Like many girls of my generation, I grew up watching Disney movies, and I dreamed of finding my own Aladdin. I wondered when I’d meet him, what he would look like, and how our story would unfold. How would we fall in love? Where would we be? What would I look like when that moment finally happened? I dreamed of a love story that would end with “happily ever after.” I knew that my own charming prince could come in any shape or form, and for me, he came as Ibrahim Khalaf.
The first time I met Ibrahim, he was wearing a white shirt and glasses. He had a slightly nerdy look, like a teacher. When he looked at me with his big brown intense eyes, I quickly looked away. My heart raced, my face flushed, and butterflies fluttered in my stomach. But in that fleeting moment, I caught a glimpse of his tall, slender figure, brown hair, and kind smile. In that instant, I knew that I had met my Aladdin.
Ibrahim and his family came to visit my home, honoring a cherished tradition where families introduce their children in the hope of sparking a meaningful connection. His mother had seen me at a mosque that no longer stands, reached out to my mother after inquiring about me, and arranged a visit over coffee. I was nervous about the idea of a potential “groom,” but the warmth of the setting put me at ease. Meeting him in my own safe space felt comfortable, allowing me the chance to get to know him while surrounded by the people who mattered most.
We chatted for a while, and I quickly noticed how kind and charming he was. There was a comfortable connection between us, and we both agreed to take our time getting to know each other better before rushing into any decision, not realizing then that it was the start of a deep and beautiful love story.
The world is beautiful
When I think back to June 2023, the war fades from my mind, and Gaza transforms in my memory into a place full of life and simple beauty. I can still feel the cool evening breezes drifting from the sea, refreshing my being, as I walked along the Sheikh Ajalen beach, listening to the soothing sound of the waves caressing the beach.
The narrow streets of Deir Al-Balah were alive with the laughter of young people, enjoying each other’s company after a long day. The delicious aroma of freshly baked bread and fragrant spices wafted from family kitchens. I loved the sight of palm trees lining the streets, their silhouettes glowing under the soft light of the street lamps, while children played happily beneath them. The vibrant markets were pulsing with color and overflowing with fresh fruits, vegetables, and meat. In those moments, I always felt a profound sense of satisfaction, enveloped in the warmth of the simple pleasures of life.
Ibrahim and I continued to meet and fall in love. We got engaged on June 1, 2023, and began preparing for our big day on November 1, 2023. He would pick me up to meditate and watch the sunrise at the beach, and in the evenings, we would dine at “Taboon,” our favorite restaurant, always imagining the life we would share in the home we were building together.
Together, we planned our life, envisioning a home that carried our simple dreams and little secrets. We infused every corner and room with our aspirations — laughing, eating, dancing, playing, sleeping, studying, and working. We imagined ourselves sitting on the balcony, drinking miramiya (sage) tea In the evening, smiling at each other and saying: “We did it, we are together despite everything.”
Ibrahim, a talented carpenter, poured his heart into crafting the furniture and decorations for our house after finishing his work each day. Every piece reflected his care and love, turning our future home into something truly special. Everything felt perfect; my life was brimming with optimism, love, and happiness as we moved closer to making our dreams a reality.
Ibrahim’s love knew no bounds. He was kind, intelligent, and funny, always ready to lend a helping hand to anyone in need. He had a remarkable ability to see the good in people, finding reasons to love and offer them sympathy, no matter the circumstance.
No one understood his kindness better than my three-year old sister, Haya. The bond between them was undeniable. He brought happiness to her heart as though she were his own little girl. He played with her, laughed, and chased her around the room, until she squealed with laughter, filling my parents’ house with joy.
Watching him with her, I couldn’t help but imagine the kind of father he would be — a thought that filled my heart with warmth and hope. In those moments, the world felt beautiful.
The war took them all
Every time Haya sees his picture, she smiles and begs me to call him, asking for him to come and play with her. She tells me she misses the ice cream shop by the beach, where we used to go every week with the family. My aunt Rania, her husband Mahmoud, and their son Adi would also join us on those trips. What Haya does not realize is that no matter how many times I call, he won’t pick up the phone. He won’t come. He is gone. They are all gone — my aunt, her husband. Only Adi remains alone. Orphaned, broken, and hopeless.
On that fateful day, October 7, 2023, we lost contact with the entire city. All communications were jammed. We knew something was wrong, but were left in the dark, unaware of what was unfolding. I tried to reach Ibrahim over and over again, each failed attempt driving me deeper in a storm of hope and fear. Desperately, I prayed that he was OK, clinging to the fragile hope. But every moment of silence and every piece of devastating news chipped away at my sanity, plunging me deep into desperation.
Ibrahim was at what was supposed to be our home, alone, fixing our kitchen. The last time I spoke to him was that same morning, October 7. He sounded worried, unsure of what was happening. He asked me to take care of myself and of Haya, his voice steady but filled with an unease I didn’t fully understand. He told me he was staying at home until we could figure out what was going on in the city. Neither of us realized that this would be our last conversation, our final goodbye, the last “I love you” we would ever say to each other.
Then the Israeli war machine came for us, targeting our building with a missile that destroyed everything. It didn’t just reduce our home to nothingness, it also buried my Ibrahim, my charming prince, under the rubble of the house that was supposed to embrace our love.
I didn’t know what had happened to him until two days later, when a neighbor finally told me the devastating truth: Ibrahim was gone, forever. Just a few hours after I spoke to him on October 7, his life was taken, leaving me with nothing but the memory of our final tender words.
I can’t remember much of what happened after that. The days blurred together into an endless haze of war, blood, shattered bodies, anger, grief, fear, hunger, thirst, and displacement. For four long months, I couldn’t visit Tal Al-Hawa, where my Ibrahim was killed, because of the savagery of the bombing there.
I wanted to see my home; I needed closure. But instead of peace, I found destruction and despair. I sat amidst the rubble, staring at the remains of what was supposed to be our sanctuary, struggling to come to terms with the enormity of what had been taken from me, from all of us. How could my heart, once so full of love, now be consumed by so much pain and sorrow?
I was supposed to be celebrating the beginning of my life as a new bride. I was supposed to be inviting my friends to admire our home. I was supposed to be laughing and dreaming with my beloved Ibrahim. Instead, everything ended before it even began, leaving me to mourn a future that would never come.
The city of love and death
Gaza is no longer a place of life and simple beauty. The narrow streets of Deir Al-Balah, once alive with laughter, are now heavy with the weight of missing loved ones, broken hearts, and endless despair. The delicious aroma of freshly baked bread and fragrant spices that once wafted from family kitchens has been replaced by the cries of hungry stomachs, limbless orphans, and grieving parents. The soft glow of street lamps has been swallowed by the darkness of war, while the palm trees now stand as gravestones for the dead children who once played beneath them. The vibrant markets, once pulsing with color and sound, now lie in ruins, silent, stained with blood, and covered in dust.
More than a year has passed since Ibrahim’s martyrdom, yet even on nights when the savage sound of bombs doesn’t shatter my sleep, I still wake up in a cold sweat, haunted by dreams of his intense eyes, fixed on me with a gaze that feels so real it hurts. What I miss most, though, are his hands, beautiful, strong, and roughened by the honesty of his labor, hands that once held so much love and promise.
Gaza is unlike any other place. Here, love and death walk hand in hand, inseparable companions. It is a place where dreams are shattered, leaving us to navigate a world of loss and longing, drifting further from ourselves and everything we once held dear. Yet, despite it all, I don’t want to leave. I want to stay, to honor the memory of the man I once loved and the city I still adore. I will wait for the war to end, and when it does, I will help my people rebuild our beautiful Gaza, piece by piece.
