In Gaza, a child is not really a child. Our eight-year-old son, Yazzan, has been talking about fetching his toys from the ruins of our house. He should be learning how to draw, how to play soccer, how to take a family photo. Instead, he is learning how to hide when bombs fall.
I don’t want to hug anyone, because I don’t want to believe that I am leaving them. I kiss my parents and shake hands with my siblings, as though I am only going on a short trip. What I am feeling is not guilt but a sense of unfairness. Why can I leave and they cannot? We are lucky that Mostafa was born in the U.S. Does it make them less human, less worthy of protection, that their children were not? I think about how, when we go, I may not be able to call them, or even find out whether they are alive or dead. Every step we take will take us away from them.
We are about to pass the checkpoint when a soldier starts to call out, seemingly at random.
“The young man with the blue plastic bag and the yellow jacket, put everything down and come here.”
...
They’re not going to pull me out of the line, I think. I am holding Mostafa and flashing his American passport. Then the soldier says, “The young man with the black backpack who is carrying a red-haired boy. Put the boy down and come my way.” He is talking to me.
The soldiers blindfold me and attach a numbered bracelet to one wrist. I wonder how Israelis would feel if they were known by a number. Then someone grabs the back of my neck and shoves me forward, as though we are sheep on our way to be slaughtered. I keep asking for someone to talk to, but no one responds. The earth is muddy and cold and strewn with rubble.
I am pushed onto my knees, and then made to stand, and then ordered to kneel again. Soldiers keep asking in Arabic, “What’s your name? What’s your I.D. number?”
One by one, we are forced into a truck. Someone who is not moving lands on my lap. I fear that a soldier has thrown a corpse onto me, as a form of torture, but I am scared to speak. I whisper, “Are you alive?”
“Yes, man,” the person says, and I sigh with relief.
When the truck stops, we hear what sound like gunshots. I no longer feel my body. The soldiers give off a smell that reminds me of coffins. I find myself wishing that a heart attack would kill me.
Another man, maybe talking to himself, says quietly, “I need to be with my daughter and pregnant wife. Please.”
My eyes fill with tears. I imagine Maram and our kids on the other side of the checkpoint. They don’t have blankets or even enough clothes. I can hear female soldiers, chatting and laughing.
Suddenly, someone kicks me in the stomach. I fly back and hit the ground, breathless. I cry out in Arabic for my mother.
I am forced back onto my knees. There is no time to feel scared. A boot kicks me in the nose and mouth. I feel that I am almost finished, but the nightmare is not over.
When we exit the truck and my name is called, I am temporarily given my I.D. card. I feel a prick of hope. Maybe they are going to release us.
Inside a building, my blindfold is pulled off. A soldier is aiming an M-16 at my head. Another soldier, behind a computer, asks questions and takes a photo of me. Another numbered badge is fastened to my left arm. Then I see the doctor, who asks whether I suffer from chronic diseases or feel sick. He does not seem interested in my pain.
Back at the detention center, blindfolded again, we kneel painfully for hours. I try to sleep. A man moans nearby; another is hopeful that he will get to go back to the doctor. Late in the evening, a soldier calls my name. The shawish leads me to the gate, and a jeep comes to take me away.
When I wake, a soldier says something in English that I cannot believe.
“We are sorry about the mistake. You are going home.”
“Are you serious?”
Silence.
“I will go back to Gaza and be with my family?”
“Why wouldn’t I be serious?”
Another voice chimes in: “Isn’t this the writer?”
Back at the detention center, as I fall asleep, I think about the words “We are sorry about the mistake.” I wonder how many mistakes the Israeli Army has made, and whether they will say sorry to anyone else.
On Tuesday, about two days after I left the school, the man with the megaphone teaches us how to say good morning in Hebrew. “Boker Tov, Captain,” we say in unison. Some new detainees have arrived in an enclosure nearby, and the soldiers overseeing them seem to be having fun. They sing part of an Arabic children’s song, “Oh, my sheep!,” and order the detainees to say “Baa” in response.
After an hour, some soldiers approach. One has my I.D., and another drops a pair of slippers for me and tells me to walk. Then one of them says, “Release!”
I am so overjoyed that I thank him. I think about my wife and children. I hope that my parents and siblings are alive.
I spend about two hours at the place where I was interrogated, with the Hebrew music. I am given some food and water, but the soldiers never find my family’s passports. I climb into a jeep, surrounded by soldiers. After two hours, I can see around my blindfold that we are getting close to Gaza.
The soldiers get out, smoke, and return fully armed, wearing their vests and helmets. I am thinking about the man I recognized in line, and what he said about human shields. I am starting to wish that I could go back to the detention center when they give me my I.D. card.
Standing against a wall, I tell the closest soldier that I am scared.
“Do not feel scared. You will leave soon.”
My handcuffs are cut, and the blindfold is removed. I see the place where I had to take my clothes off. When I see new detainees waiting there, sadness overwhelms me.
I take off my slippers and start to run. Passersby are staring, but I don’t care. Suddenly, I spot an old friend, Mahdi, who once was the goalkeeper on my soccer team. “Mahdi! I’m lost—help me.”
“Mosab!” We hug each other.
“Your wife and kids are at the school next to the college,” he says. “Just turn left and walk for about two hundred metres.”
I cry as I run. Just when I start to worry that I have lost my way, I hear Yaffa’s voice. “Daddy!” She is the first piece of my puzzle. She seems healthy, and is eating an orange. When I ask where the rest of the family is, she takes my hand and pulls me as if I were a child.
I learn from Maram how lucky I was. She used my phone to inform friends around the world, who demanded my safe release. I think about the hundreds or thousands of Palestinians, many of them likely more talented than me, who were taken from the checkpoint. Their friends could not help them.
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Normal regular people should slowly plant themselves into the Wayne clan.
There’s this busboy that works with uncle TJ. Dick learns his name is Mikey when he stops by the restaurant. He hasn’t been since Bruce took him when he was 10.
the Bat has no idea the prodigal son returned to the nest. So Mikey’s suddenly babysitting a strange vigilante with the horsepower of 4 drunk girls in an Uber.
“It’s just so fucking frustrating because I WANT to be here but he doesn’t TELL me he wants me here! I want him to want me! I want him to say ‘hey, by the way, you’re my son, you’re always welcome here, I know you get lonely!’ But he doesn’t! He doesn’t! I miss Jason. This sandwich is so good. Thanks cousin.”
Mikey, who’s been working there for about a week, stares at the 300 dollar tip for a straight 30 minutes, wondering who Jason is.
From then on, the flock multiplies.
POV you’re cousin Mikey and Red Hood just walks in while you’re closing, covered in blood, and Spoiler’s leg is broken but she really wants a meatball sub, Signal asks why they upped the prices on the pizza, Orphan stares and nods her head and oh my god that’s an 8 year old with a sword:
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