” Mom, please, please, please, can I go with dad to work?”
“Dad, come on we are late; lets go”
“Dad, how did you first meet mom?”
“Dad, can you drive me to my friend’s house?”
Well, I don’t know who my father is or was. I don’t know how he sounds like, I don’t know how he smells, walks, talks, drinks and looks like. Forgive me, the verbs are in the wrong tense- sounded, smelled, walked, talked, drank and looked like. Simple words you use everyday; simple sentences you never take your time to think of. I don’t remember ever calling my father “dad”. I have asked my mother couple of times if I could talk before he died. She said yes. But what’s the use if I don’t remember hearing his voice calling my name? or my voice calling his? I was a year and a half- now I am eighteen- when they shot him dead. They shot him in the head. He was in his car going home after a visit he paid with his friends to another friend of theirs. It was the third day of Eid El Feter. Yes, it was Eid. All his friends survived. He died. His friend once told me that they heard some gun shots and dad asked them all to bow their heads and so they all did – He was a headmaster originally a chemistry teacher- he told me that after few gun shots, my father sat straight and said ” Are you okay, guys? ” and that was the last thing he ever said. Every birthday I had, I waited by the door. I always imagined him knocking on the door. I always thought maybe he fell in a comma and woke up without remembering anything. Foolishly, ’till this day I sometimes think of such possibilities. I always hoped to dream about him. Yet, not even once I did. I had nothing to dream of. He was a ghost, a tale, a picture hanged on the wall. I share blood with him, but I don’t really know him. All thanks goes to the occupation, AKA israel. Thank you for stealing the joy of seeing pride in his eyes when finished highschool, thank you for stealing my father and daughter dance,thank you for killing a complete innocent man, thank you for the bullet you shot him in the head- and I thank the factory that made it and the one who bought it, thank you for the memories I don’t have, thank you for being a peace maker, thank you for killing my people so your people would live and thank you for everyday I wake up and go to my mom room and see an empty space next to her. Be proud of yourself, you won the prize of the best killing machine. I must beg you however not to hate me when say : I hate you. Hating you is the least thing I can do. The very least thing. Thank you.