On the night of Eid al-Adha in 2024, we were living in tents in Hamad Camp in Khan Younis, during one of the most difficult periods we had faced in the war. The weather was unbearably hot, and the sun poured its burning rays over our tents, as if the entire world had been spared except for us.
Suddenly, my husband woke me at dawn with a trembling voice: “Nada… wake up.”
I rose, feeling panic, as it was not yet six in the morning, and fear coursed through my veins. I tried to speak and whispered, “Did something happen?”
He answered, his voice trembling with both fear and sorrow: “A family friend in the camp… her husband and children were martyred in northern Gaza, and everyone must be around her to ease her grief.”
This friend was wheelchair-bound, suffering from a brain tumor; it was benign, but it had affected her ability to walk and swallow, as it was located in the nerve region of the brain, and its removal had greatly impacted her mobility. During the displacement, she had moved south with her family, leaving her young children with their father, who insisted on staying to protect the house, believing it would not be bombed… but he did not know that death knocks on doors mercilessly.
As soon as my husband spoke, memories of my brothers’ martyrdom resurfaced, exploding in my heart with silent tears. He tried to calm me, saying, “Everyone will be around her… don’t cry.”
I changed my clothes, but my entire body shook uncontrollably; I felt as though my teeth were chattering from sheer fear. I went out to find her sitting in her chair as usual. I said good morning without looking at her face, but she grabbed my hand as I turned to wash my face and said in a voice full of concern: “Nada… what’s happening? I feel everyone is tense… is there an evacuation of this area?”
What troubled us most were the evacuation signals that prevented us from settling anywhere. I shook my head in denial, and she asked, “Are you okay?” I nodded in affirmation and hurried away before my tears could betray me.
I saw her only son, whom she had brought to help her move, sitting by the side of the tent, hands on his head. Everyone was waiting for the family relative, the wise man from the neighboring camp, the best person to deliver such tragic news.
We, the women in the camp, sat waiting for the moment when everyone silently awaits death, our hearts beating almost audibly. The men sat in front of us. Images of my brothers flashed through my mind… I felt a cold shiver through my body despite the intense summer heat.
The man approached from afar, and when she saw him, she shouted: “Uncle… why did you come so early?”
Despite his wisdom and experience, he came with tears in his eyes. Before approaching, he asked: “Who died, my dear? Tell me.”
He raised his hand to signal… everyone had died. And when he raised it to tell her that her husband and children had been martyred, she lost consciousness after a scream of pain that shook the entire city.
She remained between consciousness and unconsciousness for a while, and we feared she had lost her mind, opening new wounds in our hearts. Memories of my brothers’ martyrdom returned, breaking us from within, and I cried as I had never cried before… I cried for all of us, living without safety, not knowing who would be next.
A painful reality was forced upon us, leaving us to endure the suffering, living between fear and loss, without shelter, in a world collapsing around us.
The memory of her children’s martyrdom became a part of her heart, transforming every future celebration into a painful memory, for they had left this life on Eid night, leaving a void that can never be filled.
The donation link for my family⬇️⬇️ https://chuffed.org/project/167068-urgent-assistance-for-nada