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Man holding baby in air next to sea; wife is behind him looking at the baby.

A father’s grief

In one Israeli airstrike, Abu Fadi lost ‘everything worth living for.’
Man holding baby in air next to sea; wife is behind him looking at the baby.
Fadi holds holds his baby, Fairouz, as his wife Nour gazes on. Photo provided by Fatima Elzahraa Marwan Shaat

Abu Fadi, a resident of Rafah, once designated as a “safe area,” recalls the devastating day on October 23, 2023, when his family was annihilated by an Israeli airstrike. That tragic day, Abu Fadi lost his six children, daughter-in-law, two granddaughters, and beloved wife. “Israel stole my home, my children, and everything worth living for,” he laments.

That morning

The morning seemed ordinary. Abu Fadi returned from the market with groceries and was greeted by his wife, Fairouz, who suggested pasta for lunch. Worried about his son, Abdullah, who had gone to the bakery, and not wanting to leave him alone in the queue, Abu Fadi decided to take over the errand. They were low in bread and, since there was a flour shortage, the only solution was to go early to the bakery and join the long queue there, in the hope of being able to buy some.

He greeted his sons Fadi, Mohammed, and Ahmad and Ahmad’s friends Yaser Barbakh and Hamza Al-Jazar (who had come to recharge their batteries) and checked on his only daughter, Sojood. She was playing with her daughter, Salma, who rushed over as soon as she heard her name. Alongside them was Nour, Fadi’s wife, who asked Abu Fadi to bring some fruit on his way back. As he left for the bakery, he never expected his life was about to be turned upside down.

When the blast settled

As Abu Fadi returned with bread and fruit, an explosion rocked his world. His neighbors were fleeing flying shrapnel as he rushed to the blast. To his horror, as he neared his home, he realized the strike had hit his apartment.

Despite desperately hoping otherwise, he was faced with the brutal reality that the blast had destroyed everything — his home, the effort of his life; his cherished wife Fairouz; his five sons Fadi, Mohammad, Ahmad, and the twins Abdullah and Mahmoud; his daughter-in-law Nour; his granddaughter Fairouz; his daughter Sojood; her daughter Salma; and Ahmad’s friends Yasser Barbakh and Hamza Al-Jazar.

These agonizing moments of chaos and heartbreak extended to his neighbors, who witnessed the massacre.

We saw everything from our home, since Abu Fadi is our neighbour. His son Ahmad was my sister Menna’s best friend. Baba (my father) joined the neighbors in digging through the rubble with their bare hands. The ambulances and civil defense teams were delayed because fuel shortages and destroyed roads made it impossible for them to arrive quickly, so everyone did what they could to save lives. At first, no one knew if Ahmad was among the victims. It wasn’t until two days later that his body was discovered.

My family remembers how Abu Fadi’s family was once a beacon of love and hope. “They were a lovely family living in peace. Fadi was a promising teacher,” Baba says. We had been about to eat when the massacre happened; that day we didn’t eat at all. My father had gone to retrieve our phones charging near Abu Fadi’s home when the bombing started. “It was horrible to get them.” The tragedy disrupted life in the neighborhood, forcing most families to evacuate.

A legacy of love and loss

Israel had obliterated Abu Fadi’s life. In his grief, he eulogizes each of his lost loved ones.

Fairouz (his wife): “What can I say about her? Fairouz was a patient wife, the mother of my sweet children, the flower of the house, the pillar and soul of our home. She was more than my wife; she was the best friend to both me and our children. We had been married since 1995. Fairouz was a seamstress, and she made clothes for our children for special occasions. She decided how we dressed and what we did. She was our everything. Without her, I have lost my way. It’s not just me, her entire family feels the loss. Her father used to visit the nearby UN clinic and then come to see Fairouz; then he would feel everything was alright. Her whole family saw her as a wise, patient advisor. She was more competent, smarter, and a bigger blessing than me, after God’s grace.”

Fadi: “My eldest son, my beloved, an English teacher working in three centers, was building his reputation. The occupation killed his dreams, but it can never erase his name, which will live on as students continue to study his books. Fadi graduated with distinction from Al-Quds Open University and received a 50% scholarship for his master’s degree. Due to our difficult economic situation, we decided he should marry instead of continuing his studies. Fadi married Nour and had our first granddaughter, whom he named Fairouz, because he loved his mother so much. When our first granddaughter arrived, we were all overjoyed. We had no idea that joy would be stolen from us, and Fairouz, Nour, and Fadi would be taken away, leaving me with none of them.”

Mohammad: “My second son, a graduate of Al-Aqsa University in psychological and social counseling, was trying to be independent and was working as driver to earn a living. We were preparing for his wedding, just like we did for Fadi, but the war took him and all our preparations with it.”

Ahmad: “The soul of his mother, the soul of all of us, his friends, everyone. Ahmad graduated with distinction in trade from Palestine University and was Fadi’s right hand in his language center. They were very close.”

Sojood: “My beloved daughter, the joy of our house, and the only sister to her five brothers, was loved and cherished by everyone. She married and had our second granddaughter, Salma, who was only four months old. May God have mercy on them all (I still can’t believe I’m saying that).”

Mahmoud and Abdullah (the twins): “The youngest in the family, in their first year of high school, they planned to study automotive engineering and mechanics. They loved football and were registered with the Score Academy Football Club. They were emotionally and spiritually connected; God willed for them to leave together. It was destined that I would tell Abdullah to go home so he could be with his twin, Mahmoud.”

A family gathered around a man holding his newborn baby.
Fadi holding his daughter Fairouz after her birth and surrounded by family. His mother Fairouz, after whom the baby was named, is on his right and his father Abu Fadi is in the center.  Photo provided by Fatima Elzahraa Marwan Shaat

Echoes of loss

“These are my children, not numbers; they were my reason for living,” Abu Fadi reflects.

“The days used to pass because of them. Israel took my wife (my life partner), my five sons, my only daughter, my granddaughters, and my home. Nothing is left for me except my memory, which I can’t rely on with all this sorrow.”

In this attack, Yasser Barbakh and Hamza Al-Jazar, Fadi and Ahmad’s friends, were also killed. They were promising, ambitious young men, civilians dreaming only of a stable future — a fulfilling job, a family to build, a warm home. For Palestinians, this is too much to ask. Abu Fadi and his family are not the only ones to face such a fate, but how long can this continue? How long can Abu Fadi’s heart endure alone in this unjust world?

It has been a year now, a year without celebrations, without family, without the moments that once defined their lives. Fairouz is no longer here to sew clothes for her children and grandchildren; clothes that would have brightened new occasions. Fadi hasn’t advanced in his career or climbed another step on his academic ladder. Ahmad hasn’t had the chance to fall in love or argue with his father over their mother’s decision about what to cook. The twins will never play football together again. Mohammad didn’t get married. Fairouz and Salma, the two little girls, never took their first steps.

For me and my family, the pain lingers, and the memories of that day remain vivid. It has been a year since Abu Fadi’s heart was shattered. His tragedy mirrors the experience of countless Gazans who have been robbed of their families. They didn’t survive to live but to carry the weight of memories, of a past stolen from them, and to endure this endless agony while trying to exist in a world that has taken everything.

Each passing day is a cruel reminder. Their grief, their resilience, their longing for justice…  for how much longer can Gaza and its people be ignored?

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