Ziad, a 35-year-old Palestinian, recounts another day in Gaza: no electricity, no medicine, not even any wood to burn – but no shortage of people dying
Sunday 12 November
Midnight 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 world. 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.
8.30am 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.
9am Today is cloudy, which is good for those on the street since they won’t be burnt by the sun. However, this means that no one will be able to charge their devices. The only source of energy these days is solar, and just a few families or shops have solar power, so all the neighbours and evacuated families go there to charge their devices, to have connection with the world, to remind themselves they are still alive.
Today, we couldn’t charge our devices. Another day to forget we are still alive.
10am I am running out of one of the medicines I take. I had good amounts with me, but after a month, most of it is gone. I go to the pharmacy to buy more. The pharmacist has only six tablets left. I thank him and leave without taking them. He advises me to take them, but I refuse. I want two or three packs, not a couple of pills.
I start my journey looking for my medicine, I walk for almost four hours. I enter every single pharmacy on the way. Sixteen pharmacies, none has my medicine. I admit that it is my mistake, I should have bought extra since the whole situation started, but I did not think it will continue this long. Nobody did.
2pm I go back to the first pharmacy, hoping they still have the six pills. They do, I take them, and leave.
As I am passing a long line of people waiting to buy saj bread, the people in the queue are encouraging the young guy selling the bread to be faster. One tells him: “I wish you get married soon.” Another says jokingly: “I hope you fall in love with a beautiful displaced woman and marry her.”
The guy smiles shyly, and continues his work. I remember my grandmother telling us that her grandmother had to marry at the age of 14 to a bread-maker just to be able to feed her family.
We are not there yet, or at least I am privileged not to see the misery others are living in. But I don’t think we are far away from people doing things against their desires just to secure some bread.
7pm Ahmad joins us in the room. He tells us today he saw his friend who is an artist. He was in the street, boiling some water to make tea to sell. His friend had no gas canister, instead, he was burning wood. Ahmad was surprised to see the man using the frames of his own portraits to burn. “I need to make some money, I have a family to feed,” the friend told him.
Even wood is becoming scarce, and some are selling it to be used to boil water and in cooking. What else is left to be sold? Air?
9pm My sister has rarely left the room since we evacuated. In normal times, she is a social butterfly and very active in the community. Since the whole situation started, she has only gone out when it is very important. Today, she decided to take the young girls for a walk. She took the eldest granddaughter and her female cousin. “We are suffocated,” they had told her the previous day.
At night, she tells me how happy the girls were. She says they had the biggest smiles over their faces, glad to be out after such a long time. They did not do anything special, she says, just walked, and bought some hair scrunchies.
But my sister is sad that a big deal of their talk was about this friend who lost her house, the other who lost family members, and the ones who evacuated and they have lost contact with. “Is this the childhood they deserve?” she asks.
Not only little girls, but women in general face double the suffering. During these times, men usually get the chance to go out to get necessary stuff while women find themselves stuck in the house with many other families, or at schools with little to no space. At the schools, I would see men standing or sitting outside to get some air, but would rarely see a woman.
10pm Lying on the couch, I can’t stop thinking about a quote someone shared with me. It says: “We need enormous pockets, pockets big enough for our families and our friends, and even the people who aren’t on our lists, people we’ve never met but still want to protect. We need pockets for cities, and a pocket that could hold the universe.”
I wish I had big pockets, to keep my loved ones, my friends and the animals safe. I wish I could keep the waiters, the artists, the students, the street sellers and the teachers safe. I wish I could keep the streets and the kindergartens and the restaurants and every single place that witnessed a happy memory safe. And most of all, I wish I could be held tight in someone else’s big pocket … to feel safe.
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