A/N: Okay. My old account on here, Fern of The Light, has a bad, baaaad version of this story. I wrote it three years ago, and owch… Lets just say I've learned a lot about writing since then.

Malwi and Khalique are simply made up characters, made with the Maganacs in mind, but not based directly off any of them.

This is my attempt to show the human sides of both ethnicities. I hope it makes you think about the situation and figure out your own beliefs on the topic, not my beliefs or anyone else's around you.

Terms you may not know:

Salat: Daily prayers for Muslims. Said 5 times a day.

Muezzin: Religious leader in the mosque. Leads prayers.

Tigya: Small white cap. Like a small beanie. Used to cover head during prayers.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rich smell of heady Arabic coffee filtered through the air, waking the busy world of Israel and causing it to almost hum as children skipped in their playgrounds, mothers gossiped with their neighbors, and men bickered over sports scores. But there would always be the mornings where smoke overpowered the coffee, the children hid behind their mother's skirts, mothers shut their windows and did their dishes silently, and men donned yamakas and turbans and killed one another's child.

And both fought in the name of God, a god they said was kind and loving. Both blamed the other in a situation that was beyond blame. Their leaders led them against the other, forcing more violence and bitterness. All wish for an end, but no one can seem to just let go and forgive.

It is in this situation that our two main characters exist in. Neither has known what their enemy is. Such is the way in 'God's Land'. But what is so significant about these two is their abilities to be young and able to choose. One, a Muslim lawyer, is kind yet sharply intelligent, firm in his beliefs and even firmer in his want to learn from others. The other is a withdrawn Jew, quiet and melancholy, who has a brilliant mind but successfully hides himself from anyone and everyone.

The two should never have met. They should've stayed strangers, found lovely girls who completed their lives, and settled down. But life is nothing if not fickle.

-------------------------------------

"Halt!"

A guttural growl came out of a large Muslim student, whom had only a moment before been walking down the busy street with his friend. He muttered underneath his breath, his eyes carrying a long suffering look. "For the love of… We need to meet Khalique, we're already late, and they just have to stop us now."

His friend just shook his head, giving him a relaxed grin, "We'll get there. Stop fussing, you sound like your mother. It'll go quicker if you don't talk back this time though." Mawli snorted, but conceded to Quatre's advice. His temper would get them nowhere.

"You two know the way we do this, turn your back to me, make your arms rest at parallel away from your body, and legs apart." Said the Israeli guard. The guard was a young kid, still covered in zits. He was the norm of the soldiers though, unprepared and untrained for his work. The Israeli government had a draft, forcing every male over the age of 18 to join the army for at least a year.

The guard barely checked Mawli, instead thoroughly checking Quatre. He fingered Quatre's pink tshirt and smirked, saying, "A fag and a Muslim. Man. And here I'd thought I'd seem the bottom of the barrel." The blonde was biting on his lower lip hard, straining mentally with the want to turn around and deck the ass, but instead just waited till the soldier left, inspiring a good deal of admiration in Mawli.

"You have the patience of a saint, you know." Mawli remarked offhandedly as they continued their walk.

Quatre snorted, rolling his eyes. "It's not patience, it's the knowledge that if I did hit him I would get arrested in two seconds. Doesn't matter if you or I heard him, because our opinion is worth crap, according the bias of the legal system."

"Alright then…" Mawli grinned, "You're just a wuss then. I'll remember that." He laughed as Quatre pushed him and gave him an apologetic smile. They fell into a companionable silence, leaving Mawli glad once again that Quatre had moved down to Palestine.

Quat had shown up at the mosque one day for Friday prayers, and was instantly regarded with a great deal of suspicion. He was a tall blonde haired, blue eyed kid, not exactly anyone's idea of a Muslim. The whole mosque watched as he removed his shoes and washed his hands and face as per tradition. The shock was even greater however when he slipped on an old tigyha and performed salat perfectly along with the rest of them, proving to not be just an interloper.

The muezzin had then gone up to him and introduced himself, striking up a conversation. Quatre turned out to have just recently moved to Palestine from Denmark to pursue law. Apparently his parents were Saudis involved in the oil business. They had moved to Denmark to help with the oil drills off the Danish coast. They ended up staying there and adopting children, one of whom was Quatre.

It hadn't taken long for him to charm the mosque. The men loved his quick wit and humor and were impressed by his extensive knowledge in law. The women were utterly charmed by him, constantly cooking him things and trying to interest him in their daughters, despite the knowledge that he was as queer as a three-dollar bill.

Mawli had become good friends with Quatre. He knew him pretty well. However he was utterly baffled as to why Quatre wanted to go to a little bakery in the Jewish quarter so bad though. "So. Figured out why you want to go there so bad yet?"

"Yes, actually." He grinned sheepishly, "I've been craving apfelkuchen for the longest time, and they have the best in the whole city."

Mawli rolled his eyes but kept walking. The food was good… As the pushed their way into the interior of Jerusalem, the streets bustled with activity. The sounds of rapid buying and selling of goods echoed through the open air market on their way, inspiring Mawli to buy a particularly good bag of dates, the two splitting the sweet fruits till they finally reached the tiny café.

Their friend stood out in the crowd due to a lack of yamaka or tassel, a lock of hair going from the temple to the chin. Not to mention the fact that Khalique had no body fat to speak of. Mawli muttered to Quatre, "Get me a cherry torte and a croissant." He handed his money to the blonde, who patted his back supportively, "Go easy on him. He's been to hell and back." As Quat got into line, Mawli took a deep breath and sat down across from his oldest friend. "Khalique, I'm glad you came"

The man smiled at him, holding his hand out to him, "Of course, I missed you."

As they sat down, Mawli took the opportunity to hold Khalique's wrist and pull his sleeve back. He'd gained a little bit of fat back at least, but not anywhere near as much as Mawli would have liked to see. "Anorexia's still giving you trouble then." He sighed and released the bony hand, rubbing at his temples. "If I have to I will drag you back to the hospital."

Khalique looked down at his lap and let out a deep breath. He slipped his hand into his pocket. "Mawli. I love you, you know that right?"

He nodded, giving him a smile, "Yeah. I love you too."

"Then… You'll understand why I have to get justice for our people."

With one push of the button, the café erupted into chaos, killing all but two people in the explosion. One was Quatre, thrown by the blast into a green eyed Jew, the pair careening into a wall. Rubble fell, but it managed to lodge itself just so that it left an air pocket, keeping them alive and changing them both.