Al-Remal Street, Gaza City, July 2022. Photo: Alaa Mahdi Kudaih

If I had known it was the last time… Maybe
I would have pressed my hands to the walls
of our home—felt their warmth like a quiet prayer,
something I could carry across borders.

Maybe I wouldn’t have laughed and pushed away
my uncle Muhannad as he smothered me with kisses
the moment I arrived—kisses that said, “I’ve missed you,
I love you, you’re home.” I pushed him gently, smiling,
not knowing…
He was martyred in December 2023.
Now I would give anything to feel those kisses again.

Maybe I would have stayed longer in my room—
not just to sleep, but to look at the way the sunlight
spilled across the walls, to breathe in the air
that tasted like belonging. Maybe
I would have listened more—to my relatives,
to their stories, their laughter, their voices.
I thought there would be more time.

Maybe I would have sat longer in our garden,
where jasmine crept up cracked walls,
and everything still felt alive.

Maybe I would have found time to see my friend Shahad—
to sit with her, talk with her, ask her everything.
She disappeared in December 2023. No trace, no goodbye.
Just silence… and pictures that feel more like ghosts now.

Maybe I would have stayed longer with Ibraheem and our friends
that night at the beach—laughing, playing, sharing our dreams
beneath a sky full of stars. Ibraheem dreamed of traveling the world,
of photographing every place his heart touched.
He was martyred in October 2023.

Maybe I would have played more with little Khaled
our gentle, smiling seven-year-old brother.
We had just reunited after my years abroad.
He had grown so fast—so shy, so kind,
his hand always in his mother’s,
his smile, wide and soft and full of light.
He was martyred in October 2023.

Al-Baqaa Café, Gaza City, August 2022. Photo: Alaa Mahdi Kudaih

Maybe I would have spent more time
at Al-Baqaa Café—our refuge,
our shared heartbeat. We would gather there
to play cards and Uno, to sing loudly
over the sea breeze, to talk about dreams,
heartbreak, and the taste of life.
The café felt like a second home.
Israel killed the cafe in June 2025.

Maybe I would have talked more with my cousin Hamada,
who walked in while I was making coffee in the kitchen,
holding a watermelon for my father, smiling and saying,
“We missed your coffee, Lulu. Welcome back.”
Israel kidnapped him in February 2024.
We haven’t heard from him since.

Maybe I would have given my cousin Ahed
more time to speak. I would have listened
more deeply, laughed louder.
He was martyred in June 2025.

Maybe I would have spent more time studying my friends’ faces—
really looking, really seeing them—before the light in their eyes
began to dim under the weight of fear.

Maybe I would have walked Gaza’s streets slowly, let the dust
cling to me, let the air mark me with memories,
instead of rushing from one place to another in taxis.

Maybe I would have sat longer by the sea, let it
sing its stories into my skin, let it whisper that home
is more than a place—it’s a rhythm, a breath.

Maybe I would have stayed longer.
Not just one and a half months.
Maybe I would have let my friends come
and say goodbye before I left again,
thinking—foolishly—that I’d be back next summer.

Rafah border crossing, photo taken while leaving Gaza, August 25, 2022. Photo: Alaa Mahdi Kudaih

Maybe I would have hugged my aunts, uncles,
cousins on that last night in the garden. I told them,
“I don’t want to say goodbye,” and they said,
“Okay, okay—we won’t cry, we won’t hug you.
It’s not goodbye. We’ll just enjoy the night.”
And we did. As if time was kind.
As if we had more.

Maybe I would have hugged my father
before I boarded the bus to the Egyptian border.
But I didn’t, because I hate goodbyes.

I didn’t know that saying goodbye is a privilege,
not a burden. A blessing, not a sadness.
I didn’t know I was losing them.

I didn’t know Shahad would vanish without a trace.
That I’d never again hear her voice,
never again see her eyes shining with life—
only memories,
only photos,
only silence.

Maybe… if I had known it was the last time,
I would never have left.
Maybe I wouldn’t have left in 2018.

I wish I had said goodbye.
I wish I had hugged them all tighter—
my family,
my friends,
the streets,
the buildings,
the sea,
the sand,
the trees,
the café,
the garden.
The life.

I wish I had hugged home
with everything in me.

Editor’s note:
Ahed Ismael Kudaih was martyred on June 4, 2025.
Hamada Ismael Kudaih was kidnapped on February 9, 2024.
Shahad Hamdan Abu Lebdah has not been heard from since December 15, 2023.