Call for Freedom

The storm of anger roared deeply in the distance as the beads of sweat gathered heavily on the tip of the SWAT leader's nose. He gave them the sign and it began. Pillars of black smoke hung in the air, an ominous sign of the trouble broiling within. It blended together seamlessly in the afternoon air, leaving its origins a mystery.

A woman I had occasionally seen around town was now at the center of the commotion. She was pushing back the forceful train of SWAT members with what seemed to be superhuman strength. She was a baker. A local defending what we call home. Twenty three men dressed for combat and riot control budged forward, yet she would not leave her post. The hard, clear shields gathered dust yet pushed further, nearly knocking her on the ground. Her feet planted like deep roots within the sand, only a single lock of hair lost its place falling gently over her hardened skin.

People of the town and nearby villages were gathered, a thousand different tones of confusion were spoken as the SWAT members boots hit the dusty ground with every heartbeat- even the earth trembled. The crowds were chaotic, lost sheep running from a pack of hungry wolves. People gathered close to what they knew, each other, like a fence trying to protect the rest of the world from the horrifying moment in this little Israeli village.

We knew they were coming. We knew that they wouldn't know us, our language, or our village. We knew that it would be bad, but we had a dream of freedom and it was their mission. Knowing our government we were naturally scared but stories of compassion, gentleness, and hope began a chain of entwined tales of these soldiers. Stories of death and torture soon followed and traveled from merchant to merchant, parent to parent, and soon enough, child to child.

What started as a desperate call for freedom quickly led to a local Armageddon.