Ziad and His Cats

by Rebecca O’Connor 

 

The last dispatch from Ziad, a thirty-five-year old man

in Gaza, was published in the Guardian on 6 March 2024.

Ziad is on a beach with his sister,

trying to find a charging point for his phone,

though none exists.

He has a solar pack on his back

which he uses exclusively to feed his friends,

siphoning the energy to the weakest at night.

Some have learned how to photosynthesize.

What else would you have them do

in this desert without water or food?

He pays particular attention to the babies

who had to be taken from their incubators.

Like delicate wood anemone,

they need coaxing towards the sun.

Not all of them survive.

But he carries on, in the dark,

trying to keep as many as possible alive.

He doesn’t have time to write to us.

Or to explain the process.

It’s too complicated anyway.

Humans have to be whittled down to bone

before they can eat light.

Some gorge on it.

Their tongues torque into liquorice sticks.

For how can you wet the tongue with sunlight?

He keeps a small bag of za’atar in his pocket,

dips his finger in once in a while,

sleeps when he can—under a tarpaulin with his sister

and all the stray cats of the world.