  I think he thinks that watching me is a chore and I don’t want to be chore. I want to be Irfan’s little sister, just that, only that.
(smiles) You know something, Sami. I still didn’t give it to Irfan. I wanted to, the day you died, but I couldn’t. I wanted it, I wanted something - anything - to remember you by. He had your clothes, your chores, the rest of your room, your everything but all I had was memories. Nothing real, memorable. I needed it. I needed to remember you. But, I am losing you. (voice breaks) Your voice, your face. I can’t remember you. This (clutches the object) is all have and I’m not going to give it. I won’t. I just won’t.
Irfan, a twelve year old who is a both an older and younger sibling.
Prologue: Two young boys sit in an alleyway, side by side. The shadow rests upon them, making their figures indescribable. They are both silent, waiting for the other to start. In the distance, the bustling of a market can be heard.
Doing all of your homework?
So, Avi... It’s been a while, hasn’t it?
What happened? You just kinda disappeared for a few weeks there.
Your dad? Again?
I know. Your house isn’t that far from here and it’s not like we o anything but sit here and talk... Except for that one time.
What? You don’t remember?
 The third floor, how was that possible. Honestly, the managers of that building should have praised you instead of chasing us down.
Yeah, because I didn’t do it.
Fours years. But, your face when your dad stopped us from running all of town. (pauses) Priceless.
Life is life. Me and Noor are going back to school, so that doesn’t take up most of the time, then helping around the house will.
Oh, yeah. You don’t know. Mom got a job.
I know. I never thought she get one too, but she landed the job a few weeks ago. So, money isn’t that big of an issue now. It’s just that she’s not around as much, so I have to watch Noor. But, I don’t mind because she’s happy. And, she hasn’t been this happy since dad died. And, since she happy, I’m happy.
Yeah. But, some people don’t like her having a job.
Like the neighbors. The women used come around the house and talk about her. They say she needs to get married. That “a woman like her shouldn’t be trying to get a job.” That “she could get that she could get married easily.” But, Mom said she isn’t interested in getting married. She has a job now, so she doesn’t need anybody except us.
People keep saying that she should get married because she needs a man in her life.
I don’t know. But, they say she will have a hard time without a husband.
She said that she can deal with anything people throw at her. She believes in herself. And, I have to believe in her, too. You know, for support. Anyway, how’s your family?
I never pictured your mom as a reporter. But, I never picture my mom as a reporter either, so...
My mom is a reporter, now.
Yeah, maybe they’ll work together. And, search for stories together. And, report crime together. That would be cool.
It’s okay. It’s been two years now, if I’m not over it by now, I never will be.
I told you it’s not your fault. It’s not your fault he died.
I know, okay. It’s just that I don’t like talking about him.
Because he was killed.
Because he’s was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Because the bag he was carrying looked suspicious and when they called him, he didn’t stop walking. Because he didn’t here them call his name. Because it was busy and the soldiers calling his name probably got mixed in the rest of the noises. Because it was late. Because he was a young teenage boy. Because he was a young Palestinian teenage boy. Because he wanted to get home to the rest of us. Because we were hungry and Mom had stay us and Sami was the only one who could get it. Because, we were young. Because Dad was working that night. Because, he went to the store across town to the best pick. Because he wanted the best for him and his family. Because the bag looked to be stuffed to the rim as the soldiers say. Because milk, bread and chick peas that were covered his blood could have been “carrying explosives” as the police put it.
Because it was my birthday. Because we were suppose to celebrate. Because it was suppose to be safe and fun and safe. Because nothing bad was should have happened.
(jumps to his feet, eyes moist with unshed tears) Because I know. Because I’m his brother. Because I still remember my father yelling and my mother crying and my confusion when I saw Sami, my big brother, my role model, my savior, my Sami laying on the living room, deathly still, bloody to bits, so pale I thought he was a ghost.
Because, Avi. Just because.
Imad, a teenager who sells newspaper in the cit of Cairo, Egypt.
Prologue: An Egyptian teenager sells newspaper though he doesn’t see a need to buy one.
Paper! Paper! Get your paper! Only three pounds! The best news! The newest news! The only news! Only three pounds! Get your paper!
The news gets old quick. It’s the same thing everyday. Someone dies everyday.  It’s simple. You can’t expect death. It’s a daily occurrence.
Something that I wonder why people even bother to read about.
“A suicidal bomber killed a man, and two children - one six, the other four. Hamas has taken responsibility for the bombing and the police begin to investigate. The U.N. says that it will not stand for such...” Or something of the like. The cover of the newspaper is always something depressing about how someone died. It’s obvious. If you already know that death, mayhem and destruction conclude what’s inside of those pages, why buy the paper in the first place?
Sure, I feel sorry for those individuals trapped in Gaza, but death happens. I know that they are stuck inside with the borders surrounding their country and I feel sorry for them. But, there is nothing I can do. I’ve excepted it and the people need to to Gaza need to as well.
But, what about us? The people of Egypt. Sure, the Palestinians have dealing with that issue for so long. But here we are, being portrayed as the bad guys? Because somehow, Israeli taking Gaza soil is my problem. Because apparently, those who are dying, there blood has written my name. And, there’s a way, just a way, that ties in all the world’s problems back to me.
The thing is, though, I never asked for any of this. Truth be told, I’d rather have the Palestinians have a way out. I’d rather not have their blood spilled for the cause of “all of” Egypt’s apparent stupidity. He doesn’t speak this government does not speak for me. Heck, this country doesn’t even speak for me anymore. The people don’t have a say. We’re stuck, too. We want change that will never come. Just like Palestinians, however, we’re seen as the bad guys. The people of Egypt are stuck in the in between. Our voice has no voice. So, why should theirs, the Palestinians, matter?
Paper! Paper! Come get your paper!
Harrison, a activist in his later years.
Prologue: A middle-aged man is paces his office, in search of his glasses.
Where did I put those blasted glasses?
When did Mitchell said?
At least, no later than 10.
I need to finish this and soon. Eliza expects home before then.
What is this? Ancient Greek? And, these pictures? Just how many pixels is this?
I work with amateurs.
I feel sorry for these people, the people of Gaza. They live with everything they need, but never can access their wants or desires. The want to get out of that hellish excuse for a country. For Pete’s sake, half the population is under the age of nineteen. It’s like this conflict is being waged with kids. Young, unlucky kids who are stuck inside those walls for some apparent reason that is bigger than the whole lot of us.
Sure, those people have water and food and medicine, but what about the things that matter even more. How about a stable home, a safe environment, an ideal education? What about those things are so deadly that people should deprived of?
And, where are those damned glasses? I need them. I need to see to clearly. I need to see the shapes and figures, the symbols and the words. I need to see the poster before it begins to cover the lampposts and bulletins of the city.