It was 6pm on a Thursday when we got word that the rebels would cease attacks. I remember it quite well, Ameena was out collecting stones around the kibbutz, trying to hide the fact she was indeed looking for her waifed Babie Doll that one of the American Red Cross volunteers had gifted her. Ameena always tried to mask any childish antics, even though at 9 years old she was most definitely, a child.

Earlier that day Ameena and I had placed any resemblance of beauty around the pile of death that our parents were now part of, and it was eerily silent, now that I think of it in hindsight, I hadn’t heard an explosion or a chopper, all day.

Ameena came running in to our tent with what I only could’ve assumed was a politician or someone who atleast dressed like a politician-

“Mohammed! Guess what, guess what, guess what!”

I looked up from my sweeping swiftly, because she always called me Moe, the name Mohammed had declined quite rapidly in the past couple decades, and we tried, for whatever reason, to make my name less-threatening to others.

The man she was gripping tightly by the hand looked at me with a smile and what could only be sensed as relief, and maybe even a little pride behind his eyes, “they’ve agreed, it’s all over.”