An Alternate Reality, When Reality Is Too Hard

I’ve been writing an alternate reality version of the Bibas boys’ story in my mind for months. I don’t know if it’s appropriate to share, but nothing really seems appropriate at the moment, and sometimes we rely on our imagination when reality is too much to bear.

In my mind’s version, Ariel and Kfir were smuggled out of Gaza into Egypt soon after they were abducted. From there, they were traded, like their forebear Joseph, a number of times to various traffickers and nomads and eventually landed somewhere in the Sahara desert where they were raised by Mujahideen. Their memories were swept clear by the wind and sand and sun, and within the passing of a year, they had no knowledge or recollection of their Jewish roots.

Their fiery red hair had attracted the attention of the wife of the emir who led the mujahideen, and she had convinced her husband to adopt the two boys, so they were raised in a desert palace and trained to be exceptional warriors. Throughout their youth, their complexion was browned by the sun, but their hair retained its orange fire. They were teased by the other boys, and they shaved their heads in shame. But their “mother,” the emir’s queen, assured them that their ginger manes were a sign that they were chosen by Allah for great things. She had them grow it long, but they kept it wrapped and covered always in their keffiyehs.

They grew strong and brilliant and brave. The emir had been preparing his fighters for years to move on Jerusalem and finally free Al Aqsa from the infidels. When his “sons” were grown, he deemed the time right. Mujahideen gathered from across the Middle East and North Africa to begin the invasion that would end it all. Led by the “Lions of the Sahara,” as the boys had become known, they advanced on the holy land.

Under cover of night, Ariel and Kfir moved ahead of their legions to scout the terrain. They crept into the border town of Nir Oz, and just as Kfir was readying to signal their forces to follow, Ariel saw, through his scope, a mural on the wall of one of the buildings. Dumbstruck, he grabbed his brother’s arm and handed him his binoculars. The mural showed two red-headed children, one a toddler and the other just a baby, and it read “לעולם לא נשכח אותך/we will never forget you.” The brothers turned to one another and stared into the very same eyes as the children in the mural. Kfir reached out and removed his brother’s keffiyeh, and Ariel’s long copper locks fell to his shoulders, the same locks as the older boy depicted on the wall.

In tears the brothers embraced. Leaving their weapons and turbans behind, they walked, as if in a dream, into the village, where they were surrounded by soldiers who yelled at them in a language they did not understand. “It’s them,” one of the soldiers said after some moments, and Kfir motioned to the fields beyond the town and said in Arabic “they’re coming.” As the IDF engaged and decimated the invaders, Ariel and Kfir wandered in a daze through the town where they were born. As they passed a certain home, a middle-aged woman stepped out of the doorway and froze in stunned disbelief. Her hair was graying, but still there were tresses of copper like their own. There were no words as they embraced her, only sobs, silent prayers of thanks, and a mingling of fiery red hair that shined resplendent in the moonlight.

— Pnei Hashem is an introduction to the deepest depths of the human experience based on the esoteric teachings of Torah.  www.pneihashem.com