ZIAD IN GAZA

 Thousands of families are still fleeing towards our area. Every day I hear one horrible story after another. I hear about a man whose mother couldn’t walk far; they did their best to find a wheelchair for her but couldn’t. So they brought an office chair with wheels and he slowly pushed his mother for hours.

I see an old neighbour who is looking for food. “My parents lost their house, I lost my apartment, I lost my company. If we make it out alive, what will we go back to?”

I can’t believe my ears. This young guy was a risk-taker. When he couldn’t find a job, he decided not to give up and started his own company, using his technical and programming skills. He spent over two years trying to establish his company; finally he started, and was contacting everyone he knows to promote his work.

“Our main concern is water,” he says. “My father [who holds a PhD] is the toilet police. We are not allowed to flush the toilet every time. He ordered us to put big bottles in the cistern, so it does not fill with water, and only a little comes down when we flush.”

Will it make any difference if I write about the airstrikes and bombing? Is it worth it to write about the two very close to us, in streets that I, and hundreds of people, pass six times a day to buy our stuff? Shall I write about the constant feeling of fear for our lives and the ones we are responsible for? Should I talk about the helplessness and despair we are all going through? Does it matter?

I turn on some music, without wearing headphones. I don’t care if it is late. I hear a song I loved. It is weird how you listen to a song hundreds of times but never focus on the lyrics. For the first time, I listen to what the singer is saying:

It turned out there is a day! So why am I suffering … far in the darkness?
If only the light gets through the big walls … I belong to a special place
Will our rainy nights end? Will we see the light again?