Self portrait by Mustafa, who loved photography and was always taking pictures. Photo provided by the Mayt family

Do you know the television series “Squid Game,” in which people run while being shot at?

Our family was told that Mustafa was running so fast it was as if he had seen his death there and rushed toward it. People called out to him, but he didn’t respond—he just kept running until he was hit by one bullet and then another, until a ninth bullet struck him and a bomb exploded, martyring him. All this brutality just because he was running to get some food.

Netzarim lies south of Gaza City, about halfway between the north and south of the Strip. It was initially established as a military outpost and later turned into an Israeli civilian settlement. In 2005, it was completely evacuated as part of Israel’s disengagement plan from Gaza. When the Israeli occupation re-entered Gaza during this war, they rebuilt that settlement. In the early stages of the war, it served as a separation point between the north and the south, and any Palestinian who approached it was shot.

A GHF food distribution site is located near the former Israeli Netzarim settlement; the other three GHF sites are in the south. Map: ChrisO, Wikimedia 3.0

Palestinians are still being shot at Netzarim. What Israel now claims is a humanitarian aid distribution area is an area where many young men have been killed, including my cousin, 25-year-old Mustafa Mazen Mayt.

This isn’t just Mustafa’s story. There are many stories like his; as of this writing, nearly 1,400 have now been martyred while seeking food. Yet people can’t stop going into danger because they are starving.

Israel has cut off food from us for more than five months. All this time, we haven’t eaten meat, fruit, or vegetables. We also haven’t seen clean water, electricity, or cooking gas. Life has become unbearable, and for those of us in the North, Netzarim has become the only option.

But it depends on your luck—will you return carrying a box of food, or will you return carried on the shoulders of death?

The distribution area opens at 2 a.m. in the pitch-dark night, an isolated space filled with tanks and drones. Thousands of people line up, and when Israel allows it, they run—as if running into death with their hands outstretched. They run to grab a handful of flour to ease their family’s hunger. A few boxes of food are thrown on the ground, and whoever reaches them first gets something to eat. Those who don’t, either return home empty-handed, broken and defeated by hunger and helplessness, or as corpses.

Mustafa’s body being delivered to his family. Photo provided by the Mayt family

On June 12, 2025, the internet was cut off across Gaza. The city felt completely isolated from the world, drowning in a heavy silence pierced only by the sound of drones and gunfire. It was a grim morning despite the rising sun. No one knew what was happening outside—who had been bombed and who was still alive.

At 5 a.m., we were jolted awake by my mother’s scream as someone violently pounded on the door. We rushed to open it and found Mustafa’s younger brother, Naji, standing there, pale-faced, his words falling like shards of glass: “Mustafa… is martyred.”

My mother and I rushed to Al-Awda Hospital in Nuseirat. She kept whispering prayers, pleading to God that it was all a mistake. But the truth awaited us, cold and still. In the morgue we saw Mustafa’s father sitting beside his son’s head, tears brimming in his eyes and his face ashen. In a trembling voice, he said: “He’s gone…the one who loved you so much.” Then he collapsed into tears.

Later we went to my aunt’s house in Al-Bureij camp. Throughout the war my aunt—Mustafa’s mother—had clung to dreams of a marriage for her son. She had been preparing a home for him, storing hope in her heart despite everything. She used to say, “Once the war ends, I want to rejoice in him.” But the war has given her a shroud instead of a wedding suit, a body instead of a groom, endless tears instead of ululations of joy.

When I saw his body, I felt I wasn’t just looking at Mustafa but at an entire generation of Palestinian youth whose dreams are assassinated daily. And I didn’t mourn only him; I mourned his mother, his home, and his laughter that once filled the neighborhood. Indeed, his neighbors said, “We never saw anything but goodness from him.”

Every Eid, I remember how Mustafa would come with a smile on his face, speak to everyone, give Eidiyya to the children, and greet my mother warmly and joke with her. He always asked my aunts if they needed anything and would bring whatever was missing for them. He loved my grandmother and respected her deeply. He never liked anyone to be upset with him because he was a dutiful and kind person.

Mustafa didn’t dream of much. He would say, “I just want to have a simple life, work, save a little money, and get married.” He wanted an ordinary life, but, in Gaza, ordinary is a miracle.

The funeral prayer was held in the street in front of the family’s house. His father was broken, embracing people as if they were all his children, trying in every hug to bring his son’s presence back for a moment. Crowds poured into the funeral.

I don’t write this to evoke pity. I write it to speak the truth and to say that Mustafa is not just a number in a passing headline. He was a soul, a face, a name, with a mother, a father, a brother, a sister, and dreams.

I write because Mustafa can no longer speak.

I write so the world knows that Israel doesn’t only kill with bombs; it weaponizes aid and exploits hunger to lure people to their deaths.

I write because Mustafa’s mother was preparing for his wedding but ended up mourning him at the cemetery, because his father dreamed of seeing Mustafa carry a grandchild, instead of himself carrying his own son to the grave.

I write because we—those left behind—carry such sorrow, and all we can do is tell our stories so they won’t be erased.