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.