Death

He That Judgeth Me Is the Lord
by ARedgrave

[Hey everyone. This is a new story I've been working on for the last three months. I'd really like to know what you guys think, and give some critical feedback; any factual/historical innacuracies, inconsistencies, or spelling/grammar mistakes, please tell me in the comments.

This story is so much longer, and heavier than anything I've ever tried before. Also, I'm still not sure if this can be counted specifically as a Creepypasta or not. Also, I apologise if the formatting is a bit wierd - I originally wrote this with Microsoft Word, and I have been having trouble adapting it to webpages. This is exactly 20 pages long, so if you've got the determination to read it all, then please let me know what you think! Thanks in advance!]

He that judgeth me is the Lord

Deuteronomy 21:8

"Be merciful, O Lord, unto thy people Israel, whom thou hast redeemed, and lay not innocent blood to thy people of Israel's charge. And the blood shall be forgiven them."

After a tense few minutes through the crumbling entrance arches, we proceed through in our large white van, prepared for anything. The brittle concrete arches evoke feelings of pity, destruction and despair. Two useless, withered flags in black, green, red and white are perched at the top, like wilted flowers, ready to fall from the hoist; one is half-burnt. There is supposed to be a wall surrounding the main entrance, but it has been partially destroyed by rocket fire. So far, no efforts have been made to repair them. In general, most buildings we have seen thus far look as if they should be condemned. No exception awaits us, as we enter the camp and behold the pitiful sight on our journey.

We see poorly-constructed buildings, some of them collapsed into the ground foundations, others looking ready to fall at any moment. We see scores of naked children, grieving adults, and despondent mothers, sisters, foraging for broken pieces of bricks, and metal to construct their own shanty town dwellings. We make our way a limited space within the centre, where there is some level of space and respite from the horrible ruins that define this God forsaken land. Facing us is a large concrete wall, with an inscription written upon it, in Arabic. I ask my guide what the inscription says. He tells me it’s a famous passage from the Qur’an. It reads:

''And say not of those who are killed in the Way of Allah, "They are dead." Nay, they are living, but you perceive not.

Now, we park, and my guide-cum-interpreter, Imran and I disembark from the van, and open both doors, bracing ourselves for the imminent assault on our bodily senses. The heat is the first thing to attack us - it is a hostile, unforgiving summer in July, where the temperature is said to be as high as 30^oc. Already it seems as if I am ready to break into a sweat. When I consider that this is not the highest recording temperature for the region, and that it is not even noon yet, I only feel more uncomfortable. In an instant, we also encounter the nasty, unbearable stench of raw human faeces, urine and vomit, that lies thick through the warm air. Imran holds his hand to his mouth, and his nose, and I see him reach for a handkerchief. I calmly proceed to the rear doors of the van.
                                    This is Jabaliya Refugee camp. The largest of the 8 camps within the Gaza strip, this place houses over 100,000 Palestinian refugees. All of the inhabitants situated here live in misery, squalor and everlasting despair. First constructed in 1948, following the end of the first Israeli civil war and the establishment of the Independent Jewish state, Palestinians flocked here, hoping that one day they would be able to return to their homeland. But that day did not come, and peace in the Holy land seems more elusive than ever.

To the best of my knowledge, I will try and give a shallow history lesson. With 1948 witnessing the firm introduction of the Jewish state, and mass immigration of the European Jews fleeing persecution from Hitler’s Third Reich empire, many Palestinians resented this massive influx of people settling on their nation. The conflict only escalated. The Jews were seen as troublesome invaders, living in occupied lands, and their right to exist was not recognised by any of the neighbouring Arab countries. Surrounded by hostile Muslim nations determined to banish the settlers, Israel was subjected to another war, nearly 20 years later in the year 1967, with the armies of Egypt, Syria, Jordan, and Iraq all determined to annihilate her. But impressively, against overwhelming odds and impossibly outnumbered, the Jewish people bravely resisted the all-out onslaught, and in just 6 days won a decisive victory, and thus the territorial lines of Israel were redrawn. Her opponents begrudgingly had no choice but to accept Israel’s right to existence, and hegemony over all Palestinian land. Out of nowhere, and in the span of barely half a century, the downtrodden, oppressed, unwelcome Jewish diaspora had returned and reclaimed their promised land, and created a permanent home for themselves, just as prophesised in the Bible.

However, it was from this point on, when Israel’s attitude to its Palestinian neighbours began to change, and began to lose international support for its cause. To describe Israel’s annexation and occupation of Arab Palestine for the past 6 decades in the most pithy and expressive way that I possibly can, David became Goliath. Israel’s leadership ignored and rejected UN Resolution 242, demanding that Israel return all lands captured in the six-day war to the Palestinians, and it only expanded more and more, allowing only three areas of land for the Muslim inhabitants, the West Bank, which was originally part of Jordan, the Gaza strip, along with the entire Sinai peninsula, both of which originally belonged to Egypt, and to the North, the Golan Heights of Syria. Under Israel’s uncompromising reign of the right-wing Likud party, Israel created more and more settlements in Arab land that violated international law, and with the brute force of the Israeli army, evicted more and more Palestinians from their houses through unlawful seizure. As decades went by, the Palestinian cause was attracting more and more supporters. Palestinians started to resist the occupation, first through protests, then through violence. Then, in the year 1987, everything came to a head, in a tense 5 year Palestinian uprising, known as the First Intifada. The Palestinian cause became globally appreciated, and the IDF resorted to fierce measures to put down the uprising. But under intense scrutiny from the United Nations, the clandestine nature behind Israel’s occupation and it’s foundation was finally coming to light. Eventually, Israel gave in and returned the Sinai peninsula to Egypt, but still maintained control of the Gaza strip. And given the historical significance of East Jerusalem and the West Bank to Jewish tradition and Hebrew scripture, the Israelis refused to compromise and give West Jerusalem to the Arabs. Then, at the turn of the millennium, another Intifada – The Second Intifada occurred, but this one was far bloodier - more violent, with more civilian casualties on both sides. This period saw waves of suicide bombers and terrorists attacking the Israeli capital, with equally brutal retaliation by the IDF.

Then, on the 14^th August, in the year 2005, in the face of growing support for a plan that would see Israel return to the pre-1967 borders, the then prime minister of Israel, Ariel Sharon, made a bold and daring move. He announced that all Israelis (military personnel, citizen settlers, etc.) would immediately withdraw and evacuate from Gaza. With Gaza no longer under Israeli control, it was believed that the Palestinians would enjoy a scrap of that personal freedom that they had so long craved, and the violence would eventually cease. But it was not so. In truth, Israel never really did withdraw from Gaza. In fact, in many ways, the Gazans are now even worse off than they used to be. Because Gaza is so completely isolated and cut off from Israel through gigantic security walls, and with every basic facilities such as electricity, water and food supplies under Israeli control, Gaza is completely dependent on Israel as life support, making Gaza de facto under Israeli suzerainty. Currently, as things stand, Gaza has only one working power station, which is only able to provide 6 to 7 hours of electricity per day. Most of the water that exists here, which comes from either well springs, or water suppliers is undrinkable, and filled with all manner of harmful diseases and parasites. Because Gaza has no working sewage system, gallons of raw, untreated sewage from refugee houses, is pumped straight out into the Mediterranean ocean. The environmental damages notwithstanding, the water is completely unsafe for even handling, let alone drinking. And recently, things have gotten much worse.

 Crucially, only one week ago, in response to rocket fire from Hamas, Israeli Defence Forces unleashed a fierce barrage of airstrikes and drone attacks in retaliation, which caused considerable damage to the coast near Khan Younis, and as a result, permanently damaged the West Coastal Aquifer, which is – or rather, was Gaza’s only working desalination plant. Now, the Gazans have no source of clean drinking water. And with the ruthless, murderous summer heat looming over, draining their energy and threatening their lives, foreign and humanitarian aid is the only hope these refugees have, if they are to survive.

                  And that’s what brings me here. Four years ago, I signed up to take part in a volunteering programme organised by a British-based International charity organisation known as White Cross, co-ordinated by the United Nations Work and Relief Agency for Palestine (UNRWA), to travel within the 8 refugee camps, and distribute food, clothing and cold, clean bottled water to the locals. Now, in light of everything that has happened, I am here again today, helping these casualties who are struggling to survive. This is all temporary, until Hamas finishes construction of a new, fully-functional water desalination plant, which will probably take half a year to finish. In the meantime, this is the only clean water they will ever have to drink, so the lives of the Palestinians are currently in our hands. All employees of the UNRWA are funded and salaried by the United Nations, and by donors. But not me - I’m not doing this for the money. I’m simply fulfilling the duty of the Lord.

As we struggle against the intense heat and the stench of raw sewage, Imran and I retrieve stacks of cold bottled water from the van, and lower them to the ground. Now that the locals can see what we are doing, I hear cheers and exclamations of joy – children point towards us, when they see what we’ve brought them. Christmas in July. The sights of eager young boys wearing torn clothes, with warm and hopeful smiles on their faces brings a smile to Imran’s face. He forages through the packaging, and retrieves two bottles, and calls them over, in Arabic. I call them over too, but in English, since I can’t speak or understand any Arabic. Before long, hundreds of people; mostly children are crowded round our van, in the centre of the camp rejoicing, holding out their hands, with more pleasance and gratitude than desperation. Now, the quiet, desolate wasteland that is Jabaliya refugee camp, is alive with laughter, cheers, rejoicing and song. Lost in the spirit of his own generosity, Imran starts vividly throwing them into the crowd, like he is giving out free prizes. I calmly do the same. The crowd becomes uncontrollably large. It is hard to believe that so many people can fit within a place as small as 1.4 square kilometres.

As I distribute the bottled water high into the air, and watch as the young children catch them in their hands, I think of what Bee would say, if she was here with me. No doubt, her face would light up in that delectable, radiant way, with tears in her eyes, and she would definitely say to me: “Isn’t it wonderful, Daniel? To give to the poor, and embrace them in the warmth of the Lord’s blessing?”

It certainly can be. Many judge acts of kindness not by their intentions, but by their results. But what people don’t realise, is that times of trouble are meant to be used as opportunities to show compassion and mercy – and it is the motivation behind these acts that determines how kind we are, in our hearts. Even though, from an outside perspective, what we are currently doing is considered trivial and inconsequential on its own, they will need more water delivered to them in the next couple of hours  –  it’s the intention that matters most. In any case, that was certainly what she believed.

Psalms 41:1

"Blessed is he that considereth the poor: the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble."

While I am busy handing out supplies to the crowd which only continues to grow larger and larger, I start to think deeply and reminisce about the past. How much I miss her, and how I wish she was still here by my side. I miss her delightful, benevolent smile. Reflecting on her beauty, her youthful vivacity, and her everlasting charisma makes me sad, as I realise I cannot hold her in my arms like I used to, all those years ago.

It was long back in Secondary school, when we first met. I was always the shy and quiet, shaggy-haired teenager who never really spoke to or mixed with anyone, and thus I didn’t have many friends. Most people found me either annoying, or just a bit weird; generally people avoided me. I was never chosen as a partner for school work in any classes, and when the lunch bell rang, I would always spend my time reading in the library. But that all changed, on the beginning of our 10^th year, she was introduced to our Form class. Beatrice Cohen was her name, but her nickname was simply “Bee”. She looked geeky, but in a really sweet way, with luscious, curled chestnut hair, deep brown angel’s eyes, a long, narrow and delicate nose, shining metallic braces over her teeth, and would never be seen with her reading glasses. She had a moderately sun-kissed complexion that was halfway between white and bronze; barely noticeable at first, until you compared her with the other girls in class, and saw the difference. She was not conventionally attractive, per se, but she still caught my eye, and unlike most girls I’d ever known, she had something that truly set her apart from the rest – a heart of pure gold. Once she made her entrance in our form class, she enthusiastically became acquainted with the rest of the class, blissfully ignoring and overstepping the unspoken, cynical mores of student behaviour. At one point, she came over and introduced herself to me, asking my name, and details about myself. I’d never known any girl show that much interest in someone like me, even if this were just a formality – it still felt unique. Then when I sheepishly told her who I was and answered her questions, she gave me a warm hug for no real reason, and told me that she “love(d)” me. I’d seen her do the same thing with everybody else in the form class, but it felt so special to me. No pretty looking girl had ever shown that much interest in me before. It was scary, I first remember thinking. But I was curious, and wanted to know more about her, so I started talking with and sitting next to her more often. She devoted more time to me than any of my other classmates, and that was when I began to notice her warmth and compassion, which only made her become more and more beautiful in my eyes. Although she came from a Jewish family, they were not the regular, orthodox type, but instead, they were Messianic Jews - a religious minority that combined elements of Christianity, with the traditions of Judaism, and Hebrew culture. Only a really small number of them live here in Britain. Before we met, I’d never really known much about either Judaism or Christianity – being a wilful agnostic, I didn’t know the first thing about religion, nor did I ever care to know.

Her mother, she told me, was Romanian. Her father, British-born was more conservative, but as she provoked more and more debate with him, and they spent more time together, he grew to love her very much. Bee explained to me that it was not impossible to reconcile and believe in both the ancient wisdom contained in the Old Testament, with the forgiveness and mercy found in the New Testament. She still attended the synagogue, took part in traditional ceremonies, celebrated Hanukkah, and spoke modest Hebrew, but meanwhile, she felt personally inspired by the message of Christ, and it was her evangelical zeal in promoting his love, that encouraged her to change peoples’ lives for the better. Every day at school, she would step beyond her comfort zone and engage in dialogue with other students, asking what they believed in, and why they believed it. Unfortunately, this did not make her popular at all. Instead, it only made her the butt of jokes. Because of the arrogant secularism contained within the climate of British schools, you see, religion as a topic is often dismissed out of hand as an evil or malevolent force, and when it wasn’t being blacklisted in everyday discussion due to fear of causing offence, it was often mercilessly derided, and seen by many as a silly, outdated and childish fantasy. Anybody who openly preached what they believed in would be openly mocked and teased. Bee was certainly no exception. People would call her names, like “God-Bothering Bee”, “Beesus”, “Bee the Bible shagger” and such like; they’d never resist the opportunity to poke fun at her. But she never took these insults personally, because she genuinely believed in turning the other cheek. And despite what all the other students thought, I saw something special in her. She won me over with her enthusiasm, I guess. I was never raised to be religious – I was baptised at birth, but only out of a nod for tradition, nothing more. But as Bee and I became good friends, she encouraged me more and more to read the Holy Bible, and it was not long before I did take a personal interest. I was not sure if I believed in God. But she converted me. She told me that Jesus was a real person who lived and died, she spent all day talking about how he resisted the hatred, how he stood fast against the temptation of Satan, and sacrificed himself to atone for the sins of mankind. At first I only started reading the Bible for her sake. But the more and more I read, the more it all made sense. The more the passages of the New, and the Old Testament began to resonate within me. Surely, she persuaded me, we are all unique creations in God’s image. And I came to realise that there must surely be an all-knowing, all-powerful entity somewhere in the universe, who monitors our actions, our words and our thoughts both before and after they happen, just as He prepares to render His Final Judgement upon humankind.

Sweat falls from my brow and the nape of my neck, as I am almost finished lobbing water bottles to the poor children. The stack of bottles is almost empty. It may be time to retrieve another one from the van. Imran gleefully assists me with the next load. The noise of the multitudes of refugees is louder than ever, as bounteous praise and calls of thirst are showered upon us. While Imran and I lower the next box to the ground, I survey the increasing crowd once more. And soon I find myself once again lost in thought…

We would spend many months debating the stories and the moral values of Bible together, in particular, the advantages of forgiveness over revenge. Though Bee was very outspoken and vocal about what she believed in, she was always willing to engage in argument and view her Holy book critically; to consider her opponent’s point of view. Yes, she acknowledged, religion had throughout history been the justification of mass persecution of heretics, non-believers, homosexuals, and people with different beliefs often led to wars and brutal conflict. But conflict, she warns, is neither preached nor praised, let alone justified in the New Testament. Jesus was a man who preached love and tolerance to the end. What was the most violent thing he ever did? He overthrew the tables of the merchants in his Father’s holy temple – because with their thoughtless commercial activity and blind sacrilege, they had made His house of prayer into a “den for thieves.” Jesus would have forgiven anything, so long as the trespasser was repentant, and willing to embrace the Lord, and never to sin once more. Only he who is without sin should cast the first stone. This was perhaps the main area of discussion in which we would probably have our more vicious debates.

“Really?” I would ask her. “But aren’t there be some crimes that are so horrible, so evil, that they cannot be forgiven under any circumstances?”

Bee would tut and shake her head coyly. “No – that’s precisely it. Because Jesus’s mission was to save all of humanity from eternal Hellfire and damnation. The only way to turn them away from sin, is to make them acknowledge their human flaws, make them repent.”

This would only lead down the road of more discussion, as to whether some human beings would never see the error in their ways, and whether they were worth saving. It was only inevitable, I reasoned, that I should ask her what she thought about Hitler.

Her response left me in stunned silence: “Well, practically my entire family on my grandmother’s side was wiped out, so- don’t tell my parents about this… but… yes - I’d forgive him! Even for the crimes he’d committed against my people. As long as he embraces the teachings of Jesus, and repents 6 million times, for the 6 million Jews he killed and finally embraces their rights as citizens!”

I was so shocked by the extreme nature of her beliefs – and could not find myself in a position to agree with her. I’d always thought that the ability to forgive was a strength, over choosing to resent them over time, but what she told me there and then was just plain ridiculous. I had to argue back; I actually shouted at her. Not that this was a personal matter; my grandparents were still alive, and I had no trace of Jewishness in my blood. But it felt just so contrary to what I believed in, and I felt that it went against basic common sense. I don’t know what gave me the right to be so arrogant, but suddenly I felt that I was the expert, and she the unenlightened. It resulted in me making her cry. I knew instantly that I had gone too far. I soon repented, and she forgave me. We laughed about the whole thing afterwards.

Leviticus 19:18

"Thou shalt not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people. But thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself: I am the Lord."

For some time now, I had come to realise, that in spite of our differences in upbringing, and our intense theological debate, I was deeply in love with her. She was not just beautiful to me, in spirit and in appearance, but she was also my best, and closest friend. We always ate our lunches together. We held hands together as we walked back from school. People laughed, jeered, and wolf-whistled at us, as we walked by, making sexual comments here and there. But we didn’t care. She loved me too. Of course, we all know that within religious context, “love” is infinitely flexible; she did after all say that she “love(d)” me when we first me too. But she grew attached to me in the same way that I did with her. I forget when, what exact day it was that we had our first kiss, but I’ll never forget the kiss. The warmth of her lips, her silent contentment, and her passionate grip against my shoulders, while I stroked her long hair. It was unlike anything I imagined before. I never thought I’d find myself loved and valued by a woman. I always saw myself as an outcast; a reject. I never thought fairy tale romances happened to weirdos like me – I never thought I was worthy of a woman’s attention. It was such an unexpected, and wonderful feeling. Already I knew who it was, the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

She later took me to see her family. Of course, her father, God bless him, was initially reluctant to allow her daughter be seen in the household with a Gentile. Tradition, and all that. But when we knocked on the door to her house together, and he saw us together, how happy we looked, he told me later in confidence that his heart melted there and then. Contrary to what Bee told me, he was actually a cheerfully humorous man, short and portly, with a thick bushy moustache, hairy arms with frizzy, greying-brown hair, and a long, prominent nose – unmistakably the same nose that Bee had grown up to inherit. He was a chemist by trade, who worked for the NHS. Bee’s mother was one of the loveliest, kindest women I ever met. Bee often joked with me about how stereotypical Jewish mothers were always supposed to be uber-strict, annoyingly clingy, and when they weren’t busy trying to play matchmaker with their children, were often unnecessarily sceptical about who they would bring into the house. I wasn’t aware of it then, and I’m still not aware of it now. She received me with wonderful kindness, and nor did even she resist the opportunity to laugh at her own expense. When we sat in prayer over the table that evening, and as the father recited a Hebrew prayer, I could see that I was warmly accepted as a part of their family. I looked in her parents’ eyes - they knew it as well.

Shortly after my 18^th birthday, once we had both finished our A-levels, that was when I made the fateful decision of asking her to marry me. Even as I uttered those words to her, the way her pupils dilated, her expression of paralysed shock and awe, all assured me that there was no way she could possibly refuse. She spontaneously snatched me in her arms there and then in a loving hug, and squeezed me so hard that I couldn’t breathe, tearfully, she wailed that the answer was yes, and she would love me forever. It was the happiest day of my life – outranking by far the kiss. Initially, I was a little concerned as to how her parents would react, I’d heard that mixing with goyim is said to be frowned upon in the Torah. But I learned over time that beyond their rigid adherence to Hebrew and Christian scripture, all her parents wanted was for their daughter to be happy, and they knew beyond reasonable doubt that I was the one she loved. They embraced me as their new son-in-law. Already, we were barely adults, and making plans for our wedding. But that day never came.

1 Samuel 24:12-13 -

"The Lord judge between me and thee, and the Lord avenge me of thee: but mine hand shall not be upon thee. As saith the proverb of the ancients, Wickedness proceedeth from the wicked: but mine hand shall not be upon thee."'

Now that Imran and I have finished distributing the water, we stand leaning over each other’s shoulders triumphantly, looking into what we have achieved. A small, shirtless boy approaches us gleefully, holding a half-drunk bottle in his hand, and says something to the two of us. Imran starts to converse with him in Arabic. I ask what he is saying. Imran tells me that the young boy’s name is Yusuf, and today he has just turned four years old – today is his birthday. He says he was born here, in Jabaliya camp, and he has 5 older brothers, and two sisters. Yusuf looks at the two of us, and gleefully thanks us for the cold water.
                                    Imran bends down, and gives the small child a big hug, and lifts him into the air. I watch as he plays joyously with the boy, carrying him around, pretending to be a fighter jet. It’s a very touching scene. This was just how Bee liked to treat the refugee children as well, I remember. She would plant affectionate kisses on their foreheads, and hug them tenderly, like she was their real mother. She liked nothing more than to be kind and charitable. It was what defined her. When I think about her personality, I sometimes think that even without her fervent belief in God and Jesus, she would still be living a life devoted to charity and kindness. It was in her soul. The teachings of the Bible alone are insufficient to turn people to righteousness – there must be a kindly soul who must be willing, loyal and ready to give them a fair interpretation. Bee was all of those things. For as long as I knew her, all she ever wanted for nothing other than to see others happy. No man or woman ever matched her compassion, her love for humanity, and her extreme altruism. Least of all, me. And nor was she vain either. She always held the belief, that acts of kindness should have no motivation other than for its own sake.  Because compassion was the ultimate end of all humanity, and the only way to be granted passage into the Kingdom of Heaven.

Imran lowers the child to the ground. A large, veiled woman, with two young boys alongside her, and a bulging stomach, calls out his name. She is his mother. They have a brief exchange in Arabic, and the boy shows his half-consumed water bottle, and produces it to her. The woman gives us a toothless smile, and earnestly thanks both of us. We see that she also has a bottle of her own. Imran asks Yusuf what he wants to be when he is older. He says excitedly that when he is grown up, he want to be a shahid – a Muslim martyr. Imran grimaces, and giggles nervously for no reason. He is not sure what to say.

Psalms 1:6 -

"For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous: but the way of the ungodly shall perish."

It was a year after we met and became close with each other, we were both 16 years old, sat together watching television, that we witnessed something which changed our lives. We were both watching dull late-night TV together, and about to stop, when until a BBC documentary came on air, about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Bee immediately took an interest in this, insisting we both watch it – for it was important to her. While she considered herself a Christian in outlook and perspective, she still fiercely retained the pride of being Jewish, and had long dreamt of one day living and working in God’s Holy city. This documentary revealed the unpleasant nature behind Israel’s governance – particularly, its cruel, oppressive treatment of the Palestinians. I forget what it was called, or who presented it. The documentary showed harrowing footage from reporters, who travelled from the West Bank, to the refugee camps in trans-Jordan, all the way over to the Gaza strip. We saw dreadful, graphic footage of bleeding children, wounded by bullets and shrapnel. We were shown frantic scenes within a makeshift A&E hospital housing numerous grieving families, all fearing for their lives, as the reporter passionately interacted with them, and they told their stories and witness accounts.

I noticed that Bee had fallen completely silent throughout the whole thing. This was unlike her – normally she was always in a talkative, chipper mood, especially when watching television. But she lay still in deep, solemn silence, as she took in everything that was being said. I could tell that this was clearly having an effect on her.  

We were shown footage of Hamas soldiers, and survivors of IDF rocket attacks, and they told of how their houses had been completely destroyed. How every aspect of their lives was governed by Israeli bureaucracy, from food and water, to the electricity, to their education. They commented on how, as each day went past, they constantly lived in fear of a brutal reprisal from Israeli forces. They explained how the Israeli soldiers had a notorious policy of collective punishment – how villages and communities paid the price for the destructive actions of rogue Palestinian terrorists. We saw shocking footage of explosions in the city of Hebron, dead bodies, men, women and children all running for their lives, while reporters took cover from bullets and artillery fire.

The report ended with a very damning speech, denouncing Israel’s criminal occupation, how the place known to the world as “The Holy Land”, was in actual fact, little more than a religious apartheid state. While the Israeli Jews lived healthy, fulfilling lives, blissfully ignorant, beyond the outskirts of their comfortable houses and safe cities and past the gigantic security fence, lay another world, where the Palestinian Arabs lived in oppression, destitution, and misery. The narrator lambasted the smugness and callousness of the Israeli president, Benjamin Netanyahu, when he claimed that the Palestinian leadership was entirely to blame for the conflict. The reporter vociferously condemned the West Bank Wall which she declared to be a violation of the 1967 “Green Line”, and by extension, a violation of human rights, and how it was being used as a means of annexation, to segregate the Palestinians and deny them their “right of return” to their land. She passionately drew attention to Israel’s appalling track record for human rights against Palestinian protestors and activists throughout history, citing historical examples to prove her point that the Israeli government was not interested in a Two-state solution.
“As long as we…” she solemnly concluded “…turn a blind eye to this unspeakable evil that we know is happening, then we continue to accept it, and let the Israeli Government get away with their crimes.”

Bee was absolutely heartbroken by what she saw. I could see from within her eyes, that her soul had been shattered. Her parents had always talked about Jerusalem as if it were the most wonderful place on earth – a city of righteous, God-fearing and peaceful people; and they had always praised their history as one of survival against trials and tribulations - how they had erected their own country from a small scrap of land to the beacon of liberty and tolerance in the Middle East Desert within as little as 20 years. Now, all her core beliefs had all been shaken. Suddenly, she felt sick, like she’d been lied to for her whole entire life.

“This is not fair… Why?” she lamented,

“How can God’s people do this? This is just so wrong… Those poor Palestinians…”

From that moment on, Bee changed. While she still retained her optimism, her love for the Human race and her joy, she had soon become consumed, inflamed by a new sense of purpose. She resolved to dedicate her life to help put an end to the Israeli-Palestinian struggle – to stop the injustice in her heartland, and to do all she could to help the suffering. Naturally, I too became devoted to her cause. Because I loved Bee, and worshipped the ground she walked on, I too wanted to accompany her in her quest to improve the lives of the Palestinians, and make a stand against the cruel regime of the Israelis. Not because I was a good person; I certainly wasn’t. But because I knew it was what she desperately wanted.

But her parents were furious, when she told them about what she planned to do. They told her that what she saw on the television was all rubbish; one-sided, biased anti-Semitic propaganda that only gave a slanted view of Israeli history by leaving out crucial details of the wars, the wave of terrorist attacks by Hamas, how uncooperative the Palestinian leadership has been in peace negotiations, just to fit their convenient narrative. The argument got so intense, I knew I could not be there to witness it. What that day taught me, was that all Jewish people deep down feel a spiritual connection with their ancestral homeland. While Jews might be divided on the issue of Zionism and the Holy Land, the very controversial nature of the subject alone was likely to arouse strong feelings in them, and inevitably, lead to arguments. It was a little frightening, and for so many reasons I wish they had never ended up having this conversation.

That was 6 years ago. Two years after that, once Bee and I finished our A-levels, and became engaged, she had decided to do what she had long been planning, spend her Gap Year participating in global Humanitarian aid programmes; and in particular, she had her sights set on helping the refugees in the camps in and around Israel. Even at this point, her parents were still reluctant to let her go. I suppose, they were both proud for her determination to help the poor, but they really only wanted what was best for her. They warned her that she was still only a young girl, just 18 years old – with so much to learn about life, and human nature. But Bee was stubborn, and assured them that she was doing God’s work. This was also, she told them, for her personal enrichment, to understand the world better, and prepare her later in life, when she would study medicine at University, and ambition to become a doctor.

After much coaxing, and realising that her mind was absolutely made up, Bee’s father, whose name was Simon by the way, made me swear that I would personally look after her, and make sure she didn’t do anything stupid or dangerous. Of course, I naturally accepted. I would do anything for her, and I vowed that would return together, and in time we would be husband and wife.

Psalms 93:1-2 –

"O Lord God, to whom revenge belongeth; O God, to whom vengeance belongeth, shew thyself. Lift up thyself, thou judge of the earth: render a reward to the proud."

Now that Imran and I are finished, we stroll through the urban wasteland. He smiles at me,

feeling pleased with what we have done. He tells me about how the Qur’an also encourages kindness, and how both Jesus and Mohammed both were both messengers of the same God. Contrary to popular belief, Allah was not simply the name of the Muslim God, Allah was actually the Arabic name for “God”, within all monotheistic religions. It is a contraction of the words “Al-” and “ilah”, meaning “The God”. So, he explains, Christians in Arab countries also believe in Allah.
Imran tells me, that he too wants to see an end to the suffering of the Palestinians and at least within his lifetime, see the day when Israel tears down the walls, and agrees to a Two-state solution, and for peace to reign supreme. He says he is “dying of thirst” in the heat, and retrieves a bottle from his pocket, to help himself to a “cheeky sip” of the charity water. I glare at him with no expression at all.

Yusuf starts to follow us, as if he wants to play. His mother calls after him, but he is in a

playful, defiant mood. I look in the pale, blue sky, to see a bird hovering over our heads. That’s strange, I think. How can birds live around here, in an area so hazardous, so devoid of life? What kind of bird could that be? My first thought is maybe a pigeon – pigeons can survive almost anywhere. Or perhaps it’s a vulture, waiting to feast on the corpses of the dead. I am not an ornithologist, so I conclude that I’ll never know in my lifetime.

Now, I stand in what I have calculated to be the very centre of the camp. I look around,

surveying the entire land, so engrossed in what I see, that the stench and the heat do not bother me. I look to my right, and I move closer to a heap of junk, from a car that has been destroyed. That’s it, I see. That’s where Bee and I stood together. That was where we gave out water, blankets, and food to the children. We watched the sun hover in its zenith from beyond the horizon together side by side, that day, and blessed the Lord for not failing to provide even trace amounts of beauty, in such ugly, Godforsaken areas. Imran calls after me, but I cannot hear what he says. I am busy, deep in thought about the past, and the future.

2 Chronicles 6:23 -

"Then hear thou from heaven, and do, and judge thy servants, by requiting the wicked, by recompensing his way upon his own head; and by justifying the righteous, by giving him according to his righteousness."

I was a little unsure of what to think, when we first touched down at Tel Aviv, but both of us had a wonderful time exploring the Holy Land. I’d seen postcard pictures of the Golden Dome before, but never seen it up close before. It was a strange feeling – and I liked it. I felt like I was privileged in a way, to be standing before such an important, historical artefact. I felt even stranger when I stopped to consider all the people who must have died for this dome. One building worth more than thousands of lives. Bee and I even took a corny-looking selfie in front of the Wailing Wall.

The Charity that hosted our arrived and sponsored our activity was known as the White Cross. A smaller charity working in conjunction with, and under the main management of the UNRWA, and by extension, the United Nations. But most of what they did was funded by donations from home. It didn’t matter that what we did was not ground-breaking, it was just really kind – and we weren’t simpletons. Both of us knew we would never end the Middle-East conflict on our own. But we wanted to play our part. Being exposed to the horrors within the camps – the starved, the sick, and the dying opened up a whole layer of emotions in Bee’s heart, that bordered on maternal instinct.

Both Palestinian adults and children were in awe of her kindness, and her loving nature. She stroked infant babies, and cradled them to sleep. She kissed their foreheads, she hugged them warm and tightly. She tried practising Arabic, though with little success. It is a difficult language to learn. But the language of kindness and love is universal, as she always preached, and everyone recognises it when they see it. Because love is motivated by the soul. And all human beings, whether they are aware of it or otherwise, she reasoned, have one and are guided by it.

Revelation 21:1-8

And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea.

And I John saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband.

And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God.

And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things have passed away.

And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new. And he said unto me, Write: for these words are true and faithful.

And he said unto me, It is done. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely.

He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son.

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Hey everyone,

I have this idea for a story that takes place in Sacramento, CA. It's about a detective who's chasing after a serial killer/cannibal who has kidnapped her own son. I'd really like to know more about how they operate - what number codes and jargon they use (particularly over radio comms) so I can make the story authentic; can anybody recommend some useful reading material to me (books/websites/online journals etc?)

Many thanks