In a village within the Palestinian enclave of Gaza, the farmers used to proudly claim that their grapes were the best in the world. Known for their brilliant color, sweet aroma, and weight, the grapes were once a symbol of prosperity and resilience. But today, that pride seemed like a distant memory, buried beneath the devastation of war.
Among the shattered fields and orchards, a group of farmers still clung to their livelihood, collecting what little remained of their once-thriving crops. Grapes were scarce, but those that survived were packed into boxes, ready to be transported to the market.
Early one morning, a battered truck rolled into the village. Its driver, a middle-aged man with lines of exhaustion etched into his face, was a familiar sight. Each day, he transported what little agricultural products remained to the market. Today, a 14-year-old boy joined him, eager to help and perhaps earn a few coins for his family. As the truck rumbled through the village, the boy sneaked a few grapes into his mouth. They were sweet, but there was something bitter in the taste now—a reminder of what had been lost.
The road was full of craters, the remnants of bombings that had turned the once-thriving land into rubble. As they drove, the driver glanced at the boy. “How’s your father?” he asked.
“He’s fine,” the boy replied, but his voice lacked conviction. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the ruins of the town, where people wandered aimlessly, searching for a sense of normalcy amidst the destruction.
The driver sighed. “Farms, orchards, irrigation systems—all gone. The factories too. Nothing’s the same.” His words hung heavy in the air.
Around noon, they reached a steep mountain pass. The truck’s engine groaned under the strain, but the driver pressed on. Suddenly, a barricade loomed ahead. Israeli soldiers stood behind an iron fence, rifles slung over their shoulders. They approached the truck and silently thrust a sign in front of the driver’s face. It read, “Driver’s License, Pass, Residence Certificate” in Arabic.
The driver calmly handed over his papers, then held up a bunch of grapes to show his cargo. But the soldier remained stone-faced, his gaze cold and unyielding. With a sigh, the driver reached into his pocket, folded two bills, and slipped them to the soldier. Without a word, the soldier pocketed the money and waved them through.
As they drove away, the boy asked, “What was that all about?”
The driver shrugged. “Just a checkpoint. Part of life here.”
Hours later, the truck veered off the main road, pulling into a dense forest. It was far from the market, and the boy felt a twinge of unease. The truck stopped, and out of the shadows, a group of men appeared, clad in jungle boots and sportswear. The driver climbed out and began talking to them in hushed tones.
Curious, the boy stayed in the truck until he noticed something odd. The men were throwing grapes from the back of the truck, scattering them onto the ground. “Hey, what are you doing?” he cried, running to the rear. But when he got there, his breath caught in his throat.
Hidden beneath the grapes were crates of weapons.
The driver approached, his face grim. “Plans have changed. You’ll stay here until dawn.”
Fear crept into the boy’s voice as he asked, “Are you working with Hamas?”
The driver didn’t answer. One of the armed men spoke instead. “We’re going to hit the checkpoint on the mountain pass. You wait here.”
The boy watched as the men loaded the weapons, readying themselves for battle. The driver climbed back into the truck, the men seated in silence around him, and they drove off into the night.
Alone, the boy looked at the grapes scattered on the ground. He picked up a bunch and put one in his mouth, but it tasted different now—hollow, like the land that once bore it.
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms.
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