there’s stuff i’m wanting to write, waiting to write, and not managing. in the absence of mine, i’m reposting the words of one razan ghazzawi, a young woman i don’t know at all, whose roots tie her to bloodied syria. her words, in another context, strike the chord that i’m not managing to hit on my own in words – especially these:

I sometimes feel shocked, that you’re still dead. Because you’re not disappearing, at all, from my life. I keep mentioning you in conversations, laughing at you, I keep seeing your photos on my accounts. Bassel, I don’t get how you’re still dead. You’re one of my best friends, and it’s not getting easier, and time is not healing shit, and thinking about you still makes me cry. Do you understand?

i am grateful that my bests are still alife, that my brother is still alife, that my family is still alife and i hope i’ll be blessed with their long and healthy lives. i wish razan and everyone with similar pain strength, love, and i don’t know, that they heal somehow. here’s her entire post.

Do you remember when it all started? I think I added you on Facebook. I met you the day before at Sham Mahal bar, you, Salina and Kinana were organizing this movie screening club. The first movie you screened was SlingShot Hip Hop. I remember we were talking about losing weight, but you were proud of your belly. “Without my belly I wouldn’t have managed to drink my coffee when I am laying down on bed,” you explained.

I remember your hair, that magnificent smile of yours.

You were reading my blogposts, you said to me once on gtalk. I was thrilled. You and I got closer when the revolutions in Tunisia and Egypt started. Do you remember those days? We were alive again, no, we were born for the first time in our lives. Look at me smiling just by remember those days. Our time has come, we all knew it.

You were one of the organizers to the sit-in in front of the Egyptian embassy. You were about to be detained if Lina hadn’t pulled you from their hands. I need to tell you something, whenever I see Lina I feel you’re with us, sitting on the third empty chair next to us. Listening. Bassel, do you miss me like I miss you terribly? It hurts, Bassel, you need to do something about this pain. No one else could.

Lina and Bassel marching for Palestinian rights in Lebanon, July 1st 2010.

You sent me a message when Days of Anger was announced. You and I were sitting in Rawda cafe, waiting for a miracle to happen. In the cafe, we were the only civilians, the rest were intelligence in disguise. Then we decided to leave before they come to us. But they did come as soon as we were leaving. “Give us your IDs,” five men showed up asking in authoritative tone. “Why?” I asked in fear. But you just handed them your ID, your face turned yellow. They checked your name and let us go. “It’s not him,” they murmured as they left us be.

We agreed together later on that showing up in that day was the stupidest thing we ever did in our lives. It’s stupid, but we were children hungry for a little bit of inspiration, right?

Then the revolution in Syria started, and you were funny Bassel, really, I was posting the updates on demonstrations occurring and you were sending me messages: “Razan, you’re crazy! Make an anonymous profile, they’ll catch you!”.

But who would believe an unknown person, Bassel? That’s why we used our real names to spread news. You were traveling with your motorcycle at the time, and I had to leave to Lebanon quickly when Amer was detained. Good times.

Then we returned. You returned for good, you died, Bassel. You died in the land you worked for till the last breath. Till the last breath. Your eyes closed or was it them who closed them for you? Why do I need to know all this?

I sometimes feel shocked, that you’re still dead. Because you’re not disappearing, at all, from my life. I keep mentioning you in conversations, laughing at you, I keep seeing your photos on my accounts.

Bassel, I don’t get how you’re still dead. You’re one of my best friends, and it’s not getting easier, and time is not healing shit, and thinking about you still makes me cry. Do you understand? We’ve lost so much of our humanity, we’ve became numb to news, but you can still make me cry. How can you be dead to me, Bassel, when you’re the one who’s making me human again?

You need to know this, I envy you, really. You were in love, I loved how you were telling me about her when you were in Homs, all you talked about was her. And I was just giggling. That damn boy is in love. That was four days before they killed you. Four days.

Bassel Shehada in Homs, this photo was taken one hour before he was killed by a mortar grenade on 28th. May 2012.

The last time I saw you it was in Damascus, Sarouja. I held you and told you: you know that you’re very dear to me, right?”. You held me back and smiled. You said nothing. When I first heard that you died, I thought about that scene so many times. I thought to myself “why didn’t he say anything back? wasn’t I dear to him too?” and I cried a lot Bassel, can you imagine? You died and that’s all what I thought about for first few minutes. Then she told me that you liked me a lot, you even defended me countless times and I had no idea. I had no idea.

Ever since you died and I am becoming this expressive person, “I love you,” is what I keep telling people. “I love you” in case something happened, so you would know how I felt towards you.

No one will read this long post, right? But it’s for you Bassel. Be patient with me, I still can’t believe you’re dead.