ZIAD IN GAZA

 The rollercoaster of emotions is killing me. Every day we go through mundane moments, happiness when something simple is achieved such as buying bread or charging your phone, then fear and desperation after bombings and airstrikes. It is very difficult to process, very difficult to tolerate.

I think about what my gravestone would say if I died during this horrendous period. I find it impossible to come up with a statement – I don’t even know what I want to achieve, what I want to say. I lay my body on the couch in the living room and close my eyes. Then, suddenly, I remember a poem I read one day and loved – I even kept it in my Notes app on my phone:

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.