As a child, my mom taught me that true love is found in friendships. When I grew up and entered university, I became friends with three pure-hearted individuals: Mahmoud, Mohammed and Khaled. Throughout our university journey, our bonds deepened, transforming us into the closest of friends. I fervently wished life’s path would never force us apart and that we would always be there for one another. Sadly, this was not to be.
The first time I met Mahmoud, I asked him for help with the linguistics midterm exam. Despite our competitiveness, he graciously invited me to his house. Since then, we were inseparable. During my junior year, my circle of friends widened. Mahmoud, Mohammed, and Khaled became my best friends. We were all specializing in the same field, so we were always together, either in class or out. When together, our grins never left our faces. (See the picture!)
On Nov. 1, 2022, the Global Undergraduate Exchange Program (UGRAD) opened its doors for new applicants. Mahmoud and I went into gear. We gave it our best shot. Almost every step of the application was done together, from the recommendation letters to the official transcript papers. Though both of us were strong candidates, and I had my own dreams of traveling, I wished to be rejected to improve Mahmoud’s odds. I couldn’t bear seeing him rejected again.
You see, it wasn’t Mahmoud’s first time applying for scholarships.
Mahmoud had strived for years to earn a scholarship. After finishing secondary school, Mahmoud’s biggest dream was to travel and study abroad. His words echo in my ears: “I wanted to study anywhere. Even Egypt, any country, rather than stay here and continue in Gaza.”
Mahmoud applied to about 30 scholarships, but none replied.
Hope began to fade, but a glimpse of light finally appeared when he was accepted into a program in the U.S. But Mahmoud couldn’t afford to pay. Discouraged and depressed, and seeing his dreams dashed. Mahmoud didn’t register at university that year. He started working with his uncle in distributing drinks for local shops.
But Mahmoud wasn’t so easily discouraged. Mahmoud became laser-focused on his studies, majoring in English language and literature. During his two university years, each semester Mahmoud achieved the highest cumulative GPA among his peers.
One afternoon, after a long day of classes, Mahmoud and I found ourselves seated in our favorite corner of the campus courtyard. The sun, low in the sky, cast a warm, golden hue over our weary faces. We sighed in relief, happy to finish the week. Mahmoud grabbed his phone and started browsing. Suddenly he turned to me with excitement. “Khaled, I want to tell you something!”
I thought he got a high exam result, as usual. “What is it?”
“I’ve just received an email informing me I’ve been awarded the UGRAD scholarship.” His words filled the air with anticipation, washing away the fatigue of the week.
I pulled him into a hug. “Alf Mubarak ya Sahbi!” (Congratulations, my friend.) “Alf Mubarak ya Hoda! You finally did it!”
It was one of the best days of my life when Mahmoud got the good news. He was accepted into a highly competitive and renowned program. I was thrilled to have been part of his journey.
On Aug. 6, 2023, I embraced Mahmoud, holding back the tears so he could not see the void his absence would leave. Walking home that night, I wept tears of joy but wished the days apart would pass quickly so I could see Mahmoud again. Mahmoud traveled to Egypt and on to the U.S., taking short-term residence in Vermont.
As it turns out, Mahmoud was even luckier than we realized, because in a couple of months, our lives were about to change forever.
As the barbaric aggression on Gaza began on Oct. 7, our lives hung in the balance.
Communication became nearly impossible; we could neither meet nor exchange even the briefest of texts due to the days-long absence of internet. The situation worsened for me personally as I received a diagnosis of blood cancer — leukemia. Enduring not just one but two wars, I found myself in a hospital where the outside world echoed with the unsettling sounds of weapons and the pain of my illness pulsed through my veins.
As I battled leukemia, the struggle for medical care pushed me to evacuate to Rafah and seek treatment in Jordan. In this desperate journey, I left behind my life, family, and friends in Gaza, uncertain if I would ever see them again.
A few days later, I couldn’t reach Khaled and Mohammed.
The news hit me hard: Mohammed and his family were all killed in a bombing.
I kept texting him, hoping for a reply, but there was only silence. I felt overwhelming pain, crying for hours. In some moments, I regret that I left. I wish I was gone with him. Worried about Khaled, I called him repeatedly, relieved to hear he was alive. Thankfully, Mahmoud was abroad on his scholarship, and safe, but he couldn’t sleep, terrified for his family’s safety.
And now, moments of silence usurp my thoughts as I want to sleep. How can I sleep placidly after losing all these dear people? When I see their pictures or videos of us together, hear a voice that sounds like theirs, or remember times we spent together, I feel a crack open within me. Is it that simple? I will not hear their voices anymore? We won’t go out again? Is it that simple that I will not talk with Mohammed on WhatsApp? My last message I sent to him will remain one tick forever? Will it ever turn to two ticks? Will the two ticks ever turn blue? Just like that? That’s it? Is it that simple? He’s gone? Forever?
How was he killed? Melted with the intensity of the heat? He couldn’t bear the pressure of six floors of rubble? Did he suffocate? Were his bones fractured completely and he couldn’t bear the pain? Did he bleed to death? Where is his body? Can I see him at least? Even if he is dead?! Can’t I?! On what day was he bombed? On what day did he succumb to his wounds? Was he buried? Where was he buried? Where is his grave? Can I at least visit his grave?!
So many questions and no clear answers. Because there is no grave, no body. No one can get him from under the rubble. There is only me who can get our photos and videos from under my destroyed studio. There is only me who can watch our memories. His family is all dead: there is only me who will shed tears.
Habibi Mohammed, I think of you every day. I miss you so much. You left us too early. I never imagined I wouldn’t be able to see you again. You promised to come and visit me here. Please know that I am still waiting for you, so pass by whenever you want — even if in my dreams.
Dreams come true sometimes. I still don’t believe you are gone
Habibi Mohammed, I have so many things I want to tell you. I want to see you and hug you. I want to walk with you through the Rimal neighborhood and buy falafel sandwiches from al-Sosi. I will make sure to buy you two sandwiches with extra red pepper — just like you always asked for. Mohammed, it’s Ramadan. Do you remember last year’s Ramadan? I spent half of the month’s nights in your home—praying Taraweeh prayers in the nearby mosque and reading the Qur’an the whole night till dawn. Sometimes we would stay home, make indomie noodles and watch Konan Anime.
I never liked omelets, Mohammed. Even when my mother makes them, I don’t eat them. But I always ate the omelets your mother made. I would give anything to sit with you again while Om al-Abed made us omelets.
And what of Khaled? For now, he is alive. His fate remains undecided. He is the last of our circle left in Gaza. I would still be with him in Gaza, if not for the leukemia that brought me to Jordan, to safety. One Khaled is in Gaza. One Khaled in Jordan. Who of us is the more fortunate? This is the kind of question that Israel’s brutal attacks have caused. To wonder if it’s better to be cancer-free in Gaza, or fighting cancer in Jordan. How ironic that having cancer might be the thing that saves my life.
Even though I’m not in Gaza anymore, the pain of loss lingers.
I find myself wishing for one more sleepover with my friends. Will I see Mahmoud and Khaled again? The uncertainty hangs in the air, and I hold onto the hope of reuniting with them someday.
Editor’s note: Read here tributes to Mohammed Zaher Hamo, killed Nov. 24, 2023
