ZIAD IN GAZA

 

I am wide awake. Not because of fear, exhaustion or the lack of a moment of peace we have been experiencing for more than a month now, but because I can’t stop thinking about the phone call I had last night. My friend lost her brother. She was devastated, I tried to talk to her but couldn’t. I was able to reach friends around her. “She is grateful that they found the body of her brother in one piece, unlike the others whose bodies were cut into several parts,” one told me.

Is this what we’ve come to? Praying that we die in one piece? Has dying in brutal circumstances become the inevitable destiny of Gazans?

I remember a story told in my mother’s family. A story about two women who had a feud for more than 40 years about which of their sons is buried in a certain grave. Both bodies were cut into pieces and till this day the truth is not known. Each of the ladies would go to the graveyard and mourn her lost child. “But why does it matter?” I remember asking.

“It is all that matters,” an old neighbour answered. He said knowing their loved ones were buried in dignified manner, in a known spot, makes them feel sure that they are in a “safe place, taken care of”, and it helps them to let go and start the journey of moving on.

One of the two ladies died past the age of 85, the other one is still alive to this day. I am sure that the one who died is no longer angry with the other mother, because now she is with her son, in a much better place – away from graveyards, away from death, away from sadness, away from the cruelty of this word. She is hugging him, and he is very happy, because he is finally safe with his mother.

I wonder how many decades it will take a lot of Gazans to process the agony of not knowing where their loved ones are buried, or the fact that they couldn’t have a final look at them, hold their hands and say goodbye.