Once upon a time, there was a girl named Little Red Riding Hood

But in the Arabic version, her name was Layla.

So let's use that because it's less of a mouthful.

Layla lived on a little hill at the edge of the forest of factories.

Her aging grandmother had grown old and sick and needed someone to care for her.

So Layla grabbed her basket of bread-filled freedom,

Kissed her aching mother on the cheek,

And heeded her careful warning,

"Don't talk to strangers."

Layla hooded herself and trudged away from the safety of her home,

Sending a silent prayer to her jailed little brother and hoping she wouldn't be the next to go.

She took the most-treaded path,

Knowing that taking the hidden one would leave her shot like her father,

Hunted for stepping out of line.

The doves cooed around her, perched on outreaching olive branches and the irony struck her.

There would never be peace here.

And just as her muscles began to relax,

And her breathing began to steady,

She saw on the path something that all day she'd been dreading.

The Wolf.

He leaned on the wall behind him,

His grin revealing his sharpened teeth.

His friends tittering and smiling evilly as

Little Red dropped her basket before the steal-grey checkpoint.

"Little girl, little girl, what have we here?"

She stared at him defiantly, holding back her tears.

"Bread for my grandmother, she's ill, I fear."

They stared at the bread that bread justice, suspiciously.

The wolf's smirk sent shivers down her spine as he snatched her ID from between her fingers and left her,

Letting the fear boil within her

Hours upon hours her heart raced prisoner, but the war wasn't ready to take her.

When she got through, the path was cleared and her soul quietly freed.

The road was littered with white-phosphorous flowers.

The fences constructed from broken families.

The tears fertilized by the tears of a nation.

And her grandmother's home came into view,

The aging metal door was a welcoming sight amongst the beautiful destruction.

Layla hurried in and took in her grandmother's kind smile.

But as she stepped to tend to the ancient woman, the wolf came after her.

His teeth were bared in excited malice,

His claws preparing for murder,

His deepest, hate-filled demons brought to the surface.

She was a only human, why should he care what befell her?

But it wasn't Layla's day to go.

The wolf tripped over his own corruption

And perished from the slice of his own claws.

He died as he had lived,

Engaged in an act of evil.

Layla wore her victory like a fur coat.

She placed a triumphant kiss upon her grandmother's forehead and fed her with the bread of liberty,

Returning the strength to her fragile bones.

And Layla went back to the path with a new sense of hope.

But as she neared the checkpoint again,

She realized that the wolf had only been replaced

Each worse than the other

A never-ending cycle of terror

And she watched as the Hunters looked on

Pretending not to see the wolves

Pretending not to see her

Pretending that the bombs falling from the sky were raindrops

Pretending that the bullets finding their way into chests were playthings

Pretending that an entire civilian population must have brought the onslaught upon themselves.

Layla let free a scream of agony.

No one would listen.

No one would care.

No one would see.

This was Palestine, afterall.

And she'd have to go hunting herself.