Tariff the Palestinians

Israel-Hamas. 750 words, 4 minute read. With Claude Sonnet and Midjourney.

The negotiation room had once been a classroom. Faded Arabic letters clung to the wall like ghosts witnessing discussions of hostages and sovereignty. David Rosen loosened his tie as the air conditioner sputtered against the Mediterranean heat.

Across the table, Khalil Masri's olive-wood prayer beads moved silently between his fingers.

"Water?" Rosen offered, pushing a bottle across the scarred tabletop.

Khalil didn't touch it. "In Gaza, a bottle like that costs seventy American dollars now. When you can find it."

In the corner, Edan Alexander flinched. Eighteen months ago, he had been a twenty-four-year-old American-Israeli serving his IDF duty. Now his uniform hung from a frame that had lost forty pounds, like a sheet over abandoned furniture.

"We need to make progress," Rosen said. "Twenty-four hostages remain alive. We're focused on securing the release of Mr. Alexander."

"Progress," Khalil turned the word over. "Such a clean word for such a bloody business."

Edan's eyes darted toward the window. Beyond the security perimeter, columns of smoke rose from Gaza.

"Three hundred and twelve thousand dead," Khalil said. "But we're here to discuss one man."

"May 7th," Edan interrupted, voice raspy. "I counted days. Four hundred and ninety-three days."

Both men turned to him in surprise.

"First month, I thought rescue would come any day," Edan continued. "Second month, maybe negotiations. Third month, I started counting."

Rosen looked down. "We need a break."

He stepped into the hallway, leaning against the wall. His secure phone vibrated.

"Rosen," he answered.

"The boss wants an update."

"I'll call in when we're done—"

"Not the Secretary. The boss. The President is on the line."

When Rosen reentered the room, Khalil was speaking softly to Edan in Arabic. Something about prayers.

"There's been a development," Rosen announced. "The President has taken a personal interest in this negotiation."

Edan's eyes held a flicker of hope.

"The President has new terms," Rosen continued. "Hamas will pay ten trillion dollars. Not to Israel, not to America. Directly to President Trump. Alternatively, he will accept ownership of the Gaza shoreline for development of 'the most beautiful beachfront hotels the Middle East has ever seen.'"

Silence bent the light in the room.

"This is a joke," Khalil said finally. "A poor attempt at American humor."

"I wish it were. Those are my instructions."

"And if we decline?"

"The President will impose 25% tariffs on Palestinian goods."

A sound escaped Edan—something between a laugh and a sob.

"Tariffs," Khalil repeated. "On Palestinian goods." He gestured toward Gaza. "Perhaps he could tariff the rubble? What do you think the import duty should be on a child's arm, Mr. Rosen?"

"I didn't set these terms," Rosen whispered.

"No. But you've set others, haven't you? Your country has always seen my people as entries on a balance sheet."

"I survived for this?" Edan's voice cut through. He held up his hands, displaying places where fingernails had been pulled out, now grown back misshapen. "I recited the Shema when they put the cloth over my face and poured. I promised myself I would live to see my sister's wedding. For... for what? For fucking hotels?"

"December 12th," Edan continued, softer. "That was the day I stopped believing America would come. Day two hundred and nineteen." He looked at Rosen. "That was the day I realized I was just a number in a ledger somewhere."

"My grandfather survived Auschwitz," Edan said, turning to Khalil. "He had a number too. He taught me that 'never again' meant for anyone. Anyone." His voice broke. "What happened to 'never again'?"

Something shifted in Khalil's eyes. "My grandfather had a key. To the house in Jaffa his family had lived in for centuries. He died clutching it, believing someday we would return." He set down his prayer beads. "Faith is a terrible burden, isn't it?"

"Your president sees real estate where we see graves," Khalil said to Rosen. "This has always been the difference. To you, land is property. To us, it is memory."

"I want to go home," Edan said suddenly.

"And where is home now?" Khalil asked. "What remains of it?"

Edan looked toward Gaza, then at his scarred hands. "I don't know anymore."

Rosen's phone vibrated again. "Your answer, Mr. Masri?"

Khalil stood. "Tell your president that the shoreline he wants belongs to children who once built sandcastles there. They are not interested in selling."

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