16 November 2023
“…But Abu Nassar didn’t leave his house…”
“Yeah… I don't think I know…”
“Call him again?”
“Let’s.”
This conversation took place between Abu Salma and his son at a UNRWA-school-turned-shelter. The Israeli death machines approached the neighborhood in the afternoon, and everyone immediately resorted to escaping when a young man shouted with all his might: “The tanks are behind us…”
The sounds of the shells flying overhead were less intense than the fire that was shooting from them, destroying people's souls and dreams. Despite this, Abu Salma and his son insisted on reaching Abu Nassar.
The streets are crowded with death. Wherever you turn, death and destruction await; blood here, blood there. People fled in all directions, but there was no way to escape. Even the sky was crowded with death and warplanes.
Abu Salma and his son arrived at Abu Nassar's house to make sure that he actually left. He didn’t. Abu Nassar is a kind man who loves everyone. He works as a nurse in a hospital, and it’s rare to hear his voice among the noise of the neighborhood and its people.
”Come on,” Abu Salma and his son said in unison. “Abu Nassar, leave the house, Abu Nassar.”
Within moments, Abu Nassar and his family — consisting of his wife, three boys, and a little girl — were out of the house.
“What’s going on?”
“The tanks will reach the neighborhood soon. Let's go to the school.”
The shelter center was a UNRWA that was two streets away from the house. The streets were separated by an intersection that, once the group approached, was almost hit by a shell that fell nearby.
If death wasn’t so hasty, people would have prepared themselves to leave. They probably would prefer to die in a place they love: the balcony of the house, for example, holding a cup of tea in one hand and their heart in the other. But the situation in Gaza is different, as every opportunity to live is an opportunity to die as well.
It was as if time had stopped and vision had disappeared until everyone removed their hands from their eyes. Why do we cover our faces when in danger? Why don't we protect our hearts, for instance? Why do we prefer not to see life in its cruelest moments?
Mahmoud, who was twelve years old, was screaming. A piece of shrapnel had hit his head.
“Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar,” Abu Salma repeated.
Abu Nassar carried his son to the shelter, trying to bandage him to no avail. As soon as they got there, he entered a designated area for emergencies, a place of wounds, groans, and final goodbyes.
The emergency room in the shelter was equipped with simple facilities — less than what could be accommodated. Abu Nassar placed his son on the floor and searched the room for any supplies that could help him stop the bleeding. He found nothing but simple bandages. Abu Nassar then took off his shirt and tied it over the wound, knowing that all of this was to no avail, as his son was suffering from internal bleeding.
Abu Salma was there throughout, trying to help Abu Nassar on the one hand and calm the family and children on the other, but he was astonished when Abu Nassar told him: “the boy was bleeding internally and he needs a hospital, you see the situation, let’s try and save what can be saved.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, we go and treat whatever injuries we can outside. My son is dying… his soul can be with whoever we can help.”
Abu Salma could not believe what he had just heard. He could not fathom how a father could leave his son in such a state to help his countrymen. Abu Nassar covered his son's face and continued his mission.
What have the Gazans done to suffer all this pain?
What fault do the children bear, these little ones for whom red only means socks and the clothes worn on Eid? Why were their bodies stained with blood?
These questions crowded Abu Nassar's head whenever he tried to treat a child, man, or woman.
Abu Nassar returned to his son, who was unconscious on the floor. He was drawing the last breaths of his short life. How precarious did the possibility of life seem compared to the inevitability of death?
If the shells had stopped for a while, if they had briefly stopped terrorizing us, there would have been time to grieve. There would have been time to cry. Abu Nassar didn’t cry — death was still a possibility, and with four souls around his neck, there may still be an escape route.
Abu Salma believed that their presence in a UNRWA school was necessary and that any threat to the school would be preceded by a warning call. But the shells were getting closer and closer to them until they fell into the schoolyard.
I don’t know how a person is turned into pieces. I don’t know how our bodies betray themselves and fly in the air. It is difficult when one finds a hand asking for its owner.
If this war ever ends, how will a child return to the same school where his mother died or where his brother died? Will he run in the schoolyard, or will his foot stumble over the memory, and fall?
Death has become inevitable in the refugee center. A little while after the shelling stopped, Abu Nassar rushed to Abu Salma, asking him to leave the school toward the south.
“I'm with you. But what do you want to do with the boy?”
Abu Nassar looked around. Death was everywhere, the bodies were lying on the ground, full of pain. None of them had found any way to escape besides death.
People began gathering dead bodies and placing them on carts. The bodies would be buried in empty plots of land, donated by their owners to become mass graves. Without saying a word, Abu Nassar carried his son and placed him on the cart.
“What are you doing?” Abu Salma asked.
Abu Nassar remained immersed in his silence. He put his son on the cart and said: “let's go to the south.”
When you don’t know where your beloved is buried, you’ll see him in every plant that emerges from the ground and grows green. You’ll dream that all the clouds that rain must be raining for him.
Abu Nassar left his son on the corpse cart and went on.
Abu Nassar will never be far from his son. But his tears have been deferred until the end of the war.
