The Parable of Hamza
A Story of Solidarity
The wind swept through the ravaged refugee camp, stirring up dust and rubbish. The smell of death was everywhere. In the earth, in the air, on your skin, in your hair. Under your fingernails. In the grit between your teeth. Down to the edges of your soul. All of existence was coated with the residue of the dead and dying.
Bombs could be heard in the distance, but they were far enough away. Not too much of a concern at the moment. It was worse when they came at night. When you were trying to sleep. Trying to survive.
Isa* looked for some kind of shade from the intense sunlight, but there wasn’t much around. The buildings were destroyed. The trees had been uprooted by bulldozers. The tents were burnt to ashes. Piles of cinder swirled away in the wind. At least the cinders could escape to freedom.
With no shelter to choose from, Isa settled for a large piece of rubble. A chunk of concrete that had once been a school. He sat down on its rough edges, holding what remained of his brother’s cracked and temperamental smartphone. (It was also all that remained of his brother.) One of the clever kids in the camp had figured out how to make a homemade solar power generator. He had offered to charge the phone, and Isa was thankful for the kind gesture of solidarity.
He began scrolling through whatever news updates he could find with the poor, unstable connection to the outside world. What were the IDF’s plans? What were the Americans doing? What was going on at the ICJ and the ICC? Were there any new words of support from Ireland or Colombia or any other countries around the world?
Isa’s heart jumped in his chest when he read that some countries had resumed their funding to UNRWA and other humanitarian agencies. Some of the wealthiest countries — the US and the UK chief among them — were still refusing to contribute to the dire situation their weapons were causing. The loss of the Americans’ $340 million would be felt across Gaza and the West Bank. He and his people would suffer additional cruelties with such a huge loss. Others — Sweden, Japan, France, and the European Union — had reinstated their funding. Spain had even promised another €20 million beyond their regular annual pledge.
Another story popped up on the cracked screen, its headline distorted underneath the broken glass. Intrigued, Isa clicked it open and waited for the text to load.
What he read brought tears to his eyes. An inmate in California had donated his entire paycheck to relief efforts in Gaza. His entire 136.5 hours of work which came to … $17.74? How could so many hours of work add up to so little?
Praying his phone wouldn’t overheat in the direct sunlight, Isa pulled up another window to find the answer. What he read surprised him.
In the Land of the Free, slavery is still legal for incarcerated individuals. Prisoners are exploited for their labor and compensated with mere pennies. This inmate had only earned 13 cents an hour, and yet he still gave everything he had to Palestinians like Isa.
Isa took a screenshot of the story and reposted it with the caption:
I’m not gonna lie, this inmate from the US has put more into supporting us, the Palestinian people, than anyone else. All of these rich Western countries — the United States, the UK, Germany, France, Sweden, even Spain — they all gave out of their immense wealth. But he, out of the pittance made from his forced labor, put in everything — all he had to his name.
*Isa is the Arabic form of Jesus (Yeshua) used in the Qur’an.
This is based on a retelling of The Widow’s Offering in Mark 12:41–44, the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats in Matthew 25:31–46, and the true story of an inmate in the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation.
