we are not numbers

emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights

A woman sitting at a table covered with rose petals.

Immortal memories of my friend Shimaa Saidam

Although her loss still fills me with deep sorrow, I find peace in knowing she is in a place where no harm can ever reach her.
A young woman in front of a house and trees with pink blossoms.
A woman sitting at a table covered with rose petals.
Shimaa Saidam. Photo provided by her family

Shimaa Saidam was not just a number. She was one of my closest friends, my sister in faith, and a person filled with limitless dreams and aspirations. From our days at the mosque and high school to our time at the Islamic University of Gaza, we shared everything: our school experiences, our dreams, our challenges. She was only 19 years old when she was martyred.

We had known each other since childhood, but we became very close during our senior year of high school. I sat at the first desk in the front row, and behind me sat Shimaa. There was never a dull moment between us. Even during breaks, we sat together, sharing our dreams, fears, plans, and every detail of our lives. We laughed together and shared our opinions on things that happened during the lesson.

I felt completely comfortable with her, like she was my sister. Our teachers would smile when they saw us talking and encouraging each other. We were always there for each other. If one of us didn’t understand a point, we would help each other and explain it to one another. I wasn’t surprised when Shimaa achieved the highest score nationwide in the Tawjihi (Palestinian high school national exam); she ranked first across Palestine in 2023.

She worked so hard to earn it. I will never forget her message to me on WhatsApp: “Don’t be upset, 98 is a great achievement, and I consider you with me as a first-place achiever nationwide.”

Our support for each other made our bond incredibly strong. We dreamed big about university life — I was studying English literature, and she chose translation. We were planning our future, preparing to graduate together, and overcome the challenges ahead.

Then, our great love for the Qur’an brought us even closer. We spent hours together at the mosque, memorizing its verses and reflecting on their meanings. Those moments were sacred. We listened to our teacher’s stories and participated in wonderful activities, such as joining in the takbeerat (praise of Allah broadcast over loudspeakers) in the mosque the day before Eid. Our teacher, Haneen, would also prepare small gifts of sweets and biscuits for everyone who joined this special event. We were rewarded with beautiful trips for completing Qur’an exams, visiting places like the amusement parks, Asdaa City or Alnour City. We memorized the Qur’an side by side, took exams, and planned to be among the distinguished reciters in the Safwat al-Hufaz (elite memorizer) project. We would walk home together from the mosque, relishing those special moments.

Then everything changed in a single moment.

On the morning of October 15, 2023, I was at home when I heard the terrifying sound of an explosion. My heart stopped. No, it couldn’t be her house. It couldn’t be Shimaa. I couldn’t contact her — her phone was off and the internet was down. The silence after the explosion was deafening.

Minutes felt like hours, and fear consumed me. Many friends messaged me: “Taqwa, is it true that Shimaa was martyred? Please confirm.” I couldn’t respond. I was clinging to the hope that she was still alive. I didn’t want to believe otherwise. I sought strength from Allah and remembered His words: “Indeed, we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him, we will return.”

I felt like an eternity had already passed when the devastating confirmation finally came: It was her house. My heart shattered. How could a life so full of ambition and dreams be taken away in an instant?

Seven months passed before I could bring myself to visit Shimaa’s ruined home. But once I stepped inside, a searing pain tore through my heart.

The memories rushed back all at once, overwhelming me without mercy. I stood there for a moment, paralyzed, unable to process the scene in front of me. How could a place that was once so full of life be reduced to such rubble?

I looked around at the remnants of what once was a home filled with warmth and laughter. The walls that had witnessed moments of joy, the furniture that once embraced the family, now lay shattered and scattered. The silence was suffocating, the house itself mourned the loss of those who once lived within, missing their voices and joy.

I couldn’t find the words to describe that moment, so I just recorded a short video. I didn’t speak a single word in the video. I could only film from the angle of my feet towards her destroyed house.

It wasn’t just a clip of the place, but an attempt to capture the disbelief I felt. I needed to do something tangible, something real, even though the terrible reality lay before me. I couldn’t move closer. I couldn’t bring myself to approach the wreckage; I felt trapped in a nightmare, unable to believe it was real. The ruins I saw were not just Shimaa’s home — they were a reflection of my loss, of all the days that we would never get to have together.

A street with a bombed home.
A clip from the video Taqwa took of her friend’s residence. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi

That video was a witness to an irreplaceable absence, to all the unanswerable questions that hurt even more than her departure — was she scared? Did she know? Did she sense anything before the explosion, or was it over before she truly realized it?

The pain and grief I felt was unbelievable and yet it is undeniable. Shimaa is gone, and so is most of her family, who were dear to us all. At the same time, I made a silent promise. A promise that I would forever keep Shimaa’s memory alive in my heart, no matter how heavy the pain may be.

In the midst of the pain, I held onto Allah’s words: “And never think of those who have been killed in the cause of Allah as dead. Rather, they are alive with their Lord, receiving provision.” This verse brought me comfort, knowing that Shimaa was chosen by Allah for something greater. She became a martyr, and although her loss still fills me with deep sorrow, I find peace in knowing she is in a place where no harm can ever reach her.

I will never forget the memories we shared — walking home together from the university, laughing over silly things, her calls asking for help with internet issues, sitting in the cafeteria sharing food, my last call to her during the final lecture so we could leave together. Those little moments, which seemed trivial at the time, are now treasures beyond value.

Death may have taken her from this world, but it can never take away what we shared. Our bond, forged in love and memories, remains unbreakable. I carry our dreams with me, not as a burden, but as a promise — to fulfill them, not only for myself, but for her, too. And I know, with unwavering certainty, that one day we will meet again, in the highest place of paradise, where no sorrow exists, only eternal peace.

Do not forget Shimaa Saidam and all the martyrs in your prayers.

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