“Mother! What’s happening? Who are these people?”, I could barely yell loud enough over everyone screaming.
“You have to leave, get out. The courts have told you already, this notice said you were supposed to evacuate this property last week, it’s scheduled for demolition, “ yelled a strange man with an authoritative voice.
“This is not your house, why are you people stealing our house! Ali, please go to your room.” My mom sounded frantic.
Evacuation? What do they mean? Why do we have to leave our house? My mom told me that our family has lived in this house for three generations. My grandfather Abdullah built this house 60 years ago, nestled next to the olive tree that my mom uses in my favorite hummus dish. I fondly remember climbing that tree many times with my friend Mohammed.
“Ali, get down out of there!” my grandfather would shout, always worried I’d damage the tree. Our house has so many hidden little areas. I remember my brother used to hide sweets in the ceiling during Ramadan, and sneak a bite of candy sometimes, but we had a pact not to tell my dad.
Suddenly, I heard my mother scream, the walls and ceilings of the house shook! Was it an earthquake?
“Ali, where are you, hurry, you must come, quickly!” Mom screamed with a terrifying tone of voice.
If it’s an earthquake, I’ll need my hardhat, I thought. I looked in my toy chest, found my hat, and rushed to the front door ready to help. But what I saw was terrifying, like giant teeth, penetrating through the wall, consuming the house. I ran through the door, and into my mother’s arms, and asked, “why is a monster eating our home?”
“The police are bulldozing our home, they want to steal it and give it to someone else, “ she said.
“But we’ve lived here for 60 years since grandfather built it. What did we do wrong?”
“Nothing, Ali.”
