Pineapple

Spinning, spinning, spinning, her tiny feet walk up my legs, over my belly, over my chest, until she turns to land on her feet. «Again!» she squeals, and I take her hands in mine to let her spin once more. I look over to my brother, who is doing the same thing. Our cousins are in an exceptionally good mood today. Even the toddler in grandma's lap hasn't cried once. The children's infectious shrieks of laughter have put smiles on all our faces, and to make matters even better, mama and aunty are preparing the first real meal in days.

The smell coming from the broken wheelbarrow in the middle of what used to be our living room makes me salivate, and my belly comes alive with audible anticipation. The kitchen is gone, but that doesn't mean we can't cook. I try not to look towards what used to be our kitchen. The blue tarp Dad and my uncle put up to shield us from the wind also shields us from the rubble underneath and the rusty rebars I fear someone might fall upon.

Those are the main reasons the blue tarp is where it is. But we do not talk about it. Dad and uncle tried it once; One of them crawled down and secured the end of the tarp to the rebars, and the other slid down the tarp like the inflatable slides they have in those commercial planes that bring people to our region. It was a means of escape. But it made a lot of noise. We can only use it if the alarms go off or the planes fly low; by then, it'll most likely be too late. Better not think about that either.

I look at my grandma. She's lifting the toddler high up in her arms and holding him straight, pretending to be some sort of bird. When I was little, she used to do the same thing, but then the sounds coming from her mouth were that of aeroplanes. We can't make those sounds now. They scare the children.

Grandma has been around for a long time, a testament to what has been happening here all her life. It started only two years before she was born, and the key she still carries around her neck was given to her by her mother. «She said to find the house it belonged to, for that house belongs to us. But I doubt it still stands. I will carry it until I give it to you, though.» 

She used to tell me the stories she'd been told when it all was fresh and new. Every year, we hoped for things to get better, and every year, things worsened unless they stayed in that particular form of stalemate it's hard to live with. Sometimes, it's harder to live with the threat of war and not the war itself.

Grandma also inherited something else. The gift she got from her father after all her brothers died is less talked about. She keeps the pineapple in her right-hand pocket, just like her father used to do. It was a relic from the war he fought in, given to him by one of those fresh-faced younglings who also believed in peace. She checks the pin before each meal, before bed, and when she first wakes up.

«This one I will die with. If it works, it will kill me; if it doesn't, they will.»

Some days ago, she'd gotten hold of a gallon of bleach, and the day after, she ordered us to pee in the same bucket. She keeps it next to the rancid olive oil we're never hungry enough to eat.

The food is ready. We eat in silence. The children, too. They have gone without for so long that they have sunken cheeks and dull eyes. They are visibly tired from the few minutes of playtime, but the laughter is still close to the surface. I fear the absence of their laughter more than I fear the absence of their cries. They do little of both anymore, and I wonder why that makes me feel sadder than anything else. I should have been used to it by now. I should have been born with it, for the world I was born into has always been like this. But never this consistent, not for this long, not so violent and brutal and constant. 

They used to give us time between the shellings. Time for school. To heal. To plant our food. Reconstruct.

Now, our time is spent surviving. Whichever way possible. Without hurting anyone. We have not lost our ability to cooperate - we were a tight-knit community before and have grown even tighter under the thumb of our oppressors, almost out of spite.

The neighbour upstairs gave us the fresh produce we now enjoy eating. Her son studies in Turkey, and we are all so proud of him. He is missed, but during this siege, we are thankful that one of us can learn a skill we'll all benefit from if he is allowed to return. We are grateful he's somewhere safe and hope he finds the solace he needs to enjoy his life. I hear her talk to him on the phone whenever the lines are open, and her pride for him is so severe I wonder if he might buckle a bit under her hope. But her love outshines most things. I think he knows that, too.

We eat slowly. Even the children have learned the hard way how bad it feels to eat fast and greedily after a long fast. I taste every grain, bite into every leaf, savour every piece, trying to make it last for as long as possible. I am not alone in doing so. I look at my family sitting around the wheelbarrow. We smile at each other and talk without words. Mama, dad, brother, grandma, aunty, uncle and their three children, ten individuals in the silence of a warzone.

It only lasts for a moment. A door is kicked open somewhere upstairs. Then we hear a scream, furniture being smashed and broken, children wailing. It's the next-door neighbour of the neighbour upstairs. I listen to her talking to her son on the phone. «Did you hear that? Oh honey, I am so glad you are not here. They are massacring the family next door. The sweet children, the wife was expecting, oh honey... Don't be sad. Your father and I are done, for Allah has decided this. We love you. Don't be sad.»

I still hear her voice when grandma gives me her key. It is heavier than I expected and warm to the touch. It feels strangely comforting hanging from my neck. I put on the backpack and watch my grandma settle by the bucket, opening the lid of the bleach bottle and placing it on the rickety table behind her. She waves at me before her hand reaches inside her right pocket.

I hurry down the makeshift slide just before I hear another shot, closer this time, most likely my upstairs neighbour. I use the screams from her spouse to cover the sounds of my descent and hurry towards my family and the hiding place my uncle found. 

But I cannot stop looking back. And I swear I hear the sound of an 80-year-old metal pin hitting concrete.

«Ham shmat et ze?»

«No pal, I didn't he...»

The world will keep on spinning, spinning, spinning.