The author sat down at the computer. He felt like writing. Something like a love story, but also tied to the pressing themes of the day, so to speak, political. But what, what exactly... He ran his fingers over the keyboard, dusted it off, then opened Google Docs. His fingers began to clatter across the keys…

They called him Barry – for simplicity's sake. His real name was Baroye, but the Danes found it challenging to pronounce, whether because it was foreign or they just disliked it; anyway, it stuck as Barry. He didn't mind. He was glad he fit. He had somehow managed to get a visa for Denmark, where he had been studying medicine for years. There, he met Maraya – she was Palestinian like him, studying at the same university to become a nurse. One thing led to another—they liked each other and soon were dating…

…The author was interrupted by the ring of the front door. It was his wife, returning from the hospital where she worked as an internist. Mary was in a bad mood. She slapped the grocery bag onto the table and collapsed onto the sofa. The author, recognizing that his wife needed a minute or two to process whatever was tormenting her before she could share it, left her alone and began putting the groceries away.

"I made roast chicken with potatoes," the author called out from the kitchen. "Come eat."
Mary entered the kitchen and propped her chin in her hands. Her husband served her a plate, then one for himself. For a while, the two ate in silence.

"Tough day?" the author finally asked.
"Stupid day. Stupid people. Especially one nurse."
"What happened?"
"Because of that idiot, I almost lost a patient. I specifically told him—when we're giving intravenous medication to lower blood pressure, to monitor the patient’s blood pressure closely, and he went off to have lunch instead! The patient's blood pressure was below 70 systolic when he called me. What a nightmare! And all that because of some nurse's stupidity and carelessness."
"Well, did you kill  the patient?"
"Almost…" Mary sighed.
"Did you give the nurse a proper talking-to?"
"Of course! I spoke with his manager. She'll reprimand him. She might even come up with some punishment. I doubt she'll fire him, though."
"But they should!" the author declared with fervor.

His wife looked at him. He was teasing her. She smiled.

After dinner, they talked a little about what had happened during their day, watched a bit of TV, went to bed, and made love. Mary fell asleep. The author wasn't sleepy. He quietly slipped out of bed, into his slippers, and went to the computer. He caressed the keyboard again and reopened the document from before. He deleted everything and started over:

…How and in what manner—this is neither the time nor the place—but Baroye had somehow managed to get himself to Denmark. He had worked, saved up, and was studying to be a nurse at the university in the city where he lived. His studies were going well, and before long, he was caring for the sick in one of the city's hospitals. His life was good—he was sociable, had friends, and earned good money. Despite all this, he missed his homeland—the dusty streets of Rafah in Gaza, surrounded by ugly concrete blocks, were calling him.

They say nostalgia is like a clock—who said it isn't essential—the second hand hits 12 and your heart flutters; the minute hands hit 12 too, and the nostalgia presses down on you harder, but when all three hands hit 12—then you must go home. And so it was with Baroye. He abandoned his lovely apartment and his job in Copenhagen and returned home.

When he finally reached Rafah, he was struck by the Mediterranean air, with its salty smell, incomparable to anything else. Filled with excitement, he went to the apartment block where his mother and father lived with his two brothers. Then there were hugs, tears of joy, and, of course, an endless stream of questions—including how crazy he has to be to come back.
"Just for a little while," Baroye replied with a smile.

He stayed for a few weeks without doing much—he saw his old friends and relatives. He started feeling the urge to work, and he still felt at home in his country. He applied for a job at the hospital near his house, and even though the head nurse was surprised that someone who could work abroad would choose Gaza, she hired him.

The hospital in Rafah was quite different from the one in Copenhagen—sometimes there was a lack of medication and equipment, sometimes the conditions were downright archaic. Baroye quickly became friends with his colleagues. Not long after, he grew close to one of the doctors. To his surprise, he learned that she- her name was Maraya, like him, had graduated in Denmark—at a university on the other side of the city—and, like him, had chosen to return to Gaza. "Just for a little while," but that "little while" kept stretching on…

…Here, the author left a few blank lines. He didn't feel like writing a love story right now—maybe later he would add how they fell in love, went out together, and had three children.
"Later, later," he muttered under his breath, pressing Enter…

…Baroye and Maraya watched the news on TV in disbelief—the news about how Hamas had breached the wall and struck settlements beyond.
"What horror…" Baroye groaned. "The Jews have been waiting for this. They'll slaughter us. We won't be able to leave."
Maraya watched the television intently.
"The hospital will need help soon. A slaughter is coming…"

Yes, a slaughter came. For two years, Gaza was methodically razed to the ground. Baroye and Maraya helped at the hospital at first. When the hospital was bombed, they worked in annexes with archaic conditions, bandaging and hooking up systems to the wounded, the burned, the maimed, the horrified, screaming and crying people in pain, anger, and rage.

Baroye and Maraya somehow managed to get food. They had an acquaintance who speculated with aid food and would always give them a little. Over those two years, their family shrank—first his brothers, his mother, the youngest child, then the other two children, Baroye's father—they all became victims of bombs, malnutrition, disease, bullets, shells. In the end, only the two of them remained—Baroye and Maraya. They lived as if in a dream, more so a nightmare. As if in a dream, they buried their loved ones; as if in a dream, they went out for food - the friend who helped with food had long since disappeared; when they had time, they helped in a hastily assembled hospital that constantly moved locations to avoid being bombed. They didn't know this could be a life, but this was their life. Did they think of peace, you ask? They did not hope for peace.  They lived from day to day. 

One morning, Baroye went to stand in line for flour. The line was long—people crowded together with pots, pans, buckets, sacks, and bowls, waiting for some humanitarian organization to distribute food. They were moving through a tunnel with fencing on both sides and barbed wire on top. Baroye was in the middle when the soldiers overseeing them started shooting. Just like that—randomly, as a joke. Baroye was hit in the leg. Hopping on one foot, he tried to escape the crush. The second bullet hit him in the chest. That's how Baroye died—on the fine, hot sand of the beach in Rafah. Seagulls shrieked and circled above.

And Maraya? She is still there. Wandering through the ruins, helping the wounded and sick as best she can, still waiting for something. For what, you wonder? For retribution, justice, and punishment for all this evil? Or simply for tomorrow. Sometimes a person cannot afford to expect more…

…The author stretched. The little story was more or less done. Now it remained to polish it, add this and that, and include another, more detailed scene or two. But, so to speak, the "frame" of the story was ready. He yawned. It was time for bed. He was pleased with himself for having shown a civic stance. Yes—he had done enough. What else could he do? What else could be done? Maybe someday he would go to a protest, but probably not—he didn’t want to get arrested. After all, he lived a calm, orderly, and pleasant life. Why risk it with excessive protests and whatnot? For some Baroye or Maraya? Let others protest. There were more important things than that—like writing stories and earning money. He was tired of being supported by his wife. But that… well, in some other story.