ZIAD IN GAZA

I go to check on my friend who has been hosted by the family of a friend of his. They welcome me and invite me inside. I sit down with my friend, his friend and the family.

Fifteen minutes into the conversation, at which we discussed the usual (the lack of food, our safety, our fear of the future, etc), the father, a 73-year-old man, started crying.

“This is not the Gaza that I know. This is not how I wanted to spend the final years of my life. There are tents everywhere. People are begging for money. We are terrified for our lives. This is the biggest test we have ever had.

“If I die”, he says, “will I have a place to be buried in?”

His wife tells me about her neighbour, a cancer patient who hasn’t had her medicine in a long while. Such stories are no longer surprising. Her son looks at her and says: “Aren’t we all dying, slowly?”

On my way out, the father, whom I have met for the first time, asks if he could hug me. I couldn’t be happier. He felt like a father to me. I am grateful for his hug. I needed it.