night the Israeli soldiers came to Rafah to round up all the men. Frightened as she was at the time, she had no idea it was the beginning of the end for them as a family. As time trickled by, she began to accept that she would never see Abed again and then, as if the truth had tripped something in her body, she began to die.
She knew the end was very near and her thoughts drifted more and more to her childhood, playing in the streets of Rafah, which at that time seemed a normal place to her, as it did to all of the very young. She recalled her days in school and the faces of the friends she had made that she no longer knew.
Then suddenly, despite her low level of consciousness, she sensed a change in the room. It was unmistakable, as if a powerful presence had entered. It was noticeable in the energy of the other women, and the chanting had stopped.
Her eyes flickered as she fought to open them, but it was incredibly difficult, as if she had gone far too deep beneath consciousness to ever climb back above it.
The presence felt neither good nor evil, but it drew her out of the depths.
She finally managed to open her eyes and fought to focus on the cracked, brittle ceiling where tiny stalactites formed along the lines where the rain leaked in.
The presence was at the door and she concentrated hard to turn her head on the pillow and look towards it. The light was bad as was her eyesight but there was a figure standing in the doorway, she could tell that much.
The figure took a step towards her, and she could discern it was a man but not clearly enough to make out any features. She wondered why any man would be in her house. The doctor had left hours before and would not return until she was dead. Women like her died in the company of women and no man would venture to enter her house even to say farewell, no man save one perhaps. Her heart suddenly fluttered and raced in expectation and she struggled to find the oxygen to fuel the strength she needed to push death away, if only for a moment. She attempted to raise a hand and move her feet but the effort was futile. Nothing worked. Her limbs had atrophied to the point of uselessness. She tried to utter her son’s name but there was not enough breath to form a word or moisture to lubricate her tongue.
As the figure stepped forward, the other women in the room moved back as if in fear.The man reached the mattress. As he crouched by her side he came into focus, and Abed’s mother stopped breathing for a moment as the shock hit her like the blow from a hammer.
Her eyes remained fixed on him as he got down on his knees and placed a hand on one of hers. She had recognised him instantly, though he looked much older than she would have imagined, but