As news of my uncle and cousin's death surfaced, we learned it wasn't a Hezbollah fighter who was found dead next to my relative's grandmother, aunt and my uncle. It was my cousin, Haidar. He had been taking these elderly women food and water during Israel's relentless airstrikes.
Apparenlty, Haidar and my uncle Mohammad escaped from my grandparent's home after an Israeli bomb hit it. They then sought refuge at my relative's house. But the Israeli bombs, falling from the sky, were merciless. They were all buried under tons of cement, under children's defragmented toys, under piles of furniture. The bomb finally caught up with my uncle and cousin.
My older sister Huda knew Haidar well. Actually, she and all my older brothers did, since they attended an American boarding school in Lebanon. Huda told me over the phone today that Haidar was a gorgeous man. As tears were rolling down both our eyes, she described him - tall, handsome, with beautiful olive skin and light green eyes, he was deaf and mute. He sometimes would walk on foot to the Bint Jbeil (my family's hometown) just to bathe and take care of my uncle Mohammad. He was a brave soul.
I think we all carry a piece of his bravery with us.
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