ZIAD IN GAZA

 He was not my friend, but some people just grow to become a part of your life. He was the head waiter of my favourite cafe. I had known him since I was a university student when the restaurant was very small and not well known. With time, he became the symbol of the place. When he was not around, people would ask for him. Some would only go when he was working. The restaurant expanded and he would move from one branch to the other and people would choose to dine where he was working.

He had beautiful green eyes. Everyone loved him. He listened to his customers; in a way he was a kind of therapist. He would give advice, guidance and support. If he recommended a certain dish, we would order it immediately. If he advised you not to order your favourite meal, we would trust him.

Two years ago, his eldest son graduated high school. He was very happy, he told us that he will study journalism. He mentioned that, in addition to him loving what he does, he works very hard, many shifts, just to secure a good life for his family.

I am walking in the street when my friend calls me and tells me he has been killed. I stop walking. Not him … no, no, no. I stay silent in the middle of the street.

Though he was not a friend of mine, he was a part of my life, a part of the many happy memories I have lived. I wish I could have protected him. I wish I could have kept him and his loved ones safe.

I want to cry, yet I keep silent and continue walking.