You can hear them in the dancing tall grass through the quiet Shabbat night, echoing like a metronome. The crickets of Jerusalem. The streets are still, as sunlight had long faded far east beyond the Mediterranean. Fireworks are illegal, but their crackling whirl can still be heard. Wait… not fireworks. Rockets sail through the desert night from the Gaza Strip as sirens begin to moan. Mothers hold their children in their arms as anti-missile targeting systems dial in their trajectories with tallied precision. Lines of orange and yellow arc across the sky, interlacing like fingers of a young couple in love. All that can be heard are screams, and then silence. The return of the crickets. 

His eyes burn from the chemicals, the boy in the tattered shirt. The occupiers have blocked off the Al-aqsa Mosque. His older brother picks up a rock and hurls it at the line of soldiers armed with riot shields. They beat him with their batons until he’s curled up in the dirt. Stones slog against knee and shoulder pads as the soldiers fire rubber bullets into the crowd. A pellet hits the boy’s older brother, dropping him like a sack of those pomegranates the rich eat in Tel Aviv. Bloodied and covered in dirt, his brother tries crawling off to the side of the road, but one of the soldiers grabs him by his collar and drags him out of sight. The boy shouts his name, but no one hears him. Panic sets in as he looks around in despair. He just stands there, frozen. His ears ring, drowning out the bedlam. His breath is shallow as he reaches down and picks up a rock. 

The dappled sunlight dances with the air particles in the crowded café, and the colorful floor tiles are hidden under a sea of shoes. Businessmen argue, baristas call out the next order, and college students type away on their laptops. A man in line looks around before removing his coat and shouts something in Arabic. No one has a chance to look or pray before floor and ceiling tiles marry, wall art gets shredded by shrapnel, and coffee and blood mix. The windows shatter, sending shards of glass everywhere. Laughter is replaced by screams, and the air becomes thick with smoke. There’s nothing left of the man in the coat or the people closest to him. The people further away convulse in agony, dying of their injuries before ambulances arrive. A lucky few spend months in the emergency room. 

A man watches the quiet Parisian street from the hotel balcony, his mind traces back to the outskirts of Jerusalem. It had taken him months to meticulously plan. Everything had played out perfectly because Allah had truly been with them. He put out his cigarette on the rail before checking his watch. He has to be at the Le Palette café in half an hour to meet with an old friend. He walked the stairs, through the lobby, and out the door into the street. He was thinking of something else as he slumped into his car and inserted the key. Turning it, flames engulfed the car in seconds as hot metal twisted into a tangled mess and glass shattered. The blinds of a window across the street furl closed.

The bloodshed and havoc is endlessly metronomic, etching out a desperate prayer whispered by quivering lips as rockets soar and bombs thunder. Trembling hands reach out for deliverance, only to be met with empty promises. They wait, sing, beg to once again––even for just a moment––hear the crickets scratching out their song. Praying to hear, ever faint, that herald of peace. The crickets of Jerusalem.