248: Chapter 248 The Hand Holding the Candy

In the footage:

A boy of seven or eight lay on a crude stretcher, his left leg mangled by an explosion, blood seeping through the gauze. He didn't cry, but merely bit his lip and stared at the ceiling. The female doctor beside him—formerly a primary school teacher who had taught herself first aid after the war broke out—was cleaning the wound with disinfectant. Her gloves were torn, her fingers coming into direct contact with the medicinal fluid and fresh blood.

"Does it hurt?" the doctor asked softly.

The boy shook his head.

"What is your name?"

"Karim."

"Karim, you are very brave," the doctor said, pulling a piece of candy from her pocket—it was part of her three-day ration. "Here, a reward."

The boy took the candy but didn't eat it; instead, he held it in his palm.

The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the boy's hand. Small and stained with blood and dust, his palm tightly gripped that piece of cheap candy.

The next scene:

In a corner of the hospital, a dozen children were huddled together. Some had lost their parents, while others had been separated from their families. A girl of about twelve—her name was Laila—was telling a story to the younger children. It was a story about a little bird and how it crossed the desert to find an oasis.

"The little bird flew and flew. It was very tired and very thirsty. But it did not give up, because it knew the oasis was just ahead."

The children listened with wide eyes.

Laila's voice was soft, but in the silence of the underground hospital, it was clearly captured by the microphone.

"Finally, the little bird found the oasis. There was water, trees, and flowers. It drank its fill and built a nest in a tree. From then on, it never had to fly again."

A five-year-old girl asked, "Will we be able to find an oasis too?"

Laila stroked her head. "We will. As long as we are like the little bird and don't give up."

The camera slowly pulled back, capturing the children's dirty faces and the faint but steady light in their eyes.

Filming the lives of civilians was even more dangerous.

The film crew needed to operate above ground, where Squid Nation snipers and drones could appear at any moment.

They chose to film in the early morning—the relatively safest time of the day.

Scene:

In the courtyard of a half-collapsed house, three women gathered around a simple stove made from an oil drum. A large pot sat on the stove, cooking thin wheat porridge. The grain had been collected the night before from a United Nations aid convoy—150 grams per person per day, barely enough to sustain life.

"Add more water today," the oldest woman said. "Make the porridge thinner so we can serve a few more bowls."

"But the children need nutrition..." another young mother hesitated.

"It's better than nothing."

They silently stirred the porridge in the pot. There were very few grains of wheat; it was mostly water. But there were no complaints on their faces, only focus.

The pot boiled, and steam rose.

The women began to distribute the porridge. Using worn-out bowls, they carefully scooped it out, ensuring each bowl had the same amount. Then, carrying the bowls, they walked toward other families hiding under the ruins.

"Abdul's family, three bowls."

"Samir's family, two bowls."

"The widow Khadija, one bowl."

The camera followed them, recording every grateful face as they received a bowl, recording the children sipping the porridge, and recording an old man pouring half his bowl for his grandson: "Grandpa isn't hungry, you eat more."

There was no narration, no music.

Only the sounds of reality: the light clinking of spoons against bowls, the sound of swallowing, and the faint sound of artillery fire in the distance.

Filming the soldiers' part was the most difficult.

Sinwar personally selected three families. They all lived in Gaza, and all had relatives fighting in the Resistance Organization.

The first family:

The father, Ahmed, forty-two years old, used to be a construction worker. His eldest son, Omar, nineteen, had joined the Resistance Organization three months ago.

It was evening, and Omar was about to set out on a night patrol mission.

"Take this with you." Ahmed handed his son a cloth bundle.

"What is it?"

"Flatbread your mother made. It's cold and hard, but... it's better than nothing."

Omar took the bundle and stuffed it into his backpack. He put on his jacket and checked his rifle, his movements more practiced than one would expect from a nineteen-year-old youth.

"Dad," he said at the door, turning around. "I'm leaving."

Ahmed stood up and walked to his son. He didn't hug him, but simply patted his son on the shoulder.

"Be careful."

"I know."

"If... if things don't look right, don't try to be a hero. Come back alive."

Omar smiled—a smile unique to the young, tinged with a bit of fearlessness. "Don't worry, Dad. I'm your son, after all."

He pushed open the door and walked into the twilight.

The camera stayed inside. Ahmed stood at the door, watching the direction where his son had disappeared for a long time. Then, he turned back to the table, sat down, and covered his face with his hands.

There was no sound of crying.

But his shoulders were trembling slightly.

The second family:

The mother, Fatima, thirty-eight years old, had lost her husband in an airstrike a year ago. She had two sons, sixteen-year-old Khalid and fourteen-year-old Adil. Both had joined the Resistance Organization's Youth Auxiliary—they didn't fight directly but were responsible for transporting supplies and delivering messages.

"Mom, we're leaving," Khalid said.

Fatima didn't speak; she just stepped forward and straightened the collars of her two sons' clothes. Her movements were slow and meticulous, as if it were the most important thing in the world.

"Come back early."

"Okay."

"If... if you encounter danger, remember what your father said."

"We remember: 'Only by staying alive can one fight'."

Fatima nodded. She watched her two sons walk out of the house and into the alley. Not until they disappeared around the corner did she turn back into the room, kneel on the ground, and begin to pray.

The third family was the most special:

This was a newlywed couple. The husband, Mahmoud, twenty-five, was a sniper for the Resistance Organization; the wife, Nadia, twenty-three, was a teacher at an underground school.

Mahmoud had a mission tonight—he was to lie in wait at a high point in the north of the city to monitor enemy movements.

"I might not be back until tomorrow morning," Mahmoud said while checking the scope of his sniper rifle.

Nadia was preparing a water flask and dry rations for him. She didn't look at her husband, but merely said in a low voice, "I'll wait for you."

"Don't wait. Go to sleep first."

"I'll wait for you."

Mahmoud looked up at his wife. The two locked eyes for a few seconds, then he put down his rifle, walked over, and embraced her.

It was a light embrace that broke quickly.

"I'm leaving."

"Mhm."

Mahmoud slung his gear over his shoulder and walked toward the door. At the threshold, he paused, and without looking back, he simply said:

"If I don't come back..."

"You will come back," Nadia interrupted him. "You said you wanted to watch our child grow up."

Mahmoud smiled. It was a bitter yet tender smile.