Campeche, Mexico April 19th, 1985
Today is my 27th birthday. No matter the person, I bet everyone would normally celebrate theirs in a host of ways. Most would receive gifts from their family and friends. Some would bash a piñata until its insides spilled out. Back home, many of my friends would eat a birthday knafeh, a pastry dessert with a surface texture like thin crispy noodles and insides that melt in your mouth, drenching it in a sensation of milk and honey. Some people are so important that millions or even billions celebrate their birthdays. These are men such as Jesus or Prophet Muhammad or Martin Luther King Jr. (may God bless his soul).
As for me, I am deep in the steamy jungles of the Yucatan Peninsula, on the trail of a group of black market antiquities traders (thieves would be a more appropriate term) who are in possession of an important item. Now, what am I, an Arab girl from the United Republic of Palestine, doing in such a place? On my birthday no less. Trust me when I say this is nothing. Come back to me, once you’ve faced a column of Jordanian troops, armed only with a replica Crusader’s sword. Who am I? The name’s Yafa. Yafa Awad.
“Looks to be a few days old,” I note, curtly. “They must be close, Juan.”
My gaze is centered on the imprint of a boot, pressed into the damp mud. Several more follow it along the trail and others are beside it; there were a pair of looters in this part of the forest.
“Indeed, Señora Awad,” Juan replies in agreement.
He is a scrawny kid, around the age of my teenage cousin Janna, with a deep tan, his hair as black as the night sky, and eyes a deep amber. He is dressed in old shorts and an oversized yellow and green Pele jersey from Brazil. Clutched in his hands are a wooden bow and obsidian-tipped arrow and slung over his shoulder is a large, woven pouch.
We continue marching through the undergrowth, following the path of footprints. Soon enough, we arrive at a gently flowing creek. I examine my reflection in the water of the creek. Looking back is a tall, well-built woman with brown eyes, long, dark hair tied in a ponytail and lightly tanned skin. I am wearing an olive-green t-shirt and slate gray pants, filled with pockets. My belt and a strap that is slung across my torso and over my shoulder are lined with adventure pouches, with a sheath on my back for my functional replica of a Crusader’s sword. Lastly, my neck is wrapped in a black and white fishnet keffiyeh scarf, a typical fashion item for Palestinians back home.
“Señora?” Juan asks me.
My focus snaps back to the environment. Juan has already crossed the creek.
Al’aama! I curse in my head, chiding this lapse in attention.
I cross through the shallow creek, meeting with Juan. The trail of footprints has stopped. Looking around, I see why. Up ahead is a rushing river, many times larger than the little stream earlier. Based on what I heard from the locals, it probably leads into the Champotón River. The river roared as it flooded downstream, carrying unknowable volumes of silt to other parts of the forest. The river is wide, but not too wide.
I look around, catching sight of a long tangle of vines, leading to a branch hanging right over the river. Grabbing the brown leather hilt of my sword, I unsheath the steel, double-edged blade and hack away at one of the vines. With a few strokes, I cut down one end of the vines, snatching it out of the air. I tug on it to ensure its strength before sheathing my sword and rushing towards the river, vine in hand. With a great leap, I swing across the entire span of the river.
Snap!
Just as my feet are about to land on the other bank, the vine breaks. As I nearly plummet into the waters below, I instinctively grab the root of another tree, dangling for dear life. With a great heave, I hoist myself up towards the dirt bank. Pressing my forearms into the dirt, I complete my climb, pulling myself onto solid ground, stopping right in front of Juan’s bare feet.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I reply, as I stagger back onto my feet, patting off the mud from my clothes.
“You do realize there’s a bridge over there, right?” Juan inquires, pointing downstream. “You could have crossed it.”
I turn my gaze to where he is pointing and, sure enough, there is an ornate rope bridge that spans the entire river. I look back at him with a playful smirk.
“Now, where’s the fun in that?” I quip.
As we continued through the brush, I noticed that the trail of footprints had reappeared. They follow a straight path for a good two-dozen meters when they begin to zig-zag and curl in circles before picking back up right after. I arrive at this tangle of prints, puzzling over why the looters could have run in such circles. I wouldn't have to wait long for an answer.
Htrtrtrtrtttrtrtrtrtrtrtrtrtrhhhhhhh!
The distinctive shaking of several rattles sounds from my left. Twisting my gaze towards that direction, I catch sight of a dozen rattlesnakes, coiled at the base of a tree, giving me a warning not to disturb their space. One of them is right in front of my face, its permanent glare demonstrating its displeasure at my intrusion into its habitat. I could certainly imagine its frustration; my homeland of Palestine was once colonized by everyone’s favorite Brits and was even invaded by the Jordanian Army (such is the result of divide and conquer) and Zionists, several times. May God bless our fighters and those of the Duyuf Jews for helping us protect our freedom.
“My apologies,” I whisper to the rattlesnake, as I back off.
Meeting back with Juan, I find him watching the snakes, a sparkle around his dark eyes. He looks back at me.
“These creatures are sacred to Kukulkan,” he explains. “A god worshiped by my people’s ancestors.”
“It’s nice to see that awe outside of university classes,” I chuckle.
I mean no disrespect to that expert on Mesoamerica from that one archaeology seminar, but this is why I do what I do. At least, aside from sabotaging thieves who steal people’s culture.
Looking at the footprints, I see they lead towards a high limestone cliffside. Nearby, I spot a ridge covered in vegetation.
The noise of screeching bird calls echoes through the forest, as I am perched on the ridge, overlooking a cavern where the thieves have likely made their lair. Their shelter itself is a gaping abyss, bored straight into the limestone by eons of erosion and perhaps some digging by animals. Rain batters my long, dark hair, soaking into my shirt and keffiyeh. I wipe the raindrops off my brow, as my pants are caked in the mud alongside my boots.
“All clear?” asks Juan.
“I think so,” I whisper. “Wait!”
I reach for the hilt of my sword. The faintest sound of footsteps echo from the depths of the cave. Two tall, fair-skinned goons in combat slacks and bulletproof vests exit the cavern. On each vest was a patch, emblazoned with a runic symbol resembling an “F”.
“I can’t wait to leave this hellhole, Joe!” dismissively shouts a man, whose accent I can pin as American. “It’s been nothin’ but rain and filth this whole trip!”
The nerve of this guy. Acting like he owns the place.
“And it’s all for some stupid ball!” replies Joe, his partner, holding up a brown, well-worn rubber ball dismissively. “Jim, I don’t know what these savages even value about this junk!”
Joe chucks the ball towards the brush, as if it were a piece of trash, causing it to bounce around half a meter (about eighteen inches for Americans) before it plops on top of the soil. Of course these guys wouldn’t understand what they were stealing. Where most people would see an old, beat-up rubber ball, the rightful owners of such goods saw a piece of their heritage, their achievements, their history going back to the time of their ancestors. And it meant so much more to the man I would return it to.
Bzzzzzzz!
A buzzing sound comes from Jim’s pocket. I watch him reach in and grab a portable radio, holding it up to his mouth, surrounded by an unkempt beard.
“Mr. Nordmann,” greeted Jim, presumably to his employer. “We’ve got the item.”
He remains silent, as the person on the other end of the radio makes their reply. I start to creep towards these thugs, mindful of every branch on the forest floor. Juan raises a hand to stop me, twitching with fear. I press onward, nevertheless. Meanwhile, Jim continues to converse with the caller, words I pay no attention to, as I continue to sneak towards him. As I make my way down the ridge, slowly and steadily, suddenly the sound of a crunching leaf echoes from beneath my boot. My heart nearly stops, as the thieves look around.
“It’s probably nothing,” I see Joe mouth, as Jim continues his call.
Close one. With the next step, I make it to the top of the ridge, behind some ground plants and a tangle of vines. And right in front of me is the ball.
“We’ll get it to you by tomorrow,” answers Jim. “Guten tag.”
He stows away the radio.
I reach towards the ball. It is around the size of my palm, though quite heavy for something so small. Just as my fingers wrap around its aged rubber surface, an arrow soars right past Jim’s ear from where Juan was positioned. Both of the goons jump in surprise.
“A hostile is up on that ridge!” cries Joe.
“After him!” growls Jim. “I’ll keep watch!”
I could have handled that. Groaning quietly, I quickly snatch the ball and stand up, rushing as fast as I can in the opposite direction. Just when I think I’m clear, I crash into something.
“Ow!” snarls that something, a man, clearly one of the thieves.
Stumbling backwards, I regain my footing, whipping my head up just in time to catch a good glimpse at him. He is tall, around a palm’s length more than me, with a muscular build that would be fit for an American action hero. His lightly tanned skin is covered in a massive amount of reddish scars and he is clothed in a camo tank top and sand-colored khakis. Around his waist is a belt, armed to the teeth with weapons and ammo (even a dagger), while a large M16 assault rifle is slung over his back.
As he turns to look at me, I can see parts of his heavily-scarred face with a short, trimmed goatee and dark-brown hair (it’s almost black, really), along with some of the empty bullet cases hanging on his necklace. Once his dark eyes lock onto me, I can feel the intensity of his glare piercing through my retinas into my soul.
“Hey!” he snaps, his accent is distinctly Afrikaner. “What the hell are you doing here?!”
“I could say the same to you,” I reply.
With that, I bolt the other way, towards the path Juan and I took to reach the cave.
I clutch the rubber ball in my right arm, as I dash through the jungle, streams of bullets flying past me. Winding my way around the trees, I leap over a large log, diving into a roll before springing back onto my feet and continuing my escape. As leaves and vines bash my face, I soon catch sight of the trail, near where the rattlesnakes had been. I am just about to get back onto a familiar path when…
“Hey, lady!” Joe shouts, stepping into my path. “Whaddaya’ think you’re doing?!”
I skid to a halt. The thug marches towards me.
“Nowhere left to run,” he growls gleefully.
The rattlesnakes were somewhere around here. Acting quickly, I charge at Joe, raising my knee, smashing it into his groin.
“GAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!” he screams, buckling with the force of my blow.
Clutching his- crotch, he stumbles backwards. He trips on a root, landing right where the rattlesnakes were. Actually, he lands right where they are.
Hasssssssssssss!!!!
I hear them erupt into a choir of hisses, as they all spring at Joe, fangs unsheathed, latching their venomous jaws into his skin.
“Ow! OW! GAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!”
While I have no sympathy for this thug, I do need to say something to the rattlesnakes I just disturbed.
“Sorry guys,” I apologize, giving my full condolences to the grumpy serpents.
Just as I am ready to get out of here, a voice cries out at me.
“You killed JOE!!!” snarls an angered Jim.
Rattlesnake venom doesn’t act that fast. What an idiot. I whip around to see Jim, charging at me with full force. I slide out of the way, still clutching the ball in my right arm. Just as he shifts directions, I catch sight of Juan, waving his hands. With a smirk, I toss the ball in the air in front of me, before bashing it as hard as I can with a swing of my left forearm. The rubber ball whizzes right past Jim’s ear in Juan’s direction. The kid snatches it out of the air before dashing in the other direction. As Jim attempts to pursue him, I tap him on the shoulder with a flat object. He turns around, finding that this object is the flat edge of my blade. In one swift move, I slam the pommel of my sword across his face. With a groan, he collapses into the dirt.
“Señora Awad!” calls Juan. “Catch!”
Juan’s bag flies towards me, looking more full than it did earlier. Snatching its strap out of the air, I sling it over my shoulder and check its contents. Sure enough, he had stowed the ball in his bag.
“Gracias, Juan,” I thank him. “See you back at camp!”
“De nada!” replies Juan, as he runs off.
As I run towards the river, I veer towards the bridge Juan had mentioned earlier. Yeah, it’s boring, I know. I soon see it, a long rope bridge, bound together by rope cables, the kind you would see in an old adventure movie (those are a guilty pleasure of mine). I step on a beam to make sure it is sturdy. Unlike the movies, it is able to hold my weight. I make several more steps, reaching halfway across the river, when I hear a voice up ahead.
“Gotcha!” shouts the voice of the man I believe is from South Africa.
Sure enough, he shows up on the other side of the bridge, standing tall with his action hero physique, covered in scars, brandishing his dagger. This man from- I really should give him a name… Rambo! “Rambo”, as I will call him for now, smirks at me. I draw my sword and turn around to assess if I can escape first.
“Not so fast, Mademoiselle!” calls a dark-mustached Frenchman in a green military-esque jumpsuit, who now blocks my only other exit. “Let’s have a dance with that blade!”
From his waist, the Frenchman draws a single-edged rapier, something one would find in an Olympic tournament. Except this one, though thin, is sharpened, like an old dueling saber. I watch him twirl his blade in his hand, shifting his grip rather skillfully, if a little excessively. He then makes a light toss of his blade, catching the hilt before pointing it right at me.
“Heheh,” he chuckles. “En garde!”
I roll my eyes, and raise my own sword. As he jabs with his rapier, inching his feet closer to me, I bring the sword down and around into the rope cables of the bridge with as much force as I can muster.
Snap!
My blade’s edge cuts through both sides of the rope, and beneath, leading the bridge’s beams into a swimming collapse. I watch the swordsman slip and grab the beams of the collapsing bridge, while I plunge into the river. As the river drags me down below, I fight it, driving powerful strokes with my arms. Soon enough I surfaced, having been pulled several meters downstream. Gasping for air, I swim to the nearest shore, emerging on the gravel-covered banks. Getting onto my feet, I check for Juan’s bag, containing the rubber ball. Sure enough, it’s still there. With a satisfied smirk, I head back into the jungle.
As I run, my sword re-sheathed, I notice a black vulture scavenging on a pig-like peccary carcass, picking at one of the leg bones. I carefully approach, planning each step. The black-headed bird still catches sight of me and takes off. Examining the carcass, I notice it is missing a leg, though one of the bones, which the vulture was gnawing on showed cut marks, consistent with that of a flint knife, used by the locals, of which Juan was a member. I must be close to camp.
“Didn’t think an Arab girl like you would scavenge on swine,” “Rambo” jeered from behind me.
Quickly drawing my sword, I try to bring its blade onto him, only for it to be met by his dagger’s. I try pressing down with one arm, but he pushes back with his dagger, his action hero muscles powering his bladelock with my sword. With a quick push, he parries away my sword and points the dagger’s tip in the direction of my throat.
“Enough games,” “Rambo” growled, as he inches closer. “Give up the item.”
“Over my dead body,” I reply, smirking.
I swing my sword at his dagger knocking it out of the path of my throat and his hands. He snatches it out of the air, holding it in a backwards grip and slashes at me. I dodge one slash, which, if it were a bit closer, would have left me blind. He flows into a punch headed for my face. This one connects.
“Aaghhh!” I cry, as his fist rams into my jaw.
For the briefest moment, the world goes black. I stumble backwards in darkness. As my vision returns, I see “Rambo” attempt to plunge his dagger into my throat. Diving out of the way, I brandish my sword and slash at his face.
“GAAARRRRRRRRRGGHHHHHHH!” he roars in pain.
I spring back onto my feet and examine the damage. His face, from his nose bridge down his left cheek and next to the corner of his beard is flowing with blood. That’s another scar for him. What’s one more?
“You’ve got guts,” “Rambo” snarls.
He’s right, I do have guts. But I’m not some warrior goddess. I’m just a regular-old Palestinian Arab girl trying to return a ball to somebody on her birthday. And based on the peccary carcass, I think I know where camp is.
“Open on Saturdays?” I inquire. “Because we can finish this later, Rambo.”
With that, I sprint into the jungle, sword in one hand and bag with the ball slung over my shoulder.
“Hey!” screams “Rambo”, apparently rather pissed by my abandoning of the duel. “Come back here!”
I can hear his hurried footsteps crushing all the vegetation in their path.
When he catches up to me, I stand poised in a small, grassy clearing in the jungle. He stops a few meters away from me, snarling with fury.
“Give me the damn ball,” hissed “Rambo”. “Or I will gut you like a fish.”
“Hey, don’t ask me,” I reply with a shrug. “Tell that to the guys who own the ball.”
I grin as “Rambo” looks around him, catching sight of dozens of deeply-tanned men, each holding a bow and arrow, locked onto his position. One of them, dressed in a copper necklace and khaki shorts, with jade earrings, emerges holding the rubber ball.
“Now my message to you, thief,” the man snarls. “Steal from my people again, Rambo, and we will deliver you to Xibalba personally.”
“Rambo” snarls furiously, though he backs off, clearly accepting his predicament.
“That’s not even my name,” he growls, before adding with a finger point, “Next time, you’re dead.”
With that, he runs back into the thicket, retreating in defeat.
“I thank you for the return of the Ball of the Ancestors,” Chief Horado, the owner of the ball and leader of the K’áax Mayans, expresses his gratitude.
We are at the K’áax camp, in front of a limestone cave. I sit with the chief in front of a campfire, cooking the peccary leg. His people are celebrating our victory over the thieves, playing an Aztec death whistle some had bought from a souvenir shop. It’s honestly more haunting, like the screams of a jaguar, than celebratory, but to each their own.
“No worries Chief,” I reply. “May I have some meat?”
Chief Horado widens his eyes.
“But you told me you were forbidden from this kind,” he says, clearly in disbelief.
“Just kidding,” I chuckle. “I got some lamb tacos back in the city. I’m not hungry.”
“Right,” he chuckles. “My ancestors left the cities to live a simpler life. In our language, K’áax means ‘forest’.”
I laugh with him. Traditionalists who prefer a simpler life. Every culture has them, from the Bedouins of Palestine to these K’áax of the Yucatan.
“You still appreciate the crafts of your ancestors,” I note with a grin.
“Yes,” the Chief replies. “Not only is this ball sacred to our tribe, but my father let me play with it personally as a kid.”
His eyes tear up a little, ending with him smiling.
“You aren’t worried about destroying it?” I inquire.
“It can’t be,” answers Chief Horado. “Why do you think it’s sacred?”
I raise an eyebrow, nodding with agreement.
“What about your parents?” he inquires.
“My baba’s great,” I replied. “He is always there for me when I need him. He supports my passions, is very warm, and open about his feelings. You’d think he would be a great mother, but he’s my Baba.”
I remain silent, as I think about going back to his restaurant in the Old City of Jerusalem.
“Oh, and he’s an excellent cook!” I add, grinning. “Best food in the world!”
“I see,” Chief Horado says, nodding. “What about your mother?”
My grinning stops, as my face tightens. Yes, indeed. What about my mother? The great, almighty Dr. Yusra Hamad. What about her?
“My aunt Judith inspired her family to invent new latkes,” I changed the subject. “She was from Poland, a- you know, survivor. My mother’s family took her in and invented the Palestinian Cheese Latkes to cheer her up on Hanukkah.”
I smile, as I long for the crispy, zesty, gooey crunch of those potato pancakes between my teeth.
“My father’s turned them into an international emblem of my country’s food,” I reply, with a smile.
I look at Chief Horado, whose dark eyebrow is raised. Evidently, he couldn’t follow my train of thought. He shrugs.
“Well, happy birthday Dr. Awad,” he congratulated me.
I grin.
“I’m not a doctor yet,” I replied. “Still got some papers to turn in.”
“Well good luck to you,” wishes Chief Horado. “Future Dr. Awad.”
I chuckle. What a fun birthday this has been.
“Well, see you again someday,” I told the Chief. “I’ve got a flight to catch tonight.”
“Remember this,” Chief Horado reminded me. “You are always welcome among my people.”
I smile as I pack my things. As I prepare to head off back to the main trail, I hear Chief Horado make a final statement.
“If you need anything, come visit,” he offers.
Looking back, I give him a thumbs-up. With that I head off, satisfied with the way this birthday has turned out. Now, for the matter of celebrating it with my family back home. At least, aside from my mother.
Author's Note:
Hello everyone,
I hope everyone enjoyed reading the first chapter of this novel, which I just completed this year. I will be uploading new Chapters every week or two. As you can probably tell from the title, this is merely a beta version; before I publish the definitive edition, I would welcome feedback and good-faith criticism of my writing, as nothing is perfect. As for who I am, my name is Benedict Sky and I am probably best known as the author of The Book of Boba Fett Reimagined on fanfiction.net, a reimagining of the mini-series of the same name.
On a more serious note, Palestine, the homeland of our protagonist Yafa, is facing the harshest repression since the occupation in 1948. A genocidal war has commenced against the people of the Gaza Strip in occupied Palestine and I believe I must do something with any platform this story might provide me.
As such, in every author's note of each Journal/Chapter, I will provide links to resources to learn about Palestine in the real world. I hope you all learn something and are inspired to take action. While we may not be able to do much alone, together all of can move mountains, affecting change in the world.
Best wishes,
-Benedict Sky
Links:
https://decolonizepalestine.com/
https://bdsmovement.net/
https://www.jewishvoiceforpeace.org/
