We will write and film, this is what we do
On the life and death of Mohannad Hussam Muqdad.
The only antidote to ward off self-destruction and the indiscriminate use of force is humility and, ultimately, compassion … [We] must all act and then ask for forgiveness. - Chris Hedges, War is a Force That Gives Us Meaning
Occasionally life does imitate art. Over the past week, after President Biden announced that the U.S. military would airdrop aid into Gaza – i.e. supply the conflict with both firepower and food – a cartoon by Syrian-Palestinian artist Hani Abbas made the rounds on social media. At the bottom edge of the picture stand the black ruins of demolished buildings; from a leaden sky fall bombs and bread.
On Friday, the bread did become the bomb: A parachute on one of the aid pallets failed to open, and the half-ton package dropped into a crowd of people, killing five and injuring ten. Among the dead: two children, including Mohannad Hussam Muqdad.
All we have of Mohannad is a photograph, which likewise made the rounds. Perhaps ten or twelve, the boy stands against a yellow and beige wall – a family home, presumably. He wears black running shoes, blue jeans and a gray sweater. The picture recalls those taken for the first day of school, or on the occasion of a new outfit: the parent proud, the child content, but impatient. The focus feels soft around the hair and face, the lighting fluorescent, unflattering. A cell phone photograph, certainly. Perhaps the mother or father intended to share the image with friends and family on social media; perhaps they would keep it for themselves, one of many such photos, always at hand.
I write about Mohannad Hussam Muqdad because I am a writer – and, as Susan Sontag said, “a writer is someone who pays attention to the world”. But there are other photographs, other children. Sidra Hassouna, killed in Rafah at age seven. One family picture catches her mid-run, wearing an outfit of black and gray and vibrant pink; she’s looking up at the camera, smiling widely. Or Hind Rajab, killed at six while fleeing Gaza City: In a picture from graduation day, she wears a black and gold robe around her shoulders, her right hand holding awkwardly the large ceremonial hat. Or Yazan al-Kafarneh, a child with cystic fibrosis who died at ten due to lack of food and medical care. That photograph shows him sitting against a wall, a pillow behind his back. The boy wears what appears to be a soccer jersey, in red and blue, and stares up at the camera, his eyes bright with joy.
I write about Mohannad Hussam Muqdad for his sake, to show that at least someone, far removed from the walls of the Gaza Strip, has not forgotten him, or that he lived, for a time, and was loved.
And I write for my own sake – for my own soul, if there is such a thing. To quote Hedges again, from a recent talk: “We will write and film, this is what we do. It is not much, but it is something. We will tell your story again. Maybe it will be enough to earn the right for your forgiveness.”
May Mohannad rest in peace.