Abeer Murtaja, in the south of Gaza. Photo: Fidaa Hijazi (provided by Abeer)

One rainy afternoon during the war, I sat across from Abeer Murtaja as she held a worn scarf in her hands and stared at the floor.

“You want to hear my story?” she asked.

I nodded, pen poised above my notebook, and listened as her voice began to flow, carrying me into her world.

I wrote:

Abeer’s story

I was 19 when the war shattered my world. Every morning began with a long sigh, as if I had to draw strength up through my ribs before I could speak. When we were pushed south, dust clung to my shoes and my hands wouldn’t stop trembling. The camp was loud, crowded. Inside me, it felt like someone had shut off all the light.

That was when I met Fidaa Hijazi.

She moved like she belonged to the gentle places, hands forever busy, tying a scarf around a child’s shoulders, stirring a pot over a cracked stove, or wiping dust from a wooden table. Even inside her crumbling tent, there was a kind of softness that clung to her like perfume.

Once, I found myself whispering to a friend as I watched Fidaa pass a crust of bread to someone’s baby:

“How can someone smile like that hero? How can someone so full of light live in this dark war?”

No one had an answer.

*

Before all this, someone I loved would look me in the eyes and say, “Your happiness is all I need.” Even when bombs echoed outside, she would add, “Keep going. Study. I want to see you proud of yourself.”

But reading by the light of my phone in a tent felt like reaching for the stars. “How can I ever do this?” I wondered, blinking against the dark. And yet I kept turning pages, like so many other students in Gaza, hoping that if I kept going someone would hold me.

That someone was Fidaa.

One afternoon, she pressed a few books that I wanted into my hand. “You can do this!” she said simply, as if it was obvious.

And one day, she took my arm with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Come!” she said.

“Where?”

“You’ll see,” she teased, pulling me outside. She covered my eyes with warm hands and counted slowly, “One, two, three…”

When she let go, my knees went weak.

There was a tiny desk waiting for me. A chair. A pillow. A plate with eggs, a bar of chocolate, and a small box of juice.

“You did this for me?” I whispered.

She just nodded as my hands flew to my face and my shoulders began to shake.

“You deserve it,” she said.

That was how she kept me going: one small miracle at time.

*

When the ceasefire was declared in January 2025, my hands wouldn’t stop trembling as I packed.

“How can I leave her?” I kept thinking.

As we walked north together, past the shattered houses and tired crowds, I felt her fingers brushing my arm every few steps, a quiet reminder that I wasn’t alone.

When we reached my street, my house was destroyed. I felt her hand on my shoulder, light and steady. That night, though my family and I had a place to sleep with one of our relatives, the silence was deeper than I could bear.

And then Fidaa went back south.

The nights stretched forever.

Every evening, I stared at my phone and reread her messages just to feel close to her.

“Fly!” I teased her one night as we ended our chat. A silly joke.

“What if I really do?” she replied with a laughing emoji.

“Goodbye, my sweetheart,” I wrote back.

That was the last time.

*

Just after midnight on April 7,* my sister burst into the room.

“Fidaa’s husband was injured,” she whispered.

My hands felt empty.

“Where is she?” I asked, my voice trembling.

And then my sister’s face told me what words couldn’t.

I sat there, the screen still glowing in my hands. The world outside was silent.

And even now, I can still feel her hands on mine, warm, steady. And though she’s far away, in a place my eyes can’t see, she’s still here, lifting me up.

*

When Abeer fell silent, I looked up from my notebook. Her gaze was fixed on the sky outside the window as if she could trace Fidaa’s light in the stars.

I closed my pen and felt the weight of her story settle into my hands.

*Fidaa Hijazi was martyred on April 6, 2025.