Tariq Ismail al-Dirawi

He was the first to call me "Mama," and my first experience of boundless giving. He was three and a half years old. We named him Tariq after Tariq Darwish, who was also martyred after him, as if they knocked on the gates of Paradise together. Before he was killed, he was afraid of the sound of missiles and planes. Whenever he heard a missile, he would run to me in terror. When I would ask him why he was afraid, he would answer, "They're shooting over my head." And in fact, a missile exploded in our house, and its shrapnel pierced his small head. I don't have much to say, except that he was a beautiful, intelligent, and clever child who loved life. His only sin in dying in this barbaric way was that he was born in Gaza and lived through wars. I had hoped my younger son, Yasser, would play beside his big brother, Tariq, in a park full of the colors of life. But every day we bury all our dreams, big and small, and we bury our most basic rights. I pray to God that I, your father, and all who love you may be among those to whom you bring glad tidings that "they shall have no fear, nor shall they grieve."