By Mark Van Houten
You cross the threshold of a fractured doorframe at the entrance to a building in shambles. You step gingerly over splintered wood chips jabbing up from the cracked tile floor. You scan the darkness anticipating confrontation, but rather spy a weeping woman, crumbled, and shrouded in a burka covered in thick dust. You notice that she is clasping a lifeless child. Both are framed by a chalkboard imprinted with happy faced cartoons and Arabic lettering. You stop and shut your eyes in dismay for just a brief moment.
Your commander signals you to advance. The grey haze of fresh gunpowder stings your nostrils and reddens your eyes already tearing with sadness. Your forward gaze is distracted momentarily by a shattered windowpane that frames a sun-drenched street, where frantic people drag dead bodies away from rumbling tanks. Worrying thoughts of family in Tel Aviv distract your attention. Your teeth jitter and vibrate with apprehension. The cold edge of the rifle trigger felt strange to a finger accustomed to holding a classroom pencil.
Your commander points to a gaping hole in the flooring situated at the far end of the room. You approach cautiously. Two men in battle fatigues slowly emerge with hands raised as a sign of surrender. You move toward them haltingly.
Then a third man arises from within the hole. He is hiding behind the two men, and you see that he is cupping the mouth of a woman wearing leisure shorts. She is squinting into the daylight, and squirming in abject panicked. You see the man pressing his revolver against her head.
The man gestures to you to step aside and allow him to pass. You do not breath for fear of doing the wrong thing. Sweat drips down your cheeks. Your spine stiffens. The urge to take action wells up and nearly overwhelms you, but you wait. His grinning eyes lock onto yours, as he drags the woman toward the doorway.
You hear a shot ring out from the barrel of a marksman at the window. His bullet drops the man, releasing his grip on the woman, who falls to the floor and weeps. You exhale a giddy breath of relief.
Your commander signals you to advance. Your pulse quickens, as you approach the hole, now clearly a tunnel shaft. Peering anxiously into the darkness you are repulsed by the malodorous scent of human waste and shocked by the distant cries and wails of woman and children buried deep underground. Your shoulders drop and your head bows, as you exhale a deep sigh of relief.
These hostages will be free.
—The End