War fiction - One Last harvest.

This story is based on the real-life events surrounding the tragic killing of Hind Rajab, a seven-year-old girl from Gaza who was killed alongside her family and two other paramedics. The narrative is told from the perspective of her teddy bear Loulou, who was with her when she took her last breath.

Harvest season had never arrived this early before. It had taken everything and left nothing behind—nothing but dust and the shriveled tips of strawberries, dry and lifeless. The land had been stripped bare, not by the hands that plucked with care, but by something else. Something merciless.

She loved strawberries. Loved how they stained her tiny fingers, how their juice dripped down her chin, sticky and tart. Red had always been her favorite color. She had a dress with the same shade—the kind of red that would stain too easily, not too dark and not too light. It was her favorite Eid dress. She liked to believe that when she wore it in the fields, she could disappear between the rows and for the longest time ever, her entire world had been wrapped in the shades of these strawberries.

But now, the air smelled like oranges. She never liked oranges. They were too mild, too bitter. She missed the taste of strawberries, their sweetness, enough to make the world feel safe. She used to have them for breakfast, lunch and even dinner, she would always eat them. She wanted them now. Needed them. Anything to chase away the cloying scent of the mild oranges.

She stepped outside to search. The streets were empty. Dust filled in the air. There was nothing but the wind sweeping through the remains. Maybe the people of Tel al-Hawa had eaten all the strawberries and left. Just like that.

Gone without saying goodbye.

She wandered the streets, checked every corner, every broken doorway, but there wasn’t a single strawberry to be found.

And then, standing in the middle of the road, she understood.

Red was everywhere. But not the kind of red she knew.

It didn’t glisten in the sun, didn’t smell of summer. It pooled in places it shouldn’t be, soaked into the ground, smeared against the walls.

"Did they turn into strawberries?"

"Did they eat all the strawberries and leave me alone?"

"Did Mama and Baba melt into the red stains on the street?"

She was only five. She was innocent. Her entire world had been wrapped around those strawberries—her family, her memories, and the dreams she once had. The dreams she would never live to see.

Then, in the distance, she saw it. A basket. A huge one. Filled to the brim with strawberries, their redness shimmering like a mirage. It was far, at least a mile away, but she could see it so clearly. The brightest thing left in her world.

"Strawberries!" , she gasped

She ran.

She ran faster than she had ever run before, her little feet pounding against the ground, dust flying up behind her. The basket was waiting. It had to be real.

It had to be.

But before she could reach it, the street came alive with fire and sound. A thunderous crack split the air, and then another, and another

and another.

and another.

and another.

I felt it before she did.

The first bullet shattered the basket in her hands. The second tore through her left arm. The third pierced her right. The fourth found its way between her ribs. The fifth turned her dress a deeper shade of red—strawberry red. Then another struck her tiny heart.

And another,

And another.

She didn’t even scream.

Her beautiful red dress darkened, the fabric drinking in the color, stained forever. Her body shuddered, then crumpled to the ground.

I was in her arms when they shot her again,

And again,

And again.

The harvest was now complete.

Three hundred and thirty-five times, they mapped her body with bullets as if she was something that could be erased. Three hundred and thirty-five bullets to silence one little girl who once admired strawberries.

But I remember.

I remember everything.

I was there when she took her first breath, and I was there when she took her last. I was in her arms when she whispered for her mother. When she called for someone to save her. When her voice grew softer and softer until she said nothing at all.

And I am still there, buried in the rubble, my fur matted with dust’s redness, not the strawberries’ but Hind’s. I am here, listening to the silence she left behind, waiting.

Waiting for someone to come.

Waiting for someone to tell the world what they did to Hind Rajab.