Rhetoric as defined by rhetoricians; it is the match of speech to the requirements of the situation, and if the situation does not require any article, then no article can satisfy the people of Gaza, including our colleague Waal Dadouh, and that is why I write this The article has no title.
This was one of the prayers our grandmothers used to say when they looked at us: “May God not cause you pain by losing a child in your life.” There is no disaster or tragedy more difficult than this. The greatest loss – above all – is the loss of a child, the joy of the heart and the “spirit of the soul,” as described in describing the people of Gaza and some of their children.
When this war began, Val Dadouh appeared before us, and the first shells flew past him, breaking our hearts and making us fly in fear of him. But he stood firm—and within a few minutes, not to regain his composure but to repair the equipment—he returned via livestream to calmly report on the incident, and unbeknownst to him—and neither did we— —If this missile had hit him, his disaster would not have been greater. Misfortune ensues.
Val continued to cover… On the other side, the Israeli bombardment continued, every missile, every target was covered by Val, who had a strange way of memorizing places and numbers and telling stories about the geography and nature of the place. The man inside, then he talks about explosions, martyrs and their essence in a narrative that he practices and perfects until it lasts. For days he began to say – and only at the beginning of each intervention -: “The situation was in fact… bombing, then targeting, then martyrdom of women and children. He told and told and he never stopped telling or stories mentioned.
The situation in the Var and Gaza continues. He delivered the news as if to comfort Gaza and the people within it, even comforting the helpless Arab world with his words and interventions, until the attack came to the heart of Var: his wife, his son, and his 's granddaughter.
Val is now off camera, with reporters behind him, but this time not to tell a story, but to tell a story about him.
The bombing… targeting… the martyrdom of women and children… Then came the emergency: the martyrdom of War Dahdu's wife, son and granddaughter.
The words were Val's moans, groans and screams.
“I'm sorry,” he said as he bid farewell to three generations of Gazans, represented by the Wael Al-Dahdouh family:
The last of his generation is his wife. and presented it to his son. And his future lies with his granddaughter.
Then Val was back, holding Al Jazeera's microphone, telling the story. The neighbor's shell that missed him the first time hit him, and with him was the photographer Samer Abu Daqqa who was accompanying him this time, and he miraculously escaped. , but his colleague continued to bleed to death.
Summer was dead, and this time Val didn't have to wait long. Instead, he climbed out of bed with a tube of solution on his hand. He tells stories, tells news, how he became the center of a target, and then he lost his powers. Companion, colleague, he has almost lost his soul, torn apart by grief for his wife.
Val got up and went back to continue… He continued with a tired look on his face, the range was littered with corpses, the roads were littered with corpses, and there was no one to bury them, allowing Val to complete his mission. “This is his destiny and his choice,” he said.
The eldest boy, his father's companion, his companion in every report, always loyal to him, and his pupil. The boy became a professional journalist, and the reporting world desperately needed young people like him. So he reported, published, photographed, told, and in pictures and stories, his father's story came before his eyes, a living example for him to emulate and emulate. its effect.
Val comes out of cover and tells his story, we are used to it, but he is not used to bombing… targeting… martyrdom, this time with a car… Suddenly something urgent comes: Hamza Weir Al's Martyrdom – Dahdu.
When Val reached Hamza's body, the first thing he grabbed was his hands, twisting them between his fingers as if to say to him: Didn't I do that to you when you were born? That way I can hear your voice, even if it's a scream. Why don't you repeat it now, Hamza, my son?
But my son, that trick didn't work. Hamza was martyred, Val was sure of it.
So, bye…speak without shame, Val.
Instead, he said: “Peace is a trust, O Hamza: greetings to your mother.” On your brother. About your aunts and uncles.
“We will return to God and Him”
What is this, Val? If martyr Hamza were to greet all these martyrs in your family, my dear, who would you greet the little Holud who is with you?
Almost no one
Val said goodbye to nearly all of his family, and then, within a few minutes, he grabbed Al Jazeera's microphone and asked him, overcoming the emotions of the broadcaster who was nearly crying at his insistence on reporting. In reply, he straightened up, leaned against the wound, and then he calmly told the story: The bombing… aimed at… the martyrdom of women and children.
Who is more patient than you, Val, on this sidewalk in Gaza after most of the buildings were demolished?
May God appoint you among those who are patient, and may this war end with the words you convey to us: Yes, the war has ceased and the ceasefire has been established.