As I tried to follow news of the Great Return March in Gaza,
I lost track of the numbers:
How many have been shot?
How many are dead?
What can we DO about it?!
As a Palestinian refuge born and raised in Lebanon,
who has never had the chance to see her homeland,
I look at pictures, watch videos and try to relate to the people.
I didn’t know Yasser.
I woke up one day and opened my Facebook page
to see he had been killed by an Israeli sniper.
I saw his picture; he was wearing a PRESS vest,
which clearly didn’t save him.
I rushed to his Facebook account, scrolled down and down.
As I tried to learn more, my vision blurred.
This man existed, he had a story.
He wanted to travel as much as I do.
He dreamed of life outside Gaza.
He loved cats, he loved children.
He had a smile that was like a window into his soul,
revealing simple tastes but ambitious wishes.
His dreams were bigger than the prison that is Gaza.
How could they decide to snuff that out?
I know you now, Yasser; I wish I could’ve known you before.
I know you existed;
you had a story beyond the numbers of which I lost track.
