Tariq

Death of a Friend

The first picture is of Mahmoud and his friends Tariq and Shaeed, dancing at a concert on Friday night. (Gazans are trying very hard to create moments of escape and even joy through cultural events like concerts.)

And below, Tariq, a day later, killed by the IDF for veering too close to the Yellow line. That’s a guess. Who knows? It’s just pointless, arbitrary cruelty from soldiers whose humanity has rotted away from occupying and dehumanizing another people. (I’m sorry, it’s a very tough shot to look at, I know.)

And now Tariq’s family will have a hole in it forever. He leaves a wife and three young children. (the youngest, pictured, held by his father).

I have authorized Mahmoud to give some food or money to the widow when he feels it’s appropriate. I told him up to $100, less if perhaps there is some family with money to help, but that I doubt very much.

It could have so easily been Mahmoud, or his mother, or Nada, or the entire family. It still could be, any day.

Mahmoud is stricken with a deep sadness. Tariq was a close friend. They played soccer together, in better times, and that’s an intense way for young men to bond.

Hearing news like this, I notice how quickly that the wall goes up inside me. I can extend sympathy, and money, but I cannot cross into feeling too much despair or grief. It’s like I fill a small box, my monthly quota, then close it and put it on a shelf. It’s not a conscious choice, it’s a self-preservation mechanism over which I have no control.

I recognize this psychological space all too well. In the early 90s, the death toll from AIDS become inescapable, and I lost a CLOSE friend every few months. I reacted by going out an insane amount and numbing my feeling with drugs and alcohol. That option is off the table now, so I just don’t let my emotions get to the point where I need to numb them.

Although maybe I’m not special. Maybe that’s what we all do when we reach our 60s. Everyone has suffered plenty of loses by the time you hit 67, like me, we’ve all developed protective armor. It’s what makes us different from the homeless people raving on the street corner — we became more adept at learning not to feel our feelings than they did.

Thank God I have a funny husband whose ability to make me laugh snaps me out my existential funk.

MCO 2026

P.S. If you pledged to become a paid subscriber, please follow through. I think you just have to hit subscribe again and follow instructions.

If you want to help Tariq’s widow and children, @markolmsted at Paypal, or @mark-olmsted-4 on Venmo.

Or if you’re on a budget, but appreciate this post, feel free to buy me a cup of coffee (or two).