Middle Eastern tyrants

Chapter 53 "Even in hell, our faith remains steadfast"

Khan Younis, a former stronghold of Arafat, is named after Yunus, a Mamluk general in the 14th century, and means "Younis Khan's Inn".

However, this place has now been occupied by Zion, who have established the Khan Younis concentration camp.

More than 6,000 Arafat civilians and soldiers were imprisoned here and forced to work under the command of Zion soldiers.

The scorching sun overhead at the concentration camp was like molten lead, pouring down on this land cut apart by barbed wire.

A short man fell to the ground due to exhaustion from his work, and a large, kind hand caught him.

"give it to me."

The muscular, dark-skinned man took the bundle of planks and looked at the short man's blond hair stained with grease, saying, "You don't look like a local."

The short man staggered to his seat on the ground and replied in broken Arabic, “I am a tourist who was captured and brought here to do hard labor.”

The dark-skinned man's eyes revealed pity: "Your luck really came at the wrong time. It's wartime now. You can only hope that you can survive this period. Perhaps your country will send someone to rescue you."

However, from a man's perspective, it would be difficult for a short person to make it through the month. The scorching heat and heavy physical labor would be hard for even locals to endure, let alone people from other places.

Zion's soldiers stood on the high platform, their leather boots crunching through the dry dust, rifles slung across their shoulders, their eyes coldly sweeping over the refugees below.

The Muslim prisoners were ragged, emaciated, and their lips were cracked and bleeding. The aroma of food wafted from all around, but it did not belong to them.

"Stop! Look this way! It's time for today's recitation!"

The officer's voice pierced the oppressive air as he shouted, "Whoever can recite last night's Bible will receive double the rations! And milk too!"

No one in the audience responded.

The officer sneered, pulled a piece of white bread from his pocket, and waved it in the sunlight.

The aroma of bread wafted through the air, and the children's throats bobbed.

But several adult hands held them back.

Lieutenant Norman of Zion seemed oblivious to this, continuing to hold up the bread: "Or you have another option."

In front of all the refugees, a soldier threw a tattered Quran on the ground with a "thud," the heavy book kicking up dust. "Anyone who dares to step on it will get a reward."

The crowd was dead silent.

The officer waited patiently, a mocking smile on his face.

He knew that hunger could break a person, especially when faith and survival were weighed on opposite sides of a scale.

It's much easier to move your feet than to memorize the Bible.

Finally, a slender figure emerged from the crowd.

"Good, it seems our volunteers have arrived!" The officer smiled and patted the dark-skinned man on the back. "What's your name?"

“Hassan Abu Omar.” The man’s voice was hoarse, yet unusually clear.

What kind of job did you do before?

"Imam."

The refugees stared at the man with surprise and anger.

The officer's smile widened—the surrender of a religious imam was more valuable than that of an ordinary person.

He bent down, picked up the scripture, dusted it off, and handed it over: "Here you go, Imam, just one kick."

Faced with the hatred of his compatriots, Hassan slowly reached out his hand. Lieutenant Norman thought he was going to take the scripture, but unexpectedly, the withered hand suddenly grabbed his collar and pulled him down hard!
“You scum!” Hassan roared, punching Lieutenant Norman in the face. “God will judge you!”

The soldiers swarmed forward, slamming Hassan's rifle butts into his back and pinning him to the ground. The officer scrambled to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth, his face ashen: "Drag him out and shoot him! Shoot him!"

The crowd stirred; some sobbed softly, others clenched their fists, but no one dared to move.

The short man watched helplessly as the dark-skinned man was roughly dragged away by Zion's soldiers, followed by short gunshots from outside the camp.

Everything returned to calm.

Lieutenant Norman wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, cursing, and looked at the group of Arafat people in front of him with a gloomy expression.

"You come!"

He raised his gun at a emaciated man, but the man didn't move, and there wasn't a trace of fear in his eyes.

"Click."

Lieutenant Norman pulled the trigger, but the gun jammed. The emaciated man didn't even blink, staring at the muzzle with a contemptuous smile.

Lieutenant Norman grumbled as he checked the gun, and finally succeeded on his second shot.

The bullet pierced the man's forehead, leaving a bloody hole in the back of his head, and his body slowly fell to the ground.

"you!"

Lieutenant Norman pointed his gun at the short man again. The man had unusually bright blue eyes, but Lieutenant Norman still said, "Do as I say, or die!"

Blood flowed down to the soles of his feet through the cracks in the soil. The little man's throat twitched, and his calves trembled. After a moment, he seemed to finally prepare to take a step forward.

Just then, a Zion soldier rushed over and whispered a few words to Lieutenant Norman.

Lieutenant Norman's face darkened: "Who is Allen Valraff?"

The short man raised his hand, and Lieutenant Norman cursed "Damn it" in Hebrew, then summoned soldiers who drenched the short man from head to toe with water.

As the filth was washed away, a head of dull, lifeless blond hair was revealed.

Lieutenant Norman's expression was unpredictable, and his grip on the gun tightened and loosened repeatedly.

He only gave up his idea when he heard conversations not far away.

"Remember, everything that happens here must be kept secret, or if I find out, you're finished! Do you understand?!" he threatened.

The short man answered him in a trembling voice, in Saxon:
"Go to hell."

Lieutenant Norman's eyes widened. He wasn't very fluent in Saxon, but he knew a phrase that started with F, and it just so happened to be this one.

But he ultimately resisted the urge to silence the United States journalist before him. "You're lucky," Lieutenant Norman said, his eyes practically radiating murderous intent. "Take him away! Take him away!"

So the two soldiers roughly dragged Allen Walraff out of the refugee line.

Outside the concentration camp gates stood well-dressed negotiation experts and heavily armed United States soldiers.

Allen turned to the oppressed people of Arafat and shouted in broken Arabic, "Hold on! I will expose everything here, and I will find someone to rescue you! Hold on!"

"(May you be safe and well, God protect you)"

Allen craned his neck, but all he saw was the door slowly closing behind him, as if two worlds were being completely separated.

The medical staff cut open his clothes with scissors and exclaimed in surprise, "Oh my God, what have you been through?"

Dried scabs stuck his skin and clothes together, revealing a patchwork of wounds.

However, Alan Walraff seemed oblivious to all of this, only murmuring, "Believe me, I will return."

(End of this chapter)