Israel's Workout

Punch. Kick. Hit.

Amiel Meir, the embodiment of Israel, pounded her fists and feet and knees into the punching bag in her house. The sound of each hit made a mildly satisfying smacking sound against the plasticized fabric covering the punching bag. Each hit made the chain holding it from the ceiling rattle and echo slightly in the room. It was quiet that day. She preferred it when it was quiet. It allowed her to forget everything and take her frustrations out on the bag in front of her rather than the people that were trying to break her.

She was a pretty woman with a strong, curvy body and nicely tanned skin. Her long brown curls were pulled up into a ponytail to keep it out of her way. Her generous bust was cinched in with the sports bra she wore. Her hazel eyes were focused entirely on the punching bag like it was her worst enemy.

Palestine sat and looked as though he were a cat with a great prize before him in the World Meeting. He looked as though he any moment someone was going to tell him that he could have her any way he wanted her. Amiel wanted to punch him on the nose, though she kept her temper. She was tired of the smirk he was giving her as Turkey tiredly said that she had to apologize for a raid on a ship that was deliberately invading a blockade after being told repeatedly that they had to turn back and were not welcome. She could see Turkey was not the least bit happy to deliver this from his leaders. It was as plain as the daylight coming in through the windows. He looked annoyed and very tired. Amiel almost felt sorry for him. She certainly felt sorry for Iran. He looked even worse.

"I will not apologize for any such thing," said Amiel sharply.

"She covers for her own murderous people!" snapped Palestine. "Her wretched people are all murderers! They kill mine every day for no reason! Civilians! Women and Children!"

"That is an outright lie," said Amiel, her tone growing angrier. She took a few breathes to control it.

"Palestine, enough," said Germany.

Palestine glared at Germany, looking thoroughly unhappy that Germany should tell him to settle down. Amiel finally managed to calm herself down when Turkey spoke again. "One of my ships was attacked by your troops, Israel. People were killed."

"Should we have yet another viewing of the footage taken? The so-called 'peace activists' were told they were not welcome and attacked my people as soon as they boarded the vessel. They beat them with pipes and stabbed them with knives and then finally took one of the soldiers' guns before my soldiers felt it was time to fire. I think the ones at fault are the 'peace activists', Turkey." Amiel eyed him with those sharp hazel eyes of hers, his own red ones looking away from her. "As I recall you had arrested these very same people in your own borders and yet you tell me to apologize for doing similar coming into a blockade after being told over and over again that they are not welcome? The hypocrisy is clear."

"America! Say something! You are one of her allies! The evidence is more than clear!" snapped Palestine.

"I said that is enough, Palestine! Stop trying to provoke everyone else," said Germany sharply.

Amiel looked to her long time ally. His face was no longer the bright, happy, jovial nation that had helped her in her hour of greatest need. The handsome young man was solemn, a shell of himself. He stared at his coffee in front of him with little interest. His sky blue eyes were trained on the cup as though doing so would make it do what he wanted. Instead, it stayed put and did nothing while he stared at it. "America!" shouted Germany.

Alfred F. Jones, the United States of America, looked up slowly over his glasses to Germany. Germany, seeing the look Alfred had given him, started on another topic instead and let Alfred look away once more. Amiel felt her heart clench seeing him. Not only did it hurt to see her greatest friend hurting so badly, but it also brought fear into her to think that he could perhaps at any point in time say that he was no longer her ally. The thought brought imagery of Palestine and the other Middle Eastern nations picking her apart like wild dogs before finally letting her die. She knew all too well what was wrong with America and that was what made the pain that much worse in her heart. Alfred was suffering through a dictatorship almost as bad as Iran was facing. The president of the United States and his administration all acted less like Americans and more like a foreign regime occupying his land. He was a brave, strong-willed young man who bent over backwards for every single one of his states; and, what's more, he did it with a smile on his face every time. He loved his State Girls in all their unique ways. Amiel knew that and knew that the tensions he was facing were greater even than his own Civil War, or his fight against Britain. She was made up of just as many American born Israelis as she was made up of Germans and Poles, Russians and Middle Eastern Jews; she was made up of so many and she could feel fear for each of them as she did for the nations who contributed to her being born. She had a healthy love of each, but her love also meant that she could not tolerate nor condone any of them saying she should bow down to the ground and be stepped on for things that each of them should already know what brought the results about.

Amiel punched the punching bag harder, wanting to hear a stronger, angrier smacking sound from the bag. She wanted it to feel as bad as she felt. She wanted to hurt it and break it as they were trying to hurt and break her. The rattling of the chain was louder in the quiet room and echoed even stronger against the sounds of her fists and feet hitting the bag with enough force to make it rock in different directions.

"You are safe now because you are cocooned by your so-called allies, you whore," said Emir Salim, the embodiment of Palestine, whispered into her ear during the break at the World Meeting. Amiel refused to acknowledge him. He was baiting her, trying to make her strike him. If she struck him he could make the claim that she started the fight and that would help nothing at all.

"Go away, Salim," she said, "I have no interest in any of your games."

He glared at her sharply with dark brown eyes. He was quite handsome typically, though he tended to look less so whenever he frowned which was almost all the time when she was around. When he spoke again it was in her ear directly, whispered in a cold tone, "How often do you spread your legs for the one who killed so many of your own before you were born? I do not need to do or say anything to disgrace you, since you disgrace yourself every time you go to Germany's brother."

Amiel snapped her chair backward into Emir's stomach, making him double over and wheeze. Emir regained himself somewhat and came at her screaming. "You bitch! I will have your head cut from your body and piss on it!" he shouted in Arabic.

Amiel ducked the blow to her face and forced her seat out into his stomach again. He doubled over and coughed once more as Iran walked over and took him by the ear. "Enough out of you, Salim. Sit down and be silent if you have nothing useful to say."

"Don't touch me, you traitor! How dare you! I am the one doing all the proper work!" shouted Emir.

"I said enough!" Iran slapped Emir hard enough to make him topple slightly. Palestine, stunned, was finally silent. Iran looked to Israel and gave her an annoyed look. "Don't provoke him."

Amiel stood up sharply, but remained silent. Iran, taking her silence for whatever he wanted, pulled Palestine away like a tired parent with a bratty child. France's smooth voice spoke through the red cloud in her head, making it grow angrier. "You do no one any favors when you take his baiting, child," he said.

Child. He called her a child. In comparison she could see why; Israel, as it was founded again in the modern era, was a very young nation. As young as she was, in comparison to the other nations who had been around longer, she grew up far faster than any of them to simply survive. In the span of a few decades she grew from a small child to a young woman, where some of the nations spent ages as children before they finally grew up.

Amiel looked up at Arthur Kirkland, the national representative of Great Britain, who regarded her with a mixture of feelings. He at first wanted to pick her up and treat her like he would any little child. However, it was clear that her presence was a disturbance to what peace he had managed to have in Palestine. She was so very small, such a little thing with big hazel eyes and a pretty little face smiling up at him, that it made it hard not to smile back at her however much she disturbed him by even being there in front of him. "I am Israel," she said, smiling.

"And I am Great Britain," said Arthur, kneeling down in front of her, "And I am here to establish you as a home for the Jews of Palestine. Only, there have been several complications and you're a part of that complication." He moved to pick her up against him, but he heard someone come up behind him.

"What is that?" asked Palestine, looking at her with sudden disdain. "Britain! What is that!"

"Pipe down, Palestine," snapped Arthur, looking very annoyed, "I just found her."

"What is that thing!" growled Palestine, getting into Arthur's face. The small statured British nation leaned away from him. "What is it?"

"She said she is Israel, you idiot. She's essentially what I was sent here to control this place for," said Arthur, "Though she's really just this tiny thing. She can't do any harm being this small—" Arthur was cut short by Palestine pulling a knife and going right for Amiel's little throat in a swift move. Arthur covered her for the most part and snapped his fist out into Palestine's face in a fast, powerful move that made the other nation fall backward. However, the other nation had left his mark on Amiel's shoulder rather than his intended target of her throat. Amiel bled from the surface wound, blinking in confusion at what had happened. She looked to it and watched as red blood flowed slowly down her little, tanned arm and dripped onto the ground. Arthur finally snapped her up into his arms and held her away from Palestine. "Don't do that again, Palestine, or you will get worse!" Then, he hurriedly took her away to the embassy where he was staying.

In his room, Arthur took care of Amiel's wound. Wounds inflicted by fellow nations tended to heal slower than those inflicted by normal humans. It was a strange part of their being the embodiment of the people they represented. "You shouldn't be here," said Arthur, scolding her, "You don't belong here. You just make everything more complicated than it needs to be by being around."

Little Israel looked at him and frowned. "I am Israel. I'm going to be a nation like you, right?"

"No, you are not!" snapped Arthur, standing up. He had trouble saying these things to her since she was so small. She was only a child, after all! "You're a child still. If you become a nation then you will endure too many hardships in this place! If you try to become a nation then you will upset any peace there is in this place just by being here!" Arthur ruffled his messy, wild blonde hair and then turned those brilliant, unnaturally bright green eyes on her once again, "Don't you understand? No one agrees on anything here! I've tried!"

Israel looked up at him calmly, no longer smiling anymore. Her face was blank of emotion. If she was angry she didn't show it. If she was sad, she definitely didn't show it. "I will do whatever it takes to become a nation. I will survive," she said calmly.

Amiel panted and leaned against the punching bag, her fists raw from hitting it so much. Britain had been one to try to stop Israel from forming, afraid of causing more strife in British controlled Palestine than there already was. She stopped smiling so much back then after that. Smiling was too hard since she had little to smile about.

Blood oozed down Amiel's chin slowly from her nose and mouth. She coughed and shook, she felt an almost constant burning in her chest. She could still hear the Mufti of Jerusalem saying "Murder them all!" ringing in her ears. The United Nations had declared that she should be acknowledged as an independent state, a home for the Jews, but the Arab nations all seemed quite willing to see her dead, most specifically Palestine. She had declared her independence and the next day her people were being brutally attacked from all sides.

Amiel's chest burned from the inside out. Her body curled in on itself as more blood came up from her mouth. It was agony knowing what was happening. She could hear the fighting in her head. She could feel it inside her. It hurt her to no end and yet she would shove herself to her feet and keep moving even while blood continued to ooze from her. She would survive this. She had to.

Amiel sat in the corner of the big, empty shelter. Around her lay the bodies of fallen Saudis and Egyptians, Syrians and other Middle Eastern men, blood spreading from their bodies on the dirt floor. Amiel was in her own world. As she sat there in her corner, her knees drawn up to her developing chest, her arms wrapped around them, her head bowed, and blood continued to ooze down her chin and stained her clothes, she did not even think about people coming in to see what had happened to the troops she had dispatched with herself. Indeed, she didn't even bother to look up when a young Arab woman walked in wearing a uniform and her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. It was Saudi Arabia, a very pretty young woman she was, that found her in that hellhole while people fought outside in tanks and with guns and bombs.

Saudi Arabia stared at her own men scattered on the floor and their blood sprayed on any surface willing to hold it. Then, her eyes fell on the huddled figure in her little corner. "What—Did you do this?"

Amiel stood up. She was small, so very small, in comparison to her. She was so very young as well. She looked to be little more than a young teenager, maybe not even that. When she lifted her gaze to Saudi Arabia her hazel eyes held little warmth or humanity in them. It was another Arab to kill and Amiel was good at killing. Jannah, Saudi Arabia, watched as blood oozed anew from Amiel's mouth and nose, more than enough coming from Jannah's own mouth and nose as her own people died at Israeli hands. In a split second, Amiel had two knives in her hands and was running at Jannah. She was fast, very fast, and efficient, going for Jannah's throat and stomach. Jannah pulled her brother's sword out and managed to unarm Amiel of one blade, but was stuck in the knee with the other. Amiel, wasting no time, pulled the knife out and kicked Jannah on the stomach and sent her reeling backward. Jannah ran at Amiel, screaming at her, "You killed them! You killed these men! These were my men!"

The fight was as brutal as the tanks and bombs on the front lines. The only thing that stopped the two girls from killing each other was Jannah's older brother Jafar stepping in to stop both from continuing. Amiel watched, panting, burning, as Jafar hauled his bleeding sister away from her and left her in the room of dead men. She wiped her mouth and then went back out into the light to get to her men.

Amiel was in synagogue when the fighting occurred. Egypt and Syria attacked on the holy day Yom Kippur when most of her people were busy praying. She hurried out and donned her uniform once more to fight them; her rifle strapped to her back across her generous chest, a pistol on her hip, and various knives hidden on her person were her weapons. She was taken south to where the Egyptians were attacking. Egypt, the representative, was a calm young man who hardly spoke except to sell someone something, though he was a fierce fighter on the battlefield. It was the first time Amiel truly felt sorry for one of her attackers. Egypt was the sort of fellow who preferred to be left alone, though his leaders were very adamant about her destruction.

Amiel's hands bled as she punched the bunching bag again. Her hands made sick, sloppy sounds as they smacked repeatedly into the plasticized fabric. Hot tears fell over her cheeks as she continued to beat and beat the punching bag despite the pain in her hands screaming at her to stop. No matter what she did to survive, no matter what peace she tried to achieve, she was called a murderous nation and hardly acknowledged by any one of her neighbors. Now, the other nations outside of her own problematic neighborhood were joining the chorus of voices claiming her to be a terrorist nation.

The blood on the punching bag did nothing to assuage the pain and frustration. She grabbed her knife and leapt at the punching bag, ripping into it over and over again until its contents were on the floor and the plasticized fabric was shredded on the floor. When it was over with she sat on the floor and cried hot, bitter tears of her frustration and anger. No matter what she did she was constantly attacked. No one wanted her around. She was almost utterly alone if it weren't for nations like Ethiopia and America, but she was fast losing America thanks to his president. Without America as her ally she would have to once again defend her very existence to a world that wanted her destroyed. The prospect of her people being annihilated terrified her as did the thought of what these nations would do to her if they caught her. Women raped, children slaughtered, men burned alive through warfare; it all plagued her day in and day out when she thought about what would happen. The Holocaust, so often denied by the Muslim countries, would seem like a cakewalk to what would occur.

And she would be dead when that occurred.

Amiel drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She pressed her forehead to her knees and cried until no more tears came. When they ceased she cleaned her hands and let the wounds on her knuckles heal up quickly. Then, she cleaned up the mess she made and went off to get some lunch.

There could truly be no peace until the Arabs loved their children more than they hated her.