It was November 2012. The IDF gave no truce to the civilian population. The glass windows blown in the air and the narrow neck of land trembled before bursting into joy when the two sides agreed the cessation of hostilities. That's when Fathi died. In the five minutes in which the besieged Gaza was bombed more virulently: when it was about to enter into force the ceasefire. He was 3 months old. The box where they had deposited his remains in the morgue was on a metal stretcher that stands out of a refrigerator. The life of Fathi fits in a cardboard box.
Returning to Gaza is as painful as it is beautiful. One can remember the faces and names of people who are nothing more than statistics in the final death toll of a military operation. It’s also impossible to forget the horizon of a dark blue water, warships silhouetted in the background, and the moored boats and fishermen, black sea and sorrow, sewing networks, reeling penalties and burying siblings.
Many things to learn in a short time in those 360 square kilometers of land: the ability to overcome almost everything, generosity, strength ... Returning to Gaza is looking at the Mediterranean from a privileged corner. Despite power outage, the daily sound bombs that keep terrified children; the siege of farmers… despite all this, or perhaps because of it, Gaza is a place worth returning when the bombs do not explode. To watch the sea from a dune with Ashkelon chimney to the bottom and smoking a shisha forgetting that you can lose your whole family within minutes and life is worth as little as the number of dead.