Diaa Al-Awadi died at forty-seven.
Heart attack.
The man who spent years searching for danger at the dining table — found it in his heart.
Years of prosecuting the egg. Condemning the chicken. Issuing judgments on milk, legumes, and raw vegetables. As if all salvation was hidden in a dish — and he alone knew its place.
And the cigarette?
It found no place in his list of evils.
On the other side of time, Sabah Al-Shahrourah was singing:
"Feed me cheese and olives... and dine me with potatoes."
She wasn’t explaining a diet.
She didn’t issue a fatwa.
She was talking about a dervish who owned nothing — and yet, gave you everything.
About a small room with nothing but a mat.
About a heart that saw food as love... not a trial.
Between Sabah’s song and the system of the Good Things — a whole generation of Arabs lived.
Afraid of something.
Searching for something.
And not quite knowing what it is.
People didn’t follow him because he was convincing.
They followed him because he left no room for doubt.
In a time worn out by questions — the one with the single answer reigned.
Even if the answer was lethal.
A sick woman called him as she was deteriorating.
He told her:
"Surely, you must have eaten cheese."
She entered the intensive care unit.
She never came out.
A young man stopped taking insulin because he was convinced that sugar does not kill.
Sugar killed him.
A mother stopped the insulin for her child — following the system of the Good Things.
And found herself facing the court.
Three stories.
And above them all — a grave at forty-seven!
Then the lists grew after his departure.
They lengthened.
Became more rigid.
Grew more confident.
And every bite had a verdict.
And every dish a file.
And every patient a ready certainty.
Except for life.
It spoiled the lists... every time.
Now all its content is banned.
And the restaurants named "The Good Things" open their doors on every street!
And millions are divided — between those who grew more faithful after his death, and those who now fear to ask.
Because death... washes away the questions.
And the dead man who died "wronged" — becomes an icon!
The man died.
And the table remained.
The cheese in its place.
And the olives in their place.
And the potatoes in their place.
And the egg — which he prosecuted for years — in its place.
As if nothing happened.
As if the food was never the issue at all.
Sabah passed away after a long, extended life.
And the doctor... did not reach fifty.
And the song remains.
Perhaps because songs don’t promise salvation to anyone.
Perhaps because the dervish who owns nothing — does not fear losing anything.
Then life comes along and does what it always does.
It laughs at the lists.
And the question remains... sitting at the table, while the answers leave it!
