I didn't know him...
Sharing a post from a friend
15:53
“I don't know his name, nor where he lived, but he was my companion in exile-my partner in this endless sorrow.
I arrived in Khan Younis ten months ago, displaced.
Bia stopped me then, his hair uncut since Adam walked the earth, his patched clothes hanging loose, begging for a cigarette. I had only one, burning between my fingers. We shared it, breath in, breath out, by the entrance of Nasser Hospital. We parted without names, without exchanging the burdens we carried.
Since that cigarette, I saw him every day.
Same tattered clothes, same quiet presence at a small roadside café. I greeted him in our own way-two fingers to my lips, a silent question: Do you have one?
He'd brighten, we'd shake hands, and we'd smoke together.
Bia was mute, yet the loudest among us.
Once, I decided to quit smoking. He sat beside me, lighter in hand. I sighed, motioning that I had no money.
Without a word, he wandered the café, pestering strangers for a cigarette. I watched, laughing.
They shooed him away, scolded him. In war, a cigarette was worth a soul.
An hour later, he returned, triumphant-waving a cigarette worth 30 dollars, twirling like a dancer.
The same men who had cursed him now lifted him onto their shoulders, cheering.
We laughed until our backs hit the ground.
In a world of beggars and saints, Bia was the only rich man among us.
He'd sit beside me, lighting my cigarette, as I crossed one leg over the other like a king.
Bia has been gone for days. No coffee. No smoke. No laughter.
Then today, I saw this photo in a Telegram news group-beneath it, a brief announcement:
"An unidentified body found near the Israeli military site of Zikim. Now at Al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza."
I know him.
This is Bia.
The man without a name, without an address.
Three letters-B, I, A. His name, his title, his home. The only thing he owned.
The only word he ever spoke.
Bia, Bia, Bia.
Goodbye, my friend.
A sorrow too heavy to bear.”
Hamed Ashour, Gaza. March 21,2025
