ZIAD IN GAZA

 

My friend has no name.

I met him during a difficult period of my life. I had started a new job and was not sure I was ready to return to work. But his presence was all I needed. After the first week I sent him a message thanking him for being a very kind and helpful person.

My friend was a great father of two girls. In the conservative society we live in, he faced pressure for not having a boy. At social occasions, some people would wish him a boy to “hold your name”. However, he was extremely happy and proud of his daughters. He told me several times that they were more than enough, they were the biggest gift he had ever received. He wanted them to be strong and independent. At work, they would call him to discuss anything, I would hear him telling them how much he loved them.

People in the office called us “the duo” or “the buddies”. We would spend our breaks together, talking and laughing, discussing issues important and silly. He had a unique laugh. One time I told him that I was planning to buy a mug for myself. The next day, a nice mug appeared in my office, a gift from him. And every time we went on a break, he would laugh about me using the “mug he bought with his own money”. Even after I left for another job, I took his mug with me, and I would send him messages from time to time, wishing we could share a break together.

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My friend loved helping others. Every month, he would buy chicken, vegetables and other food items from his salary and give them to poor families. At work, he never hesitated to help colleagues; he did not care about rivalries or showing off his skills. Everyone spoke fondly of him.

Once a month, we would go walking together for an hour or two. Not for the exercise, but for the opportunity to have one of the wonderful discussions we used to share.

Two weeks ago, he sent me a message to say he was looking for a place to move. “We cannot handle the displacement in schools or at hospitals. I need any decent place to take my family. Otherwise, I won’t be able to leave Gaza City.” There were no places left. The last message from him was a couple of days ago: he told me how tired he was and how surviving every day is a miracle.

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My sister hears the news from someone in her social circle. I immediately call a mutual friend, who calms me down and tells me that it was not him: “It cannot be him, I have spoken to him recently,” she says. I try to call his mobile, but cannot reach him.

Fifteen minutes later, I receive a call from her, crying: “It might be him.”

An hour later, it is confirmed. My friend, his wife and his two daughters are no longer alive.

I do not cry; not one tear falls. I call our mutual friend again and I tell her that great people like him will live in our memories. We will always talk about what a wonderful person and father he was.

After we end the call, I go to the balcony and I try to call him again. Maybe it was a rumour, hopefully it was a bad joke. Please, be alive. Please, be alive.

I don’t know how I feel.

Yesterday, we were able to wash our clothes by hand. I go upstairs to the roof, take the laundry down. It is not even dry but I do not care. I fold the laundry.

I stand up, look at the room: there are lots of things that needed to be changed and moved. My sister says nothing. I rearrange the whole room.

I need to breathe. I need to be alone. During these horrible times, you cannot be alone. You have no space to process feelings, you cannot even grieve a dead person.

I go to the toilet, close the door and sit on the floor. I can’t cry, and I can’t breathe either. I calm myself and go out.

I find the children in our room. They speak about everything. The youngest plays at being mother and prepares peas and cakes for her “children”; the middle one speaks about wanting to travel like his cousin did and “see the world”; the oldest speaks about the gifts she received from her aunt when she was abroad.

I listen, and can’t stop thinking about my friend’s daughters. I was sure, and I always told him, that people who were raised well like his daughters are the positive seed of the future. Children like them are the ones who make this world a better place. Unfortunately, they never had the chance.

Hearing about people that you don’t know dying is one thing, but losing someone close to you; someone you shared secrets with; someone whose energy would shine … this is one of the most awful things you can go through.

How many people are we going to lose before we get out of this nightmare? How many dreams will die? How many more great people stolen from their loved ones?

My friend died in Gaza City. I cannot be there for his funeral. Will he have a decent burial? Or will his and his family’s bodies be left until the whole situation is over. I will not be able to hug his loved ones and tell them how sorry I am.

My friend has no name because my friend is everyone’s friend. He is the kind colleague at work, the great father you see in the park, and the helpful person in any community.

I wonder how scared my friend was. Was he hugging his girls when they all died?