ZIAD IN GAZA

 I remember a conversation that happened outside our room between the hosting family members. There is no wood left to burn to prepare food, and it was not safe to go out and search for it, or even buy it, if that were possible. They decided to take out one of the wooden doors they have in order to cut it up and burn it. I hear their conversation, and argument, about which door should be taken.

Inside the room we are staying in, we have other debates. Another arrangement of “escape bags” and discussion about what to take and what to leave. I go through my certificates and legal documents. I choose the most important ones and put them in the bag. The others I leave in another bag that we will leave behind if something bad happens. Even the weight of paper matters when running for your life.

Another debate, and guilt process, is the amount of food we eat. Every time we want to eat something, we have this feeling of should I eat it all? Should I keep some for later? Should I give my portion to another family member? We are lucky enough to have food left; there are families out there with nothing to eat.

 My throat is dry and my voice is very weak. Yet I choose to hum a Syrian song:

Take me to any country, leave me there, and forget all about me

Throw me in the middle of the sea, don’t look back, I have no other option

I am not leaving for fun, neither for a change of scenery

My house was bombed and destroyed; and the dust of rubble blinded me

Let me try, no matter what, I am a human being

Call it displacement or immigration … just forget about me