I saw him run across the field right after I had thrown my rifle on the ground from exhaustion. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I was sure I had seen him run across the minefield as if war had not just taken place. The indigo colored sky prevented me from seeing him clearly, but he was small, young, and mostly certainly Palestinian. My commanding officer had commissioned my unit to demolish all the terrorists’ homes. There was no way anyone could have survived. Grabbing my rifle out of habit and without hesitation, I moved into a nearby tunnel.
The Wall is my separation; I shall not cross.
The olive skinned body lay in the street, barely recognizable, blood flowing like the ocean hidden on the other side of the wall. Next to the mangled limbs were bags of ammonium nitrate, nails, tubes, protective gloves and wiring of all kinds. This kind of thing was typical in the barbed wire oasis called Gaza. The setting sun retreated in shame as the soldiers loomed over the blood and guts. A dismembered hand held on tightly to a crumbled sheet of paper. Plastered on the separation wall were words written in Hebrew, Arabic and English: do not cross.