My Uncle Mohammad

The news came Monday. My uncle Mohammad and his mentally-challenged son, Haidar, were found dead, buried under the rubble in Bint Jbeil. Rescuers were still digging, only to find more decomposed bodies. My uncle and cousin were one of the few who remained in Bint Jbeil.

Distant relatives of ours - my cousin's grandmother and aunt - were also found dead in their home this weekend. Lying next to them was a Hizbullah fighter. Word is that these brave men would go to the homes of villagers who were unable to leave and bring them food and water, since most of them were elderly and sick. Unfortunately, a bomb fell and killed them.

My uncle was the oldest of my father's siblings. I met him for the first time in my life two weeks before the war started. He was one of three siblings who stayed behind in Lebanon. Rather than emigrate to Venezuela, like the rest of my uncles and aunts, he remained in the village with my grandparents, whom I never got to meet. As a child of the Lebanese diaspora, it's not uncommon to meet relatives of yours after decades have passed.

Frail and absent-minded, uncle Mohammad was in my grandparent's old home when I met him. He was carrying a water bucket, having pulled water from the well. He reminded me so much of my dad. A rather thin and small version of him, but there was a striking resemblance.

There's this uneasy feeling, perhaps a sense of closure. I was able to meet him for the first and last time.

May he and all the innocent rest in peace.