Ziad hasn’t posted a diary entry since the 6th of March.

In his last post he wrote: “In a weird way, I related to the lyrics more than ever. I do feel left alone, like a little boy, scared of what the future is holding for me; missing a home and a complete life full of friends and beautiful details, in a blink of an eye.

But unlike the song, which starts by saying, ‘I do not dream anymore’, I do still have dreams. I dream of taking a hot shower, of eating strawberry ice-cream and being safe.

It is that seed of hope. That stubborn little, strong seed of hope.”

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In the past 24 hours, Israeli air strikes killed 65 Palestinians. Famine is imminent in the Gaza Strip.

I dream Ziad had passed away, as announced in an obituary on the Guardian website, and I wake up, startled by grief for a person whose last name I didn’t know, whose face I had never seen, but whose diary about life in beseiged Gaza had touched me deeply, for all of its care, love, and tenderness in a time of turmoil and devastation that would try the bravest of hearts.

He wrote about the friends, neighbours, and acquaintances who have perished, the home he left behind, the good family that let him and his sister stay with them. He wrote about the cats he adopted, even if it meant walking for hours to find medicine for them. He persisted on writing about the things he loves, and the things he had lost, the things whose value all the bombs in the world can't destroy.

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