Asif Mahmood
Some books are not merely read, they are lived. Ernest Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea” is one such masterpiece. It is the story of Santiago, the aged fisherman, who battles the unforgiving sea and an immense marlin to prove that a man can be destroyed but never defeated. For me, this novel has always been more than literature—it is a meditation on human dignity, perseverance, and the courage to row against the tide when the world itself seems hostile.
That same spirit of Santiago returned to me when I saw Senator Mushtaq Sahib sailing across the Mediterranean, part of the flotilla bound for besieged Gaza. His image on the deck immediately evoked Hemingway’s fisherman: the quiet strength, the resolve in his eyes, the readiness to embrace a struggle that others might shy away from. Gaza today is not simply a place on the map—it is a wound on the conscience of humanity. To sail toward it is to knowingly embrace risk, to defy the storms of indifference and the blockades of tyranny.
Hemingway wrote, “But man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated.” These words capture the very essence of this journey. For decades, the people of Gaza have been encircled by war, starvation, and despair. Their cries rarely pierce the comfortable silence of global power corridors. Yet, men like Senator Mushtaq refuse to look away. They set their course not for personal gain but for humanity itself, making their voyage a living testament to the idea that some struggles are sacred, even when they appear hopeless.
At first, I thought of captioning his image “The Old Man and the Sea”. But that would not do justice to what I saw. He is not Santiago in the twilight of his life. His glasses shone with vigor, his cap rested smartly on his head, his face glowed with youthful determination. This was not an old man waging a final battle. This was a young man, full of conviction, defying the waves for the sake of Gaza’s children. And so the title had to be: “The Young Man and the Sea”.
This voyage is not merely symbolic. It is a reminder that humanity is not yet dead, that there are still people willing to risk their comfort and even their lives to stand with the oppressed. Where the world powers trade in silence and complicity, these sails move with the wind of moral courage. Where others dream of comforts, Mushtaq Sahib, like Hemingway’s Santiago, dreams only of the lions on the beach—symbols of hope and freedom.
The Mediterranean has seen countless ships over the centuries: vessels of empire, of conquest, of commerce. But perhaps its noblest are these modest flotillas that set out not to conquer, but to deliver bread, medicine, and solidarity. They are frail against the might of gunboats and blockades, yet stronger in the truth they carry.
Hemingway ended his novel with Santiago asleep, still undefeated in spirit. Perhaps one day, history will end this chapter of Gaza with its people free, and it will remember that there were men who dared to row against the tide. Among them will stand Senator Mushtaq—the young man at the sea.