Hello, dear reader,
You may not know the full truth about the war in Gaza. The war is not just blood here or a cry for help there, and then it ends. The war is far more than that, my friend. The war here resembles the first minutes of Doomsday, and in truth, there is not much difference between the war in Gaza and Judgment Day, except for one thing: on Judgment Day, everyone is preoccupied with themselves, while in this war, everyone is preoccupied only with their family. The martyrs here depart without farewell. Farewell, my dear, is a privilege of slow death. In Gaza, death is very quick. Fortunate is the one who gets a small farewell, for a small farewell delays the great longing.
I am writing these words to you while Gaza is being rained on by fire all night long, as if the sky has been pierced on the side of hell, pouring lava down upon us. The tragic thing about this war, my friend, is that death in the daytime is more bearable than death at night. In the daylight, the glow of the missile fades against the sun, and so we die without the terror of that final blinding flash. The sound itself is not so frightening, because the dead cannot hear it anyway. It is the living who strangely find comfort in hearing it, because the sound of a missile means you have survived this time. I know these are foolish interpretations of life, but they are the truth. The sound of the missile means we are still alive. This is how pitifully we justify our survival. Don’t be surprised!
What terrifies us is the missile’s light. The light comes in many forms, all of them wounding the heart before the eye. The red resembles the fresh blood that fills the streets, the windows, the screens. The orange resembles the flames burning beneath the pots of anguish in the tents of the displaced, replaying the scenes of tragedy every day. We prefer the missile that kills us without light. Lights in the world are usually beautiful and joyful, but in Gaza they are shameless and deadly.
Hello, my friend Toto,
I’m okay, in case you were wondering about me. Even if you don’t ask as often as you used to, that’s alright. What matters is that I remain loyal to you. I tell people your terrifying story that keeps me awake at night. I tell them about the filthy war that forced you to leave us and forced your soft body to remain buried under rubble for half a year.
Don’t worry, my friend. The sheikh told me your body will be restored and the villains won’t steal it. Be sure of that, and be sure of my love for you; you will never leave me. I recite the peace prayer over you whenever I pass by your noble grave. I remember your last laughter as you embraced me like those returning from the battlefront after a great victory, laughing and blessing my prayer. “I survived my illness, my friend,” you seem to say.
I remember my joy the day you were discharged from the hospital after your severe illness. That day, I felt a powerful tremor in my heart, like the tremor of a lover seeing an old flame. My happiness was overwhelming when I saw you regain some of your health, blended with your old laughter. You don’t know, my friend, how immense my joy was when I saw you laugh again, as if humanity was reborn from the womb of Christ, recited upon by Muhammad, and blessed by Abraham. I saw humanity in your laughter, Toto. If humanity isn’t in your laughter, then where else could it be?
Wait…dear reader, you don’t know Toto?
Alright then, let me introduce you:
Toto was my dear friend; he lived a humble life, owning nothing but his wide smile, which he shared with everyone without exception. It was his only weapon to survive the cruelty of this world. He gave it generously, without need or reason. His smile was like a visa into people’s hearts—simple, unfiltered. Toto knew nothing of envy, hatred, or malice. He was pure on the inside, like a snowball.
To Toto, the world was a chain of laughs. Those who laugh with him became his friends in an instant, and those who saddened him became his enemies forever. The world mourned when Toto was sad, and when he laughed, the whole universe laughed with him.
The day he left, the world’s joy faded, or so I felt.
Before the war, I never left his side. I would sit with him every night, reviving parts of my stifled laughter hidden deep within me. He alone could save it from drowning and breathe life into my soul. After he left, I realized that life needed Toto more than he needed it, for life without Toto’s heart is empty of humanity and beauty.
In our weeping neighborhood, he was the fruit of this life. The day he left, darkness fell as if the sun sank into the ocean. That’s when I understood what the final light meant.
Loved ones depart like a seesaw, one end lowers as the other rises. A missile falls, and the martyrs ascend. As they rise, they remember nothing but the final flash, thinking it’s the light that draws them into the sky. They depart, unaware of the magnitude of the tragedy they have left us on earth. Only we remain to know and feel it.
Just hours before Toto ascended to the heavens, we sat together, laughing loudly like at a farewell party. We said things that could’ve healed the sorrow in the world’s streets, and cured the lies choking its chest. Toto was the only person capable of killing gloom with joy and sadness with happiness
Believe me, the world becomes beautiful when Toto starts laughing. You feel like heaven has descended to earth.
It’s nearly impossible to find the right analogy to describe Toto, but let me try:
Toto is like the first sip of coffee on a magical morning.
He’s like a beloved song that everyone sings when the musician plays the first chorus.
Or perhaps the best comparison: he’s the cherry that adorns a fine piece of cake.
Every night we’d gather, and Toto would shower us with short bursts of raw humor, naturally delivered, never artificial. While others polish and perform their jokes, Toto’s comedy was fresh as morning dew. He’d say things spontaneously without fabrication, realistic comedy without acting, with a strange lightheartedness and charming laughter, in a deep but beautiful voice.
If he cried, I cried for him. If he laughed, I laughed with him. Toto was the compass of my emotions. I did what he pleased. Like a small piece of iron drawn to a magnet, I leaned where he leaned, and stayed where he stayed. He stole my feelings with the lightness of a skilled thief; everyone knew he was the only thief allowed to steal. He lifted people’s sadness to make them laugh. He spirited away people’s sorrows to make them laugh, and eased their sadness to make them happy. What a beautiful thief he is.
On the hundredth day of the war, the occupation killed him. They sent his tender soul, along with his smiling family, to the heavens. I was left alone, miserable and sad. He left quickly. As I told you, farewells are a luxury of slow death. Toto vanished in a flash, no time for goodbyes. They all left at once, a family trip to the sky.
I knew Toto well; I always saw it in his eyes. He feared death. He hated even hearing the word. Once, he asked his mother:
– “Will I die in the war?”
– She smiled and answered, “You will not die. You will live a long life.”
– He said fearfully, “But everyone dies.”
– She reassured him: “But you will live.”
Toto didn’t live long. Though his mother wasn’t lying; she meant he’d live long in heaven. My friend Toto left this earth to heal from the sickness of this world. He had Down Syndrome, the secret of his charm.
People with Down Syndrome are incredibly beautiful. There’s nothing wrong with them, only with those who judge them. Toto never knew why he left this world, nor what sin he paid for. But I know the reason well. Toto left because the occupation wanted to take revenge on joy with sadness, and on happiness with misery.
Toto was a friend to humanity, so they killed him.
That is the truth. The occupation’s job is to kill humanity and assassinate love.
Toto’s soul went to the heavens, and his body remains buried under the rubble.
If you ever pass through our neighborhood, you’ll find a big stone that reads:
“Toto is under the rubble.”
Please, send him your peace.
Read the story in original Arabic.
