A 70-year-old friend of mine, the father of a dear friend, calls me from time to time to check on me or invite me over, where his wife would prepare delicious dishes. Before the genocide, I used to visit them regularly. But our bond deepened even more when we were displaced together in Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip.
With their daughter, my friend, still trapped in northern Gaza and unable to reach them, and with them forcibly displaced alongside me and unable to return home, I felt an immense yet endearing responsibility to visit more often. I knew that every time their daughter’s friend came over to share a meal, it helped fill a small part of the void in their hearts left by her absence.
After we returned to Gaza, the four of us, me, them, and their daughter, tried to meet whenever the bombing subsided. We would gather around one of his wife’s comforting dishes and sip tea after lunch, each time reminding ourselves how blessed we were to be reunited in Gaza, despite all attempts to tear us apart.
But we haven’t been able to share lunch together for a while now. Starvation has worsened, food is scarce, and constant bombardment and the collapse of transportation have made even the simplest gatherings nearly impossible.
Still, his wife often sends me pages from her diary, writing about life under genocide, with glimpses of hope never fading from her words.
Yesterday, for the first time, he sent me two photos of a notebook, his diary. It was so personal and sincere that I couldn’t help but ask him for permission to translate and share it, to offer the world a glimpse of how Gazans continue to hold onto kindness, even as everything else is stripped away.
Here is the translation of his diary, entitled: What are you proud of, Motaz? (Moataz is an Arabic name that means Proud)
“We had just finished whatever "food" we could manage for breakfast when someone knocked on our door. My wife hurried to open it, and as usual, it was a boy around ten years old, asking for charity or a piece of bread to ease his hunger.
From his words and tone, I sensed truth and the pain of hardship, his divorced mother is sheltering at the Baptist Hospital next to her injured son, Mohammed.
I let him in and apologised, telling him we had only a bit of mouldy flour bread with some Duqqa (Gazan spices usually eaten with bread) and thyme. He chose a sprinkle of thyme with his bread and devoured it as if afraid it would slip through his fingers.
I went to get a little leftover halva, my diabetes requires just a bit of sugar. I told myself I’d split today’s share with him. When I offered him his portion, he stared at it with teary eyes, hesitated to eat, and then said with heartbreak: "Uncle, can you give me a piece of paper so I can save this for my brother Mohammed, he craves it." It felt like a sharp stab to the chest. I told him not to worry, eat it, and I’ll give something for Mohammed too.
Yes, Moataz! Tell me, little one, what are you proud of?
Of a past torn between a divorced, displaced mother and a father battling mental illness?
Of being deprived of your right to sit in a classroom where you belong?
Of a present in which, like all of Gaza’s people, you can’t find a bite to fill your stomach?
Or of a future that holds nothing for us, where even the last candles of hope are about to go out?”
https://x.com/MahaGaza/status/1949770641931985361
[AS
ALWAYS PLEASE GO TO THE LINK TO
READ GOOD ARTICLES (or quotes) IN FULL: HELP
SHAPE ALGORITHMS (and
conversations) THAT EMPOWER
DECENCY, DIGNITY, JUSTICE &
PEACE... and hopefully
Palestine, or at least fair and just laws and policies]
No comments:
Post a Comment