A House With No Key (A Work of Modern Horror)

“A House with No Key”

“Home is not a place. It is the smell of bread baking at dawn, the sound of my father’s oud, and the laughter of a family whole. Home was mine, but now, home is a story I carry in my pocket, folded small like a map I can never follow.”

BEAT

When I was younger I stayed with my Jadda during the day so my mom could help my father at his store. He had worked hard all the way from selling warak diwali on the street corner to having his own general store. I took so much pride in knowing our neighbors went to see my dad if they needed milk or sugar. The store felt like the center the of the universe. We were watching TV when the news broke in and I was surrounded by images of violence. Jadda turned the TV off and it wasn’t soon after that my mom came home. I knew something was wrong. She was moving quick and it was midday. Abi’s shop didn’t close until 6 and it was definitely not six. 

“Mama, why are we packing so quickly? Why is Jabba shouting? Why are the soldiers banging on the Hamdan’s door?”

(Voice switches to a mother, strained but calm)

She said to me “Habibi, take your sister’s hand. Do not let go. We are going on an adventure. Hurry now, hurry.”
(Voice of the narrator, reflective and broken)

I loved the idea of adventures but life within Gaza discouraged us from actually having them. It was safe in the neighborhood. No soldiers to yell at us. No Hamas members to try and recruit boys my age. We could play. But adventure meant life outside of our city block. Adventure meant leaving. My father got home soon after and I told him I was scared of our adventure. He told me “Habibi, mufamara (the arabic word for adventure) is close to the word  mu’min. To be a Mu’min is to believe. Today we must all believe that things will be ok. 

I didn’t know at the time that our “adventure” would end in a tent, on soil that wasn’t ours, beneath a sky that felt foreign. The eviction was sudden, but the erasure? The erasure was slow.

INTRODUCTION: As of September 2024 there have been 45, 788 palestinian casualties since the beginning of the most recent gaza conflict. Of those fatalities half were children under the age of 14. We do not have to pick a side in the conflict to acknowledge that our children should never be the victims of the wars their parents decide to fight. All of us deserve a safe space to grow up. Even if it ends up being “A House With No Key” By Mahaa Hadaad

BEAT

We lived just south of Gaza City and as we loaded up we heard the incoming missiles that hit Al-Shifa Hospital. I had only been there once when my youngest sister was born. She was born the wrong way around and my mom had to have her delivered in a different way. My Abi’s brother lived in Rafah and we would sometimes go over for dinner. So the path was familiar. When we arrived though. We only saw my Aunt Aseel. She said my uncle Abdel had been taken by Israel soldiers earlier in the morning. She was holding my cousin Fatima who was two years old and the love of my life. She was like this little doll we could dress up and play with and she always smiled. Like always. Today though she just wanted down so she could go explore. Aseel’s apartment was small but Fatima, my sister and I had the run of the place as my father went to check on Abdel. He came back four hours later covered in dust with a swollen cheek and bleeding lips. We didn’t say anything and he immediately took my mom and aunt to another room to talk in hushed tones. 

All of the kids, including me, slept in the bedroom, while the adults stayed up in the other room talking. I couldn’t sleep and I was mad I had to be with the other kids so I stomped into the kitchen to get a drink of water. My father followed me and asked what was wrong. I got my glass of water and as I laid back down he sat down next to me. He fished something out of his pocket. 

Do you know what this is Habibi.

It was dark so I couldn’t tell but it looked small and I could see the light glancing off the metal.

This is a key to our house, and I will always carry it. 

“This,” he would say, “is proof that we belong. One day, we will open our door again.” and I believed him

The day after we heard news the IDF was going to bomb raffah next. All of us packed up again and headed to border crossing in Egypt. The adults had decided for our sake we needed out of Gaza at least until the fighting was over. 

As we got closer to the crossing we could see a huge crowd. No one was getting through and the crowd was starting to get angry. My dad turned to us and said something but we couldnt hear him because a sound like a plane only closer and louder drowned out even the noise of the crowd. We could hear a giant explosion a few blocks away and it was followed by another. All of us tried to hide by the fence. Eventually the bombing stopped and we tried to make our way back to the apartment. Except there was nothing left. It was just a giant hole in the street. People were pulling relatives out of the rubble. There was blood, and crying, lots of that. My dad talked to my aunt but all I heard was “how we he find us there? When he gets out how will he know”. My mom hugged her and eventually they turned to us. Girls, we are going to  Jabalia for the night. We immediately protested. Jabalia was a place for Palestinians whose houses had been destroyed or for Hamas families whose husbands had been arrested or killed. It was not a place we had been warned about. What ended our protests was my sister when she asked When can we go back home?”
I knew it in my mom’s face when she lied and said, “Soon, habibti, soon.” my dad quietly handed me his house key. He asked if I knew the way home and I nodded. He whispered, someday this will be over and we will follow you back to our home.
But the truth hung heavy in the air: home was no longer ours.

In Jabalia, I slept on scratchy blankets under a roof made of tarpaulin, dreaming of orange trees I could no longer touch. The camp was a city of whispers. Stories floated through the air like smoke:
“Did you hear about Amal’s brother? The soldiers took him last night.”
“Ahmed’s bakery was bulldozed.”
Every story was a piece of the same puzzle: loss, endless loss.

It became our routine. We would wait in lines for water or for food, or for other things we might be short of in the camp. Which was pretty much everything. For a few days we ran out of water and had to either brave the walk to another part of gaza or try and drink some of the water sitting our around the camp. Lots of kids did that but mom and dad would never let us. When Fatima tried to Aseel slapped her hand and handed her to me. I seemed to be the only one who Fatima would let hold her. Aseel handed her off and told us to go back to our tent. Just as we made our way we heard a giant explosion at the back of the complex. It made my ears ring and we were all blown off of our cots. 

In school, they taught us to dream big: doctor, engineer, artist. This wasn’t a dream though. There was dust, and blood. So much blood. People were calling for help. Or calling names of loved ones and I joined the other voices. My sister was out with my parents and Aseel looking for water. I took turns calling for all of them. I carried Fatima with me as I looked at all the rubble. Fatima was crying now and looked up with the big brown eyes and all she would see was OOMA.. 

I mean…. how do you dream when your future is a question mark? 

My aunt Aseel had this beautiful lebanese turquoise necklace and eventually we saw a body laying face down. Someone had dragged the body from the rubble already. I didn’t want to touch it. But the clothes looked similar. I gently shook her. Calling her name. Its then I noticed the necklace. It had been blown around so now the turquoise was sitting on the back of her neck. I turned and looked for someone to help and I noticed two sets of legs under a giant pile of cinderblock. They had my parents shoes. I called their names, I tried to pull the rubble off, but Fatima wouldn’t let me put her down. I begged anyone to help me. Those legs didn’t move. I cried until it got dark and a man told me I needed to head for the raffah crossing. He said they were letting some children out. 

At first I didn’t leave because there were two sets of shoes not three. My sister could still be here. But dusk turned into night and it got cold. Fatima was sleeping on my should now but she was heavy and I was confident I couldnt carry her by myself to the crossing. Something also told me I also knew if I didn’t make it there by the next day that we would never leave gaza. Part of me didn’t care anymore. Gaza had raised me, and now it was a graveyard. There were lots of kids sized graves why not add mine to it. I sat down on the side of the street and together Fatima and I slept. Not long after someone with a flashlight shined the light on my face and the voice of young woman asked where my parents were. I told her what happened and Fatima woke up and complained about being thirsty. The woman gave us a bottle of water and gestured to the car. I could see it wasn’t really a car but more like a van and it had a red cross painted on the top. 

She took us in that van to the crossing and we waited all day in line to get through. Towards the evening they started to turn people away. They were closing. This young woman grabbed both of us and pushed through the crowd. She shouted we have children here, please we have children. Fatima started wailing real good now. The guards shouted something. They wanted proof of which part of Gaza we were from. She gestured at us pointing out the blood on my shirt and the grime that covered Fatima’s face. They shook their head at her but one of them noticed what I was trying to show them in my hand. I had my dad’s key and on the fob was our address written clearly so none of us would ever forget. 127 Al-Azhar Road (opposite Islamic University), Rimal Quarter Gaza City. They nodded and let us through.

I thought about the stars that night, and how they shine on every home, every camp, every road.
“We are here,” I whispered to them, “and we still matter.”

“I am Palestinian. My home is in my memories, in the stories my father tells, and in the dreams my sister dared to dream. We are a people of keys and roots. One day, the world will see us—not as refugees, but as human beings longing for what was stolen: not just land. Land and addresses can change. My new address is Block 3 Tent 5. But rather longing for the dignity we lost and the homes that were destroyed.”

Until then I have my fathers key I just need to find the home that it will unlock. Or maybe the key was a talisman, not a tool. Its jagged teeth no longer will fit into a lock but now it fits perfectly into our wounds.