ZIAD IN GAZA

 

ZIAD IN GAZA

Every inch of my body aches, but I am irritated. I have this urge to scream yet I am too exhausted.

“Would you like to shower?” my friend asks me.

Oh my God! I haven’t showered in four days. Another reason I’m irritated. Usually, when you go to other people’s homes for refuge, taking a shower is off the table. It is enough that they are hosting you, feeding you and keeping you “safe”.

The second family we are staying with is an extended one. One lot lives on the second floor, where we are, and the others on the fifth. We all gather on the second floor at night because it is easier to flee if we have to, and – I’m never sure if this is accurate or not – it’s supposedly safer than upstairs.

The bombing has broken the bathroom on the second floor. So I need to shower on the fifth floor. The others are worried – taking a shower at night could be risky.

They all looked at me while I gathered my stuff as if I was an astronaut preparing his equipment to go to outer space (in my case it was boxers, undershirt and a shirt – I wasn’t going to change my shorts because I have only one pair with me). I had lots of advice.

“Stay close to the stairs and avoid the windows.”

“Do it fast, no more than five minutes.”

“Keep your clothes next to you so you can grab them fast if a bombing happens.”

I was less afraid and more excited; a shower!

I took my shower very quickly, dried my body with the towel that smelled of coconut freshener. After finishing, I vowed that I would never, ever buy a coconut freshener so I wouldn’t remember these days.

I go down, feeling better, and despite all the chaos around, I lay my body over a couch and sleep for a couple of hours … it was great.