Imagine the Grave Diggers in Gaza – Fawzy Zablah
September 4, 2025
Early evening on the dreadful third of July (it was a Thursday) I received a text from my Polish neighbor asking if I was available for a dog walk while she made love.
I texted back promptly — yes!
I charge her $15 for a half hour walk and this beautiful angel is always kind enough to tip me an extra five. So, twenty bucks for a 30-minute walk in this Trump economy is not a bad gig.
It feels good to be needed.
She works at a fancy but demanding restaurant south of fifth and sometimes she gets home too late and too tired and wants to relax or make love or both, and she will look at her dog with his happy, energetic personality and of course think of me, because that is the type of relationship we have right now.
Said dog is an adorable but nutty Australian Shepherd aptly named Joker. He pulls on the leash a lot but other than that he is a pretty good dog to take out for a walk because he always sparks conversation.
My neighbor lives right front and center from my apartment on the second floor of an old 1930s Art Deco building in the South Beach neighborhood of Lummus.
When my neighbor opens her door, she hands me Joker all leashed up and ready to go. Her lover, a short French African fellow named Celine, nods from the couch while rolling a cigarette. She has yet to formally introduce us, which I find curious, but nevertheless Celine and I managed to introduce ourselves on another occasion when she was not home and I had to pick up the dog.
I grab the leash from my pretty neighbor and after confirming the half hour walk, super excited Joker and I head to Flamingo Park conveniently located just down the street.
The South Florida evening is humid and dank and Christmas tree lights are wrapped around the trees on both sides of the street. It’s part of some kind of new city initiative to beautify or light up neighborhoods. I read they were going to do it in other areas too. Christmas lights everywhere, but it is not Christmas. Tourists are always taking photos of the glowing trees on Meridian and it is a lovely sight, yet jarring in the summer.
When Joker and I get to the park my regular plan is always to walk right smack dab down the middle heading west and then north to Lincoln Road. She is usually done with lovemaking by the time I come back. Either way, I always go over the half hour allotted time just in case.
As we entered the park there was a young woman sitting on a bench by herself watching a small black pug lying or resting on the sidewalk in front of her. His coat was as black as a lump of coal and if you didn’t look closely enough you could disregard him for a shadow.
Joker sniffed him and kept going. I looked at the owner and she smiled as I let the dog lead me.
I kept letting the Joker lead when another man with two small dogs asked me about Joker’s breed. He had a terrier and a brown chihuahua that did not bark.
The man was Argentinian, which I could tell by his accent. At the same time as I was talking with the man regarding my dog, I could see from the corner of my eye the girl on the bench eavesdropping on the conversation. After it was over the man continued his dog walk and I remained looking at the girl on the bench with the pug by her feet.
“He likes watch,” she said, looking at the pug.
“He’s chill…unlike my friend here.”
I pointed at the joker sniffing the floor. She looked at Joker and then at her dog.
“I only take him out at night; his hind legs are deformed so he crawls.”
“It’s definitely too hot during the day,” I said.
“Yes, he’s had a good long life and now just rolls and crawls and he’s happy.”
She had a similar accent to the man I was just talking to. Joker and I got closer. Joker sniffed him and the pug became animated and started dragging his hind legs. He looked like an animatronic doll from a movie that had become stuck and not working properly.
I watched him roll with wonder and it reminded me of a very short, chubby man or a midget. Joker was also fascinated but then quickly changed his focus to one of those big rocks. I decided to sit down next to her on the bench.
“Where are you from?”
“Argentina.”
“I’m from El Salvador:”
We switched to Spanish and exchanged names.
“That’s an interesting name,” she said, of my name.
“It’s Arabic, it means triumphant.”
“Have you seen what they’re doing over there?”
“Yes, it’s horrible.”
“The world allows it because those people do control everything.”
“It certainly seems like it.”
“It’s satanic.”
“That’s the absence of God.”
“God’s people, am I right?”
I looked at Joker and Joker looked at me with saliva hanging from his tongue, asking me: “God’s people am I right?”
She was pretty so I could almost forgive anything. She was getting animated as she talked more about the satanists. I tried to understand and really listen.
“I’ve never liked them. I always found them terrifying and odd like vampires.”
I didn’t say anything and didn’t really know what to say or perhaps I didn’t even really want to say anything but I had to say something.
I decided to change the subject and somehow reintroduce levity into the air.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Six years. I used to live in Spain.”
“Spain is nice.”
“My father is from Spain and my mother is from Buenos Aires.”
“There are a lot of Argentinians in South Beach.”
“Yes, most of them are from the impoverished provinces.”
“Really? How can you tell?”
“The way they talk, their accents.”
Her dog began to crawl away from us dragging its hind legs. The hind legs he dragged, and sometimes he rolled his little pug body.
She stood up to keep an eye on him to make sure he wasn’t run over by any bikes or e-scooters.
I stood up too and followed her with Joker pulling on his leash.
We stood side by side watching her dog struggle on the floor until she bent down and picked him up and held him close against her bosom like a black doll.
In a moment of loneliness and desperation, I decided to ask her for her phone number, something which is hardly done these days.
“I do not give out my number. But I’m here at the park almost every night. We can talk here.”
“That’s fine. I’m here too all the time.”
She walked away from me with the pug in her arms, crossing Meridian and eventually disappearing down thirteenth street.
The next day I was doing Uber eats in South Miami. I was picking up an order at Pinecrest Bakery.
As I walked in to get the order a man in a wheelchair looked at me as I showed the order number on my smartphone to the employee.
“Can you message her? We are out of coconut pastelitos.”
I called the client and it went to voicemail. Then I messaged.
The wheelchair man rolled over to me. He had a cute, tan-colored mutt.
“Where’s that nose from, man?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your nose, is that a Jewish nose?”
I looked at him. I wanted to laugh.
The employee went to help another customer. The wheelchair man had already ordered and he was holding on to a few bags while still trying to simultaneously control his dog.
“Are you a Jew?”
“No-”
“You look like a Jew. Where are you from?”
“I’m from Miami.”
“No man, where are you really from? Where are your parents from? And your grandparents before them?”
“I’m Salvadoran.”
He looked at my nose closer.
“My family is Palestinian,” I blurted out.
For some reason or another, I regretted saying it, not knowing what kind of Pandora’s box I was opening.
“Wow” he said, “They are killing your people. They’re slaughtering babies like it’s going out of style. Gaza is almost completely wiped out man.”
He came closer to me: “Is your family from Gaza?”
“No, they’re from Bethlehem.”
I started looking for the employee. The client had not called back and then I decided to call again and finally she picked up.
I handed my phone to the employee so she could talk to the client.
“Our Lord Jesus Christ warned of the synagogue of Satan,” he said. “It’s in the Bible man. I served in Iraq, and I got some wild stories.”
The employee confirmed the order with the client and handed me the order.
Wheelchair man started to roll away to the door with his dog.
I grabbed the order from the employee and helped my new friend with the door.
“Thank you, man, thank you… I will pray for your people… but stop for a moment…. stop and imagine… the grave diggers in Gaza.”
“Thank you,” I said, walking briskly to my car.
“Still cannot believe you’re not one of them. You all look alike. You wanna know why you all look alike?”
“I gotta go man, I’ll see ya…”
I got in my car and turned the ignition.
“It’s because you’re cousins. You’re all fucking cousins.”
I drove away slowly. He was now at an outside table arranging his many bags. His loyal dog by his side.
I wondered if he was homeless; he looked homeless to me. God bless him.