January 28, 1991, was an extremely happy day for my family: After four years of trying (and four sisters!) my mother finally delivered a second boy. My parents named him Ayman, which means “righteous.” Mom used to say she didn’t believe happiness could cause people to cry, but when Ayman was born, she discovered it was true. She was so happy that she dressed him in gold, which is not usually accepted in an Islamic society.

My mom let it be known that no one was allowed to hit Ayman, so if he beat up anyone, the victim would just have to take it silently or walk away. But when he broke a favorite vase or bowl in his rambunctiousness at home, she cleaned it up and didn’t say a word.

His reputation as a “golden child” continued in school. His teachers called him “prince” due to his kindness and good manners. He became well known for his smile; he kept smiling even in bad situations.

The end of childhood

But then came the Second Intifada in 2000, and Ayman was exposed directly to death for the first time. While he was playing with his friends, an Israeli tank stopped in the middle of the road, opening fire – killing five of his friends and injuring around 11 others. It was Ayman’s fate to hide behind a wall, and he was saved. Their only crime was to come into its path! They just wanted to play like other kids.

From that point on, happenings like this happened frequently, not only with Ayman, but with so many other Palestinian kids as well. That was – and is – life in Gaza. But we could do nothing, and that ate at Ayman.

When the intifada ended five years later, we knew we were fortunate to have survived. There were hundreds of martyrs and injured and thousands of demolished houses. And the peace didn’t last long. In 2008, Israel launched the first of its major wars on Gaza, seemingly intent on killing every breathing thing. It did not differentiate warriors from civilians. Israeli soldiers killed more than 1,300 people and injured more than 5,000, most of them civilians. Yet they claimed the war was only against Hamas.

During this terrible period, Ayman was still in high school. We lived under very harsh conditions, and he saw his friends both die and grieve. More than 340 kids like him were killed. Ayman was an eyewitness to it all. But what could he do? He only 17. He was unable to concentrate enough to study, yet he continued to get good scores.

When the war ended, the Israeli army tightened its blockade of Gaza. We could not obtain gas, water, oil or electricity. Conditions were especially harsh for our family; we suffered a lot because my father was a taxi driver and he could not find oil to fuel his car. This blockade took us backward hundreds of years; we even needed firewood to cook.

Ayman finally found a way to become active in standing up for his family and his people, working with an organization that allowed him to get aid for needy people and distribute it in our neighborhood. In times of misfortune, the neighbors came to Ayman, for they thought he was the only hope.

He also joined the UN’s Gaza Training Center, studying for a financial management diploma. Ayman graduated after just two years; his certificate was our hope to escape the poverty that pulled us down. Finally, a year later, Ayman found a job as an accountant for the Association of Construction and Relief. It was a momentous day.

The end of life as we knew it

In 2012, Israel again invaded our land for eight seemingly endless days. When it was over, Ayman was not the same. He was restless, desperate to find a way to protect his people and defend his homeland.

In the meantime, my father became ill and required open-heart surgery. He could no longer work, so Ayman became our family’s only support. (My oldest brother was now married and could barely support his own family.) He walked to work, so he could save a little money. Ayman gave all his salary to my father, so he could take care of our family’s needs.

Despite our reliance on Ayman, my mother did her best to convince Ayman to get married. She wanted Ayman to be happy, and to her, that meant he must marry and start his own family. After a while, he agreed, and mother hurried to engage him to a suitable girl. Ayman started to prepare a flat to live in. But it was not to be.

In July 2014, Israel launched its third war on Gaza. From the beginning, the Israeli army struck houses of civilians. It demolished many vital institutions, including hospitals, schools and mosques. They tested all kinds of internationally prohibited weapons on us and, in the process, exterminated whole families. Even dead people were not safe; graveyards were bombed and bones were exposed. Gaza was sinking in the blood of families and children.

Ayman’s rage grew inside him. And it was as if the Israelis knew that. On July 19, 2014, he was with five of his friends in a building ravaged by a previous war when a missile weighing thousands of kilograms obliterated their gathering place –  causing his pure soul to fly to its creator. Ayman was murdered. And so were the dreams in our hearts.

When I close my eyes, I see his face. How can I forget him? He was the dearest and the most faithful friend and brother. He was always by my side, never leaving me even when I was in trouble. He died and left my mother cracked in pieces. He died and left my father weeping all night long.

Every day, when I see Ayman’s friends who are still alive, I feel a bitterness of loss I cannot bear.