News

Strangers - Miriam Year 9 

The news was playing on the screen beside me. Monotonous voices of reporters trailed on as pictures of fire and dilapidated buildings were shown on the screen. I never knew who to believe. Everyone seemed to have an opinion. Rallies of protesters, “Free Palestine”. Israeli supporters screaming for the hostages to be set free. Innocent children lying on stone pavements, their sticky faces morose, their eyes overflowing with tears. Rubble everywhere, crumbling buildings all that can be seen. Interviews with families of the hostages, brave hope wavering in their eyes. Hundreds of blameless young people, fleeing from terrorists as the music comes to a stop.

I sighed heavily and reluctantly pressed the button to shut the quenched, tired eye of the tv that stared intimidatingly at me as I slept, shrouding the room in darkness.

The next morning the clouds hissed gently at the earth. Closing my bedroom door, I kissed my mum goodbye, reminding her I was going to buy a gift for my friend whose party was that weekend. Stepping out the front door, I closed it quietly so as not to disturb the irritable sky.

Walking into town I noticed that an eerie lull had settled over the street. Regularly bustling restaurants and tourist shops were empty. Not unsettled by the silence, I trod on. Passing the empty Marks and Spencer’s I began hearing muffled noise coming from ahead of me. My steps slowed; deterred by the noise I stopped for a minute before carrying on. Reaching the Royal Calpe, I was met by a wall of blue and white. Flags shaking above the angry crowd. Confused, I skirted my way round the group and crossed the road to the Piazza. More people, this time filing jerkily down the road leading to Vinopolis. Despite the summery watermelon colours snaking through the crowd, the group’s demeanour, much like the previous, remained solemn. More flags towering above the palpable shadow of tension hovering between the two entities.

Nervously I headed towards Hotel Chocolat, threading between the warm colours, and found myself on what seemed like a border. Suddenly, I realized what I had walked into. A protest. I stood on a line made purely of ire and futility. To my left, Palestinian colours; to my right, Israeli. I stood, bewildered, one foot inside each section of the road, eyes flitting back and forth, familiar faces each time I looked in a different direction. My teacher, my friend, a doctor, her patient, a little girl, a little boy, a family, their neighbours. My feet became frozen in place.

Civilians killed, houses destroyed, moments we could never relive; gone. What were we doing? Fighting more of our own kind. Warm eyes locked in cold headlocks, hands gripping opposing flags, forgetting. Forgetting what we used to have. Forgetting those summer days, caressed by the sun, where we were together. Forgetting the laughter in Main Street. Forgetting the help that we gave to each other. We all knew each other. What was this for?

We are all becoming strangers.