MahaShiva
Magistrate
A little something that I wrote up many years ago and was recently brought up by our friend Phlebas, whose artwork inspired it at the time. It's been moved from Phlebas' pics-found thread so as not to jammed it up over there.
Yael's Ordeal
"Pull back! Pull back! Pull back!"
Lieutenant David Livni crept hurriedly along the low stone wall that served as his platoon's latest defense line, and ordered the soldiers to abandoned their posts in the face of the angry crowd of Palestinian demonstrators.
Sergeant Yosef Katz, the senior sergeant of the platoon, stopped him.
"Sir, Private Kirshner is still trapped in the rock house," the sergeant reported.
"Yael Kirshner?" Lieutenant Livni stuck his head over the wall and glanced at the isolated rock house, now completely surrounded by the Palestinians. "I thought I ordered everybody to withdraw to this stone wall."
"They cut her off before she could get out."
"Damn! Is she still shooting over their heads?" Lieutenant Livni asked.
"I'm afraid so," Sergeant Katz sighed.
Lieutenant Livni stuck his head out again to survey the scene, and was hit by a fist-sized rock squarely on the top of his helmet. Immediately, the soldiers opened fire, cutting down the rock-thrower and several others around him, but the Palestinian crowd, at least four or five hundreds strong, continued to press on.
"I can't risk more lives on a hopeless rescue mission," the young lieutenant made his decision. "Not when everybody can see on TV that these bastards only have rocks and sticks to fight us with. We have to pull back right now."
"But what about Yael?" Sergeant Katz pleaded.
"Aryeh," Lieutenant Livni turned to his radio operator, "tell them to send a tank. Tell them it's an emergency rescue."
"Sir," Sergeant Katz protested, "every platoon in the country is asking for tanks!"
"Aryeh," Lieutenant Livni shouted over the sergeant's words, "make sure they understand: the defense minister's granddaughter is trapped behind enemy line!"
Private Yael Kirshner crouched in a corner on the second floor of the rock house, listening to the terrifying roar of the crowd outside the windows, now coming from all four sides of the house. She could see her rifle shaking in her sweaty palms, and feel her heart beating wildly in her throat.
Rocks flew into the room with increased intensity, shattering what remained of the windows, and raining tiny shards of broken glass all over her olive green uniform. Over the chorus of excited yells, she was able to distinguish a youthful voice shouting in an unmistakably commanding tone: "He's still inside! The Israeli is still inside! Let's go in and get him!"
Barely three months out of high school and less than four weeks out of basic training, Yael was at the end of her wits as to how to deal with the dire straits she had found herself in. Realistically, she knew her capture by the Arab mob was all but certain, and no longer concerned herself about escaping the fate. It was the memory of all the atrocities committed by both sides in this age-old conflict that filled her heart with anxiety.
She had stopped firing her rifle from the window. By now, it was quite clear that the Palestinians had also realized she had been shooting only into the air. She wondered whether she would fire at them when they came upstairs to take her prisoner, and quickly decided that she could never bring herself to shoot unarmed men and women, even if they meant to do her great harm.
"Remember," she recalled a Youths for Peace councilor once telling a joint assembly of Palestinian and Israeli youths, "oftentimes self-sacrifice is the only gateway to the realm of peace."
Although she was no longer sure it would be of any benefit to the elusive goal of lasting peace in her homeland, Yael was fully prepared to sacrifice herself. But she was not going to sacrifice her new comrades in the platoon along with her. To make sure of that, she had to destroy the rifle, which was of no more use to her. She would never let it fall into the hands of the mob.
With well-trained proficiency, Yael removed the bolt from the rifle, and hid it in a pile of ash in a pot belly stove.
Gradually, the rocks stopped flying in, and for a brief moment, it was eerily calm inside the room. At the same time, however, she could hear the heavy footsteps of several people coming cautiously up the wooden stairs.
Yael stood up, brushed the glass shards off herself, and straightened her hair and her uniform. As the footsteps proceeded to the door in front of her, she found her heart strangely at peace, and all the fear and anxiety that had engulfed her just moments before had evaporated like morning mist under the sun.
The door was kicked in, and a group of Palestinians burst into the room. Their apparent leader, a dark-skinned young man with curly hair, a long scar across the face, and fiery eyes under thick, connected eyebrows, approached her with a baseball bat held threatening over his shoulder.
"Drop the gun!" he ordered.
Yael tossed the rifle aside.
"I didn't kill anyone," she said, calmly.
The young man lowered his baseball bat, and then, without warning, he slapped her hard across the face, sending her flying to a corner of the room.
Eighteen-year-old Abed Abdullah al-Khalid, commander of the local Hamas youth movement, was much surprised to find that the Israeli soldier they had cornered was a women--a girl, in fact, of roughly his own age. Her rimless glasses, loosely tied pony-tail, and skinny figure made her look more like one of those naïve Israeli high school girls running around preaching fruitlessly for peace and reconciliation than one of Israel's fabled female warriors, even in her well-cut green uniform. Her lightly tanned face, unspoiled by make-up, reminded him of his own girlfriend, and her deep brown eyes, even with a fleeting glimpse of fear, spoke of little hostility but much honesty.
Under a different circumstance, Abed might persuade himself to bring her back to the Israelis to exchange for his own comrades now held prisoners; but not on this day. Twelve young men and boys from his organization lay dead in the streets of his town, at least four were taken by the Israelis, more than thirty had been injured; and this lone Israeli soldier, whether a 100-kg burly butcher or a petite girl half that size, was the only thing he had to show for three hours of battling against the IDF.
Across the room, Abed's cousin and lieutenant Ali was beating the Israeli girl without mercy.
"Where is the rifle bolt?" Ali barked in the girl's face. Receiving no response, he swung his fist almost a full circle, and hit her on the left cheek, where a print of Abed's hand was still visible.
The girl fell hard against the wall, but immediately began to struggle back to her feet. As soon as she stood up, Ali punched her in the stomach, forcing her to drop on her knees and bend over in pain.
"Where is the rifle bolt?" Again he demanded, and again the Israeli girl quietly got back on her feet, like a stubborn boxer in a decidedly mismatched fight. She stared Ali straight in the face, boldly and challengingly, her eyes now filled with defiance.
Enraged, Ali picked up Abed's baseball bat, but was stopped by his cousin and commander.
"It's no use," Abed told Ali. "She's not going to talk."
He took Ali's place in front of the Israeli girl, and grabbed the collars of her shirt. Before she could react, he tore the shirt wide open, sending buttons flying through the air.
The Israeli girl gasped in surprise, and instinctively attempted to cross her arms in front of her chest. But Ali and another man quickly took a hold of her wrists, and forcefully twisted her arms behind her back.
Abed drew a knife from his belt, and held it before the Israeli girl's face. As she turned her face away and squeezed her eyes shut, he struck with the knife--not into her flesh, but into her shirt. With a few well-placed cuts, he did away with the front of the shirt, and reduced its backside into tattered strips.
Then he turned his attention to the Israeli girl's pants. Loosening her green canvas belt, he pushed the pants down to her knees, leaving the squirming girl standing in little more than her white cotton bra and panties. The girl tried to put up a fight, even making an effort to kick him, but the strong hands of Abed's men rendered her resistance an exercise of pure futility.
With the Israeli girl's slender body gradually exposed before his eyes, Abed found himself in a rush of excitement. It was the same excitement he felt three years before, when he and Ali cornered a small Israeli boy on his way to school and beat him half to death. And it was in every adrenaline-laden pounding of the heart the same excitement he felt six month before, when he and Ali raped a Jewish settler's new bride and left her nude body hanging by the neck over the couple's wedding bed. It was an excitement he could not describe, nor quite understand; but as long as it was an Israeli he was hurting, he knew he liked the feeling.
Again drawing his knife, he sliced the straps of the Israeli girl's bra and the sides of her panties, and stripped her of this last defense of her modesty. One of his men walked over to the window, and triumphantly held up the shredded lingerie for the crowd below. "It's a female!" he announced. Immediately, the crowd burst into loud cheers.
Another man approached the Israeli girl with his own knife in hand.
"Abed, should I cut her open now?" he asked, matter-of-factly.
"No," Abed answered, as he picked up the useless rifle and laid it across the girl's shoulders, behind her neck. "Tie her hands to the rifle. We are taking her for a walk."
He glanced at the broken glass littering the floor, and a nearly undetectable smile crept to the corners of his mouth.
"One more thing," he added to his order, "get rid of her boots and socks."
(To be continued due to excessive number of characters...)
Yael's Ordeal
"Pull back! Pull back! Pull back!"
Lieutenant David Livni crept hurriedly along the low stone wall that served as his platoon's latest defense line, and ordered the soldiers to abandoned their posts in the face of the angry crowd of Palestinian demonstrators.
Sergeant Yosef Katz, the senior sergeant of the platoon, stopped him.
"Sir, Private Kirshner is still trapped in the rock house," the sergeant reported.
"Yael Kirshner?" Lieutenant Livni stuck his head over the wall and glanced at the isolated rock house, now completely surrounded by the Palestinians. "I thought I ordered everybody to withdraw to this stone wall."
"They cut her off before she could get out."
"Damn! Is she still shooting over their heads?" Lieutenant Livni asked.
"I'm afraid so," Sergeant Katz sighed.
Lieutenant Livni stuck his head out again to survey the scene, and was hit by a fist-sized rock squarely on the top of his helmet. Immediately, the soldiers opened fire, cutting down the rock-thrower and several others around him, but the Palestinian crowd, at least four or five hundreds strong, continued to press on.
"I can't risk more lives on a hopeless rescue mission," the young lieutenant made his decision. "Not when everybody can see on TV that these bastards only have rocks and sticks to fight us with. We have to pull back right now."
"But what about Yael?" Sergeant Katz pleaded.
"Aryeh," Lieutenant Livni turned to his radio operator, "tell them to send a tank. Tell them it's an emergency rescue."
"Sir," Sergeant Katz protested, "every platoon in the country is asking for tanks!"
"Aryeh," Lieutenant Livni shouted over the sergeant's words, "make sure they understand: the defense minister's granddaughter is trapped behind enemy line!"
Private Yael Kirshner crouched in a corner on the second floor of the rock house, listening to the terrifying roar of the crowd outside the windows, now coming from all four sides of the house. She could see her rifle shaking in her sweaty palms, and feel her heart beating wildly in her throat.
Rocks flew into the room with increased intensity, shattering what remained of the windows, and raining tiny shards of broken glass all over her olive green uniform. Over the chorus of excited yells, she was able to distinguish a youthful voice shouting in an unmistakably commanding tone: "He's still inside! The Israeli is still inside! Let's go in and get him!"
Barely three months out of high school and less than four weeks out of basic training, Yael was at the end of her wits as to how to deal with the dire straits she had found herself in. Realistically, she knew her capture by the Arab mob was all but certain, and no longer concerned herself about escaping the fate. It was the memory of all the atrocities committed by both sides in this age-old conflict that filled her heart with anxiety.
She had stopped firing her rifle from the window. By now, it was quite clear that the Palestinians had also realized she had been shooting only into the air. She wondered whether she would fire at them when they came upstairs to take her prisoner, and quickly decided that she could never bring herself to shoot unarmed men and women, even if they meant to do her great harm.
"Remember," she recalled a Youths for Peace councilor once telling a joint assembly of Palestinian and Israeli youths, "oftentimes self-sacrifice is the only gateway to the realm of peace."
Although she was no longer sure it would be of any benefit to the elusive goal of lasting peace in her homeland, Yael was fully prepared to sacrifice herself. But she was not going to sacrifice her new comrades in the platoon along with her. To make sure of that, she had to destroy the rifle, which was of no more use to her. She would never let it fall into the hands of the mob.
With well-trained proficiency, Yael removed the bolt from the rifle, and hid it in a pile of ash in a pot belly stove.
Gradually, the rocks stopped flying in, and for a brief moment, it was eerily calm inside the room. At the same time, however, she could hear the heavy footsteps of several people coming cautiously up the wooden stairs.
Yael stood up, brushed the glass shards off herself, and straightened her hair and her uniform. As the footsteps proceeded to the door in front of her, she found her heart strangely at peace, and all the fear and anxiety that had engulfed her just moments before had evaporated like morning mist under the sun.
The door was kicked in, and a group of Palestinians burst into the room. Their apparent leader, a dark-skinned young man with curly hair, a long scar across the face, and fiery eyes under thick, connected eyebrows, approached her with a baseball bat held threatening over his shoulder.
"Drop the gun!" he ordered.
Yael tossed the rifle aside.
"I didn't kill anyone," she said, calmly.
The young man lowered his baseball bat, and then, without warning, he slapped her hard across the face, sending her flying to a corner of the room.
Eighteen-year-old Abed Abdullah al-Khalid, commander of the local Hamas youth movement, was much surprised to find that the Israeli soldier they had cornered was a women--a girl, in fact, of roughly his own age. Her rimless glasses, loosely tied pony-tail, and skinny figure made her look more like one of those naïve Israeli high school girls running around preaching fruitlessly for peace and reconciliation than one of Israel's fabled female warriors, even in her well-cut green uniform. Her lightly tanned face, unspoiled by make-up, reminded him of his own girlfriend, and her deep brown eyes, even with a fleeting glimpse of fear, spoke of little hostility but much honesty.
Under a different circumstance, Abed might persuade himself to bring her back to the Israelis to exchange for his own comrades now held prisoners; but not on this day. Twelve young men and boys from his organization lay dead in the streets of his town, at least four were taken by the Israelis, more than thirty had been injured; and this lone Israeli soldier, whether a 100-kg burly butcher or a petite girl half that size, was the only thing he had to show for three hours of battling against the IDF.
Across the room, Abed's cousin and lieutenant Ali was beating the Israeli girl without mercy.
"Where is the rifle bolt?" Ali barked in the girl's face. Receiving no response, he swung his fist almost a full circle, and hit her on the left cheek, where a print of Abed's hand was still visible.
The girl fell hard against the wall, but immediately began to struggle back to her feet. As soon as she stood up, Ali punched her in the stomach, forcing her to drop on her knees and bend over in pain.
"Where is the rifle bolt?" Again he demanded, and again the Israeli girl quietly got back on her feet, like a stubborn boxer in a decidedly mismatched fight. She stared Ali straight in the face, boldly and challengingly, her eyes now filled with defiance.
Enraged, Ali picked up Abed's baseball bat, but was stopped by his cousin and commander.
"It's no use," Abed told Ali. "She's not going to talk."
He took Ali's place in front of the Israeli girl, and grabbed the collars of her shirt. Before she could react, he tore the shirt wide open, sending buttons flying through the air.
The Israeli girl gasped in surprise, and instinctively attempted to cross her arms in front of her chest. But Ali and another man quickly took a hold of her wrists, and forcefully twisted her arms behind her back.
Abed drew a knife from his belt, and held it before the Israeli girl's face. As she turned her face away and squeezed her eyes shut, he struck with the knife--not into her flesh, but into her shirt. With a few well-placed cuts, he did away with the front of the shirt, and reduced its backside into tattered strips.
Then he turned his attention to the Israeli girl's pants. Loosening her green canvas belt, he pushed the pants down to her knees, leaving the squirming girl standing in little more than her white cotton bra and panties. The girl tried to put up a fight, even making an effort to kick him, but the strong hands of Abed's men rendered her resistance an exercise of pure futility.
With the Israeli girl's slender body gradually exposed before his eyes, Abed found himself in a rush of excitement. It was the same excitement he felt three years before, when he and Ali cornered a small Israeli boy on his way to school and beat him half to death. And it was in every adrenaline-laden pounding of the heart the same excitement he felt six month before, when he and Ali raped a Jewish settler's new bride and left her nude body hanging by the neck over the couple's wedding bed. It was an excitement he could not describe, nor quite understand; but as long as it was an Israeli he was hurting, he knew he liked the feeling.
Again drawing his knife, he sliced the straps of the Israeli girl's bra and the sides of her panties, and stripped her of this last defense of her modesty. One of his men walked over to the window, and triumphantly held up the shredded lingerie for the crowd below. "It's a female!" he announced. Immediately, the crowd burst into loud cheers.
Another man approached the Israeli girl with his own knife in hand.
"Abed, should I cut her open now?" he asked, matter-of-factly.
"No," Abed answered, as he picked up the useless rifle and laid it across the girl's shoulders, behind her neck. "Tie her hands to the rifle. We are taking her for a walk."
He glanced at the broken glass littering the floor, and a nearly undetectable smile crept to the corners of his mouth.
"One more thing," he added to his order, "get rid of her boots and socks."
(To be continued due to excessive number of characters...)