Beyond Gaza’s statistics: A candle for my father

In a world obsessed with statistics, it’s disturbingly easy to lose sight of the lives behind the numbers. My father, Jabr— “Abu Younis” to those who knew him—was one of those lives. He wasn’t just a figure rattling around in news reports, a body counted in another grim tally on TV or Twitter. He was a man brimming with dreams, laughter, and an immeasurable love for his family, including Max, his beloved dog, who shared his fate.

My father lived in Gaza, a place where peace is fleeting, if it exists at all, a land under chronic siege and smouldering with tragedy. Yet, in this landscape of unceasing hardship, he managed to carve out something sacred—a refuge of warmth and joy. Each morning, he would put on a Fairouz record, sip his coffee, and smile as he watched the world wake up. In the evenings, he’d share his beliefs with us—about love, hope, and resilience. “Everything will get better,” he’d say, even when optimism seemed like a radical act of defiance.

Then, on that day, Gaza once again became a theater of violence. Air raids blanketed our village, leaving no one untouched. My father, ever the caregiver, returned home around 8 p.m. to feed Max. He had planned to leave the village afterward, aware of the growing danger. But as he reached the house, both he and Max were caught in the senseless brutality of war. “Wrong place, wrong time,” they’ll say. But how can there be a wrong place in a place that should be safe? How can there be a wrong time in a life that’s only ever been on borrowed time?

In the end, none of these questions matter, at least not in the way we’d hope. What matters is that my father was more than a statistic; he was the heart of our family. He was our strength, our anchor, our friend. Losing him wasn’t just losing a person—it was losing the foundation, the compass, the quiet but unyielding love that held us together.

Since that day, an emptiness haunts our home, lingering in the silence that has replaced his laughter. The pain of his absence is impossible to quantify, though it fills every corner of our lives. His chair sits empty at the table, a mute reminder of a presence that can’t be replaced. Max’s bark, once so familiar, now just a ghostly echo.

Every day, the news cycles through numbers, tallying lives lost, injuries sustained, and tragedies documented in careful, clinical prose. But behind each of those numbers is a family, a story, a life that meant something to someone. My father, Abu Younis, was not merely another casualty of war; he was a father who adored his children, a husband who cherished his wife, a friend who brought laughter and kindness to those around him. He was life in its full, unapologetic presence—not a nameless entry on some dispassionate report.

When I think of him, I remember the lessons he taught us—about standing up for what’s right, about finding grace even in darkness. He lives on, in his own way, in the legacy of love he left us. But the void he leaves is profound, a space that no platitudes can fill.

Today marks forty days since his passing, and I woke up with the weight of it pressing down on me. I wanted to honor him, in my own quiet way. I lit a candle—a modest, flickering light that seemed almost trivial, yet felt right. That single flame, in its delicate glow, somehow captured what words cannot: a remembrance of his warmth, his resilience, his boundless spirit. I placed incense next to it, letting the soft tendrils of smoke carry my unspoken goodbye—a farewell I never had the chance to say in person.

This small, simple tribute is my way of resisting the world’s tendency to reduce him to a statistic. His story is one of love, courage, and resilience—a reminder that behind every cold number, there is a life as rich and irreplaceable as his. Every day, I carry his memory as a defiance against forgetting, a quiet protest against the forces that would erase him—and others like him—from the story altogether.