The drone keeps us company all night long. Its whirring, whirring, whirring, whirring is incessant—as if it wants to remind us it’s there, it’s not going anywhere. It hangs just a little way above our heads.
We prepare the suhoor. We set the food out in the middle of the living room, in complete darkness. Only night surrounded by more night. I turn the torch on; its weak light fails to hold back very much of the darkness, but it resists nonetheless.
The food is ready. I wake the children and bring them in. We all sit around five dishes: white cheese, hummus, orange jam, yellow cheese, and olives. Darkness eats with us. Fear and anxiety eat with us. The unknown eats with us. The F16 eats with us. The drone, and its operator somewhere out in Israel, eats with us.
Our hands shiver, our eyes stare at the plates on the floor. The dawn prayers leak into the room from a mosque somewhere out in the darkness. Suddenly we remember our hunger, all at once, diving into the delicious, merciful food.