“A Bite After the Wound”

 

When that communication device exploded, they didn’t know their hands and eyes would remain there — where the explosion took place.
They didn’t realize that what was left of their lives would be measured by the slowness of a bite, the weight of a spoon, and the harshness of stale bread.

Abu Haidar, Abu Ali, and his wife lost parts of their bodies… but they didn’t lose their hunger for life.
Everything changed: their bodies, their eyes, even their daily plate of food.
Food now had to follow a medication schedule, and the sound of the spoon became a daily reminder.
And yet, they resisted.
They no longer waited for full recovery — instead, they crafted a new balance between what was whole and what was missing, between what they had lost and what still carried their name.

This is not just a story about a war that tore the body apart — it’s a story about a human being who reorganized his life around the table, with patience and a heart beating with resistance.
“I was just going out to get a bag of bread,” he says in a voice that still holds traces of disbelief.
“I heard the sound… my eyes shut. I felt my body become light — then unbearably heavy.”

That moment, just before the explosion, replays in his mind every day.
He remembers how his hand used to move effortlessly. How he could fry two eggs without thinking.
“There’s no such thing as automatic anymore. Everything takes time, focus, and patience.”

After the injury, Abu Haidar underwent multiple surgeries.
His arm was amputated below the shoulder. Both his eyes were damaged. He received intensive physical therapy to learn how to use his body again.
But the wound wasn’t just in the body.
“I used to feel ashamed to eat in front of others. I felt like a burden, and I would leave the table and sit alone.”

The feeling of helplessness crept from the spoon into his heart, and from the wound into people’s eyes.
And because wounded individuals are often seen as silent heroes in society, expressing weakness wasn’t easy.
But he found a way back — through food. A small door, but enough to begin again.
A nutritionist entered his life like someone entering a dark room and switching on a tiny light.
“We’ll start from scratch,” she said simply.

She began crafting a modest meal plan tailored to his eating ability, medications, and injury.
“What helped me most is that she didn’t treat me like a hopeless case… I felt like I could slowly return.”
At first, he could only manage two light meals a day. Now, he prepares a near-complete breakfast for himself — and eats it by himself.
“Some people might see it as trivial… but when I peeled an apple by myself for the first time, I cried.”

Abu Haidar wasn’t just learning how to eat again — he was learning how to rise beyond the idea of helplessness.
Every spoonful reminded him that he was still capable.
“Even if the hand is gone, the will is not.”

His life is now divided between treatment, rest, and preparing his simple meals.
“I stopped eating fast. Now I cherish every bite, because each one makes me stronger.”
He started writing down his little recipes and filming himself preparing them — sending them to another wounded man who’s also recovering.

His wife, Umm Haidar, was the first to reach out to him after the injury — not with pity, but with love.
“She was cooking and teaching me, encouraging me, and letting me make mistakes.”

The story of Abu Haidar is not just about injury, nor only about resistance.
It’s the story of a man who chose to make every bite a tale of resilience — and every meal a space for dignity.
The war tried to steal his body, but it could not take away his decision to live.
And every time he holds his spoon with his one remaining hand, he declares that he’s still here — and that life is still worth living, even if its shape has changed.

I knew I was going to meet wounded individuals.
But I didn’t expect to find an entire family — wounded, yet still resisting.

I sat across from Abu Ali and his wife in a humble home filled with the scent of coffee and dignity.
He is a Bayjer survivor, having lost both arms, and can barely see the outline of a face before him.
His wife, too, was injured during the attack — her left eye hasn’t seen light since that day.
And yet, I sat before a woman who laughed, joked with him, held the hand that was no longer a hand — as if it were still there.

Suddenly, Ali, their six-year-old son, entered the room. He climbed onto his father’s lap, turned to me, and said shyly:
“I eat like Baba… I love him a lot… He’s strong… And I want to be strong too.”

I looked at him and saw a child consuming the food of war — but with the spirit of life.
He didn’t know the medical terms, the diagnosis, or what “dietary restrictions” meant.
He only knew his father had to eat a certain way, and he wanted to copy him — because to him, that’s what love means.

I asked Abu Ali how his journey with food had been since the injury.
He lowered his head for a moment, then said:
“I used to eat with my hands — whatever I craved, I ate.
After the injury, every bite became a struggle.
Someone has to feed me. Sometimes I can’t even stand myself. But my son sits beside me, feeding me with his tiny hand.
Food became an act of love, not just a need.”

His wife gently interrupted,
“But we don’t give up. We change the kinds of food, reduce the salt, work with a nutritionist — but we eat together. At the same table. We can’t let the illness win.”

This family was not defeated.
They may have lost limbs and eyesight — but not each other, and not their ability to turn a meal into an act of giving.

podcast with the wounded-Abu al-Fadl

In one of my visits, I met a psychologist who had worked with several war-injured patients.
I wanted to understand the invisible side of the plate — the weight beyond the spoon, the burden on the soul.
How do dietary restrictions impact mental health?

The therapist responded calmly, as someone used to hearing painful stories:
“Food isn’t just a physical need. It’s a social and emotional ritual.
When the wounded are forced to change or limit their eating habits, they feel like they’ve lost part of their identity — their comfort.
That can cause sadness, anxiety, even suppressed anger.”

How can we help them accept this change without backlash?
He thought for a moment, then said:
“The first step is giving them space to express themselves.
They need to know that anger and sadness are normal.
Then we help them see that change isn’t loss — it’s adaptation.
Through therapy and by offering flexible food options, they regain a sense of control.
The key is not to frame them as victims — but as humans capable of adaptation.”

His words echoed in my mind.
Yes, the wound is in the body — but often, it begins from within.
The war did not lay down its weapons on this family, but it also didn’t take everything from them.

In every bite Abu Ali takes, there’s a small hand feeding him.
In every dish his wife prepares — despite the pain in her eye — is a flavor known only to those who resist hunger with love, and weakness with determination.

These are not just stories about the Bayjer and Walkie-Talkie bombings executed by Mossad on September 17 and 18, 2024, targeting a specific group of Lebanese civilians.

They are living lessons — in endurance, in dignity, and in the deep meaning of standing tall despite wounds and sorrow.
To see the light within — even if only with one eye.
To continue living — not as victims, but as victors over what the enemy tried to break, not who they are.

Abu Ali, his family, Abu Haidar, and all Bayjer survivors — they didn’t lose.
They’re still here — in the details of the meal, in whispered prayers, at every table set despite the pain.
They triumphed the moment they decided not to resemble their wounds.
When they rebuilt themselves with love — not pity.
When they said:
“You took our limbs… but you will not take our essence.”

At the end of the visit, just as I was preparing to leave, Abu Haidar suddenly turned to me and said:

“I never knew life had another face—one you only see after losing something big. But that loss… it doesn’t have to be the end.”

I asked him, “What do you miss the most?”

He answered immediately, as if the words were etched in his memory:

“Wearing my socks… with my own hands… without anyone’s help. I used to take it for granted, but now it feels like the peak of independence.”

He let out a light laugh and added, “Sometimes I wear mismatched ones—one right, one wrong—but at least… I put them on myself.”

That small laugh, despite the wound, felt greater than any victory.

It wasn’t a fleeting moment of confession. It was a declaration of life.

On the way back, silence accompanied me more than words did. I remembered those eyes that could no longer see, yet could read hearts. And those hands, no longer whole, yet still holding on to life with immeasurable strength.

I remembered how Abu Ali told me about his new eating routine:

“Sometimes, I sit alone in the afternoon and try to open a can of tuna. It takes me about fifteen minutes… but I open it. Not for the tuna… but for the feeling that I still can.”

Then, in his gentle, weary voice, he said:

“Sister, we’re not people looking for pity. We want a chance. We want time. We want someone to listen without changing the expression on their face.”

Even food has become an act of resistance.

A bowl of soup is no longer just a warm meal—it’s a lesson in patience. A peeled apple is no longer just a snack—it’s a declaration that a tired hand can still create.

The dining table? It has transformed from a simple social ritual into a sacred daily ceremony that reorders dignity.

“I eat slowly now, not because I’m being fancy… but because my body can’t handle fast anymore,” said Abu Ali’s wife as she explained how she prepares each family member’s meal based on their specific needs.

“But we all sit together… even if each one eats in their own way.”

Here, in the homes of the wounded, food is not just a biological act—it’s a quiet conversation with pain, with the self.

Every wound—whether in a side, an eye, or a hand—echoes at the table.
And every bite taken despite the pain is a defiance of the enemy who believed they had killed the will to live.

Em Haidar placed her hand gently on her husband’s shoulder and said:

“I don’t want anything from this world… just that he keeps eating on his own, laughing, and telling his stories to my son when he grows up.”

Then she looked at me, as if silently asking:

Do you think life is measured by how many hands we have? Or by how many hearts refuse to surrender?

At the door, just before I said goodbye, Abu Ali asked me to write about them “as they are”—not as statistics or superheroes, but as people… who feel, who hurt, but who are still standing.

He told me:

“Write about what it means to eat when you’re in pain… about what it means to try to eat by yourself so your wife doesn’t have to help… about what it means when your son picks up the spoon and says, ‘Baba, let me feed you.’”

These small moments may never make it to the headlines, but they are the truth they live.

What I learned in those homes was not just about war… but about the kind of inner peace that is born from the womb of a wound.

I learned that nourishment is not just a complete meal—it is an act of love, an act of resilience, an act of identity.

That a war-wounded person doesn’t only need medicine—but someone to share a table with, in dignity.

As I stepped out of Abu Haidar’s home, the sun was setting.

But another light stayed inside me…
The light of those who have rebuilt their bodies the way the poor rebuild their homes—
With a warm meal, a son’s laughter, and one hand… that still builds life.

The war may have ended on paper—but in the heart of the wounded, another war rages on…
A war for survival, for a mouthful of food, for returning from under the rubble—even if with only one sense.

And perhaps the greatest victory…
Is to rise from your table and say:

“I am alive… and I will keep eating—
even if time and pain become part of the recipe.”