rach

One among the millions of pains we live with: ' I came to search for the remains of my son, who had preceded me to the dawn prayer. The doctor responsible for weighing the remains handed me 23 kilos and said, "This is your son. Take him and bury him." As I carried him, I remembered the day we came back from the market together. I was carrying a heavy bag, and with all the devotion of a child, he insisted on carrying it for me. He entered the house, proud of his strength, boasting to his siblings that he carried all that weight by himself. His mother kissed him and prayed that he would grow up to be a good man. Now, my son, you are ahead of me once again, this time in a bag. But how can I convince those inside the house that it is really you who is inside it? That your laughter, which used to fill the house, your thin arms that you used to wrestle with your brothers, your head that rested in your grandmother's lap, and your feet that walked in search of water and firewood, are all now inside one bag? And when your mother asks me in a bitter Gazan accent, "Where should I go with all this blessing? Shall we share it with the neighbors?" How will I tell her that what's in the bag cannot be shared, and that 23 kilos of remains are our share of death this week? ' A Gazan recounts the death of his son.