ZIAD IN GAZA

 

I go out to see if there is anything available. From time to time, I find something good. The other day, I found nuts, which was great. One time, Ahmad had his friends over, he offered them raisins because that is what was available that time. While walking, I find a few people gathered around a man making saj bread. I go there directly to have a spot at the top of the line. One of the men tells me I need to write my name. I laugh. I was like: “Yes, now we need to register to buy some saj bread.” He was not kidding! The seller had a notebook with him and wrote the names to maintain order. Even though I thought it was a great idea I was in shock.

Is that the stage we have reached?

My number is 43, that’s why there were not a lot of people gathered. Those who registered were sitting in the shade. I look around and see them sitting on the pavement. I also see a guy I worked with many years ago crouching there. I smile and go sit next to him.

Without any greetings, he looks at me and says: “Four children. I have four children. What was I thinking?! It is true that the last two were not planned, but who brings four children in a place like Gaza? I go all day long to bring saj, to find milk, to get a certain medicine, to fight over water. Nobody should have children in Gaza.”

I sat on the ground and everyone around started sharing their experience. All the people waiting were from Gaza City. One of them was an owner of a shop in the area considered the downtown. “I spent my whole life building my business and an excellent reputation. Now, I am not sure whether I will go back to a broken shop or to a destroyed one,” he says.

The man I know stands up to check what number the saj seller has reached. He leaves his wallet on the ground. When he comes back, I tell him that he should be careful not leaving his stuff. “As if it has a lot of money or anything valuable. Our lives have no value these days,” he says.

Once my turn comes and I take the saj bread, I turn to leave. The shop owner yells at me to “dust my pants” since they got dirty after sitting on the pavement. I was a little away, and maybe a little upset, so I answered loudly: “Look at us! Look at our clothes. Does it matter if our clothes are clean or dirty? I haven’t had a shower in a very long time; some sand over my pants will be an issue?!!” I continued walking, without dusting my pants, because I did not care.

A young boy clambers over concrete in Khan Younis. Photograph: Ibraheem Abu Mustafa/Reuters