ZIAD IN GAZA

For the hundredth time, I am repacking the bags to get everything in place in case we need to leave again. My sister points out that this time, I do not care about my laptop nor other things I used to see as a priority.

My emotional ability to continue writing is strong, but my physical ability is not. When I was buying the torch this morning, I asked Ahmad if he thinks we will reach a stage where we go back to using candles, if we can find any.

Just like a candle, I feel that I am slowly fading … my body is losing its strength. I have no energy left.

I am writing, but everything I write is a drop in the ocean. Like Manara, I feel only a part of me is expressing the pain I am going through, yet there are many left voiceless. I wish I could let out every emotion and experience and thought I have. I wish the walls could talk to share the fear we’re living in between them all night.

I wish the sky could talk to share everything it witnesses: people roaming the streets not knowing where to go or whether they will have food for the next day – or whether they will be alive.

I wish the mirrors could talk to share the tragedy on our faces that is adding so many years to our actual age. I wish someone could hug me and tell me it is over.