It is Sunday morning 18 March, the beginning of a new week.
Colleagues trickle into the office, share coffee and stories from the
weekend. One of our colleagues arrives looking sad and pale. He has very
bad news; his 25-year old nephew Mahmoud[1]
was admitted to the hospital over the weekend, suffering from
complications of a kidney disease. Mahmoud’s condition was critical and
he needed to be transferred[2]
to a hospital outside the Gaza Strip. The Israeli occupation
authorities had delayed his transfer to an Israeli hospital from Friday
to Sunday, arguing that it did not involve a life threatening situation.
As is the rule for all Palestinian patients, only one relative was
allowed to accompany Mahmoud on his unpredictable journey to the Israeli
hospital, so only his mother, my colleague’s sister, joined her oldest
son. All Mahmoud’s father, brothers and sister could do: pray and wait
for news, hoping Mahmoud’s would recover and return to Gaza soon.

That evening my phone rings. It’s my mother; “grandma is very ill.
It’s serious this time”. Severe pneumonia has been diagnosed and she is
no longer eating or drinking. There isn’t much time to think and I
decide reschedule my April holiday, traveling to the Netherlands as soon
as possible. The following morning my colleagues do everything to help
me travel from the Gaza Strip through Egypt straight away.

While I am packing my stuff and have a quick chat with some
colleagues, we get devastating news; Mahmoud didn’t make it through the
night. While in a coma he passed away in the hospital in Ashkelon at 8
PM the previous night. The police had forced his mother to leave the
hospital at 7 PM because the visiting hours had ended. She didn’t know
her son had passed away until the following morning. Mahmoud’s body had
already been put inside a body bag in an ambulance when she arrived and
she had to wait until arriving in  Gaza before being able to see her
son’s body.

The injustice and absurd contrast slap me in my face. I am about to
fly across two continents to spend valuable time with my 91-year old
grandmother, while a father, brothers, sister, other relatives, and
friends were not allowed to say their goodbyes to their beloved Mahmoud,
who was in a hospital less than one hour drive from his family home.
The sole reason for denying them a goodbye; they are Palestinians living
in the locked Gaza Strip.

With Mahmoud and my grandmother on my mind I leave Gaza. On the
speedy way to Rafah border crossing (with Egypt), Gaza’s life and
struggles pass by my car window. First, I see the weekly demonstration
in front of the Red Cross office in Gaza City, where protesters hold
photos of their relatives who are held in Israeli jails as well as
posters of Hana Shalabi, a young prisoner of conscience who has been on
hunger strike in protest of her detention in Israel without charges
since her violent arrest on 16 February. Then the road takes us past
several petrol stations, some empty and abandoned, others crowded with a
500 meter queue leading up to it. The fuel and consequent electricity
crisis in the Gaza Strip is still ongoing, leaving most people with only
several hours of electricity per day. Just before entering into the
Rafah crossing, I pass by a small group of protesters who demand an end
to the fuel crisis, chanting and holding banners.[3]

The following morning I land in Amsterdam and a few hours later I am
able to give my grandmother a big hug, 8 months since I last saw her. I
am overcome with a feeling of gratitude, being able to embrace my
history book, my roots, the mother of my mother, our resilient family
tree. While sitting beside grandma my thoughts wander off to Mahmoud’s
family.

I image Mahmoud’s mother sitting next to her critically ill son, all
alone in a strange place, where no face, voice or word is familiar to
her. I imagine Mahmoud’s father, who gave one of his kidneys to his son
last year, having to see his son leave in an ambulance, not knowing if
he will ever see him again. Occupation authorities tell him he is not
allowed to accompany his ill son and his wife to a hospital. No reason,
it is simply a rule set by the army that holds a firm lock on the Gaza
Strip.

What threat could Mahmoud’s family pose to anyone? Their son was
dying in a hospital. Where else would his family members be, other than
beside his bed holding his hand, praying, stroking his hear?

Even Kafka would have a mental breakdown if he saw such absurd
suffering inflicted by an illegal occupying power. Mahmoud’s family is
not the first or last Palestinian family who were denied their right to a
goodbye. Every month several dozens of patients from Gaza are
transferred to hospitals inside Israel or the West Bank. Not all of them
are certain of their return.

In addition to Gaza’s patients, hundreds of Palestinian prisoners
have been denied family visits for the past 6 years, contrary to
international law. Many of their relatives have died since the visits
were stopped; no hugs, no last words, no right to a goodbye.

The only possible consolation might be the belief in an afterlife. That and a belief in karma.