Everyone has a friend with whom they go through life’s highs and lows — a loyal friend like Mahmoud Shiwikh, my friend. He is someone who is always there for you, whom you can always count on, whom you love more than anything in life. He is impossible to forget and gives you a thousand reasons to smile widely. Someone who makes you laugh all the time. A soul you can run to from life’s worries and grief, who makes you feel like you’re on top of the world. Someone who can be a shoulder to cry on and a psychologist who helps heal your pain and emotional wounds, guiding you through cheerfulness, laughter, joy, happiness, and solace when life is treating you terribly.
However, a haunting specter plagued the world we inhabited together — the israeli occupation forces (spelled with a small letter on purpose). For far too long, they had unleashed a torrent of bloodshed upon the Palestinian people in Gaza. Their killing machine extinguished the smiles life had painted on our faces, casting us into an open-air prison, denying us our basic rights, and suffocating our dreams. They sought to tear away our loved ones, leaving us with shattered hearts, hoping to make us renounce our land. Yet, we remained steadfast, rooted in our homeland like the ancient olive trees.
Mahmoud Shiwikh was a 23-year-old Palestinian from the besieged Gaza Strip. He resided in the Al-Shuja’iyya neighborhood. He was unmarried, struggling to build a life amidst the suffocating blockade that had entrapped Gazans for over 16 years. Mahmoud was a hardworking individual, entrusted by his father to ensure everything was accomplished with utmost precision. Since childhood, he had shouldered responsibilities, his innocent years stolen away.
On the unforgettable day of June 6, 2024, Mahmoud’s life was tragically ended by an israeli drone hovering near the eastern edge of the Gaza Strip, close to my devastated home. Before that day, he had been hosting me as a guest at his grandparents’ house. I remember him asking me to prepare his favorite dish, okra with basil and tomato soup, known as Bamiya in Arabic. He was craving it, knowing it was not available in the market. We stayed up all night laughing, swapping jokes, and recalling bittersweet memories together.
As the hour grew late, I started getting ready to leave, offering my hand to shake. He hugged me and kissed my cheek goodbye — a farewell filled with love. “Take care of yourself,” he told me. “And don’t forget to make that dish. I’ll be waiting for you, and we’ll have lunch together.” Little did I know that destiny’s hand would cruelly snatch him away on that fateful day.
Before israel killed him, I called him and told him that I was going to take my injured nephew Mohammed for a kidney check. I was a bit worried about his kidney, as he had received a huge dose of antibiotics when he was severely injured last year after an israeli airstrike targeted his aunt’s house. Mahmoud told me, “OK, I’m waiting for you to come, but please don’t be long.” I said, “Noted, my man!”
An hour later, I received a call from my sister Fatma, informing me that Mahmoud Shiwikh was a martyr. I remember exclaiming, “Are you freaking kidding with me? That’s impossible, and that can’t be happening at all.” But, unfortunately, it was true. Hearing the news almost killed me. I began to weep uncontrollably, like a child in the street. My heart felt like it was going to beat right out of my chest. The news was completely unbearable. Up until this moment, I still can’t believe that he’s gone forever.
Once I heard he was killed, I rushed to return my injured nephew Mohammed to my sister’s house. When we arrived at her street, I saw my aunt and asked her to take him to his mom, as I intended to go to where Mahmoud was.
While hanging out near our devastated house in the neighborhood, my brother Zakarya and Mahmoud experienced a sudden and deliberate bombing nearby. They made an immediate attempt to escape. While Zakarya, standing 12 meters away, frantically shouted for him to hurry, Mahmoud stopped for a moment to greet some friends down the street. Zakarya kept his distance, carrying homemade sweets (basbousa), and waiting for Mahmoud to join him as they made their way to our family’s shelter. Suddenly, powerful artillery shells exploded near Mahmoud. Zakarya dashed to find cover and miraculously avoided the lethal shellings.
Following his escape to safety, Zakarya reached out to me and our friend, Abdelrahman, to help him bring Mahmoud’s corpse from the hazardous location of the strike. Concerned for his safety, I urged Zakarya not to accompany us to where Mahmoud was, as he could be at risk due to his previous presence with Mahmoud’s friends in that vicinity.
Upon reaching the strike site, Abdelrahman and I made a bold attempt to recover Mahmoud’s body. We risked our lives without hesitation, our sole goal being to bring our fallen friend Mahmoud back, even at the expense of our own lives, as we braved the dangerous surroundings under constant artillery fire.
I remember yelling “Abu Ahed [his nickname], say something if you’re alive for God’s sake!” I desperately yearned for a response. But my pleas were greeted by silence, confirming the irrevocable truth: Mahmoud was gone. I carried his lifeless body on a tuk-tuk to Al-Ahli Hospital, praying for a miracle, hoping he had merely slipped into a coma. But the doctor’s expression told a different story. Mahmoud had departed this world.
The pain was unbearable, a burden I wished I didn’t have to bear. Later that day, my mother told me that Mahmoud had called her, craving handmade sweets. She had asked my brother Zakarya to pick some up for him. Zakarya didn’t know it would be the last time he spoke to Mahmoud; a moment that would haunt him as he witnessed Mahmoud confront the terrifying attacks alone.
Throughout these devastating and backbreaking days in this genocide, Mahmoud was my only companion with whom I endured the hellish conditions. Mahmoud was the only one of his family members who stayed in the north of Gaza. His whole family fled to the south of Gaza. He had completely refused to leave Gaza City. Mahmoud had been living with me every moment of the day. We went to sleep together, ate together, and endangered our lives by going to Al-Kuwait and Al-Rasheed Streets to bring flour to my family, together. We had experienced so much together, laughing nervously while taking cover under a rain of bullets and shells from the israelis while we waited for the aid trucks.
I remember one time, israeli soldiers launched a ground invasion near the headquarters of the United Nations Development Program. We ran and clung to the window of Al-Helou International Hospital nearby, looking over and counting how many tanks were invading that area. Mahmoud and I laughed at the thought that we’d be killed together. We laughed despite the terrifying scenes we lived through at that moment, as we didn’t care at all about any of these catastrophic scenarios.
Mahmoud, like any young man in the world, deserved to live, to achieve his dreams, to build a promising future. But israel kills all joys. Mahmoud dreamt of having a big family — a family for whom he would sacrifice and be happy. He wished for a life filled with peace and dignity. I believe that injustice and oppression will never prevail, and one day, our desired wishes will come true, no matter when!
The image of Mahmoud’s face haunts me every time I close my eyes and wherever I go. This is a loss that burdens me. My days are incomplete without the company of my best friend. I grew up with Mahmoud, I’d known him for 15 years. To me, he was not just a best friend, like a brother; he was a soulmate if there ever was one between male friends. I adored him and broke bread with him. He was always there for me when I needed him. He was laughter and stories. He was never angry with any of his friends. My life without him feels meaningless.
My dearest soul friend, Mahmoud, I will always keep you very near in my thoughts, talks, memories, achievements, and livable moments and memories, till we cross paths again. Rest in peace, my departed chum. I promise you that once I get married and have a boy, I will call him Mahmoud, in your memory, and I will love him the way I loved you.
