Jasmin’s daughter Wedad on the swing her father built. Photo: Yusef El-Mobayed

Jasmin recalls Ahmed Salah El-Mbayed buying her a perfume called “Jasmin” because it reminded him of her. She loved the scent, believing that her name was as beautiful as the flower itself. He would say, “You are the finest woman in the world, the loveliest I’ve ever known.”

Those words, once a source of comfort, now only bring pain. They remind her of the fatal drone strike just meters from their home, and all it has taken from her. Ahmed was out collecting firewood. That day, Jasmin didn’t just lose her husband and the father of her children, she lost the foundation of her happiness and the hope that fueled her. “On the day Ahmed was killed, he promised to bring me something sweet.

“The first day I met my husband, Ahmed, was unforgettable. I felt as though I owned the universe just by having him in my life.”

On her wedding day, white became her favorite color because it was the color of her bridal dress—the day she felt was the happiest of her life. That white dress symbolized the day she felt the world was hers.

Shy and naturally soft-spoken, Jasmin thrived with Ahmed by her side. “The idea of never seeing him again suffocates me with misery,” she said. “That’s my first thought every morning when I wake up, and there is a hush where before I had his voice and laughter.”

A single mother

Without Ahmed, Jasmin’s days have become a struggle for existence. Ahmed had constantly put his life at risk, venturing into isolated and dangerous zones to gather olives or anything else he could sell or trade to support his family. He was thin, and the toll of his hard work often showed, but he was always generous, offering whatever he could to those most in need, particularly families who were as poor as his own.

Ahmed was the living embodiment of Gaza—poor, needy, yet fiercely generous. He personified its struggles, its soul, and its resolve.

Now, Jasmin must get up early to take care of her kids, giving them what little she can—some food, some solace. She carries the heavy weight of responsibility alone, yet she persists, driven by her determination to give their children the chance to survive another harsh day, just as Ahmed had done. “But for the children … for them, I do it,” she says, her eyes filled with emotion as she speaks of her three-year-old daughter Wedad and her four-year-old son Kareem.

She says the kids are always asking, “Where’s our dad? We really miss him.”

In their bomb-damaged house, a new door has been installed to cover the ruined walls. Every time Wedad sees that unfamiliar door, she tries to open it, hoping to see her father emerge. But no one is there.

A girl needs a father to walk her around, to buy her things that make her smile, to be the one who brings her joy and comfort.

“I try my hardest to stay strong for them and keep them occupied. But inside, I’m broken. It’s so hard to be both a father and a mother. I never thought I would have to do this,” Jasmin says, her voice exhausted.

“It never feels like enough, no matter how hard I try to bridge that terrible gap. Being both mother and father is not possible. It is impossible for me to replace him.”

Happier times

She recounts peaceful and happier times when Ahmed would come home after a hard day, his hands full of overpriced snacks and delicious treats. He would sit the kids on his lap, tell them stories, and open the treats to feed them by hand. “Now, those lovely, carefree moments are only memories I cling to,” she says. Memories are all she has.

“Before October 7,” Jasmin recalls, “Ahmed built a makeshift swing at the entrance of our house. He would spend hours swinging me and his kids, even during the years of genocide. How he would smile when Wedad sat herself on the seat waiting her turn!”

Ahmed’s swing was a small place of happiness in a harsh world. Photo: Yusef El-Mobayed

“I still clearly remember the day our house was bombed in December 2023 with all of us inside—Ahmed, our kids, my family, and me. I remember the way he reacted when the neighbors pulled him from under the rubble—he was frantic, desperately searching for me and the kids, despite his own injuries and bleeding. I can’t forget the sacrifices he made for me and our children. He did the impossible to keep us safe and well.”

Jasmin finds a certain solace in the wreckage of their home. There are traces of their shared life in that shattered sanctuary. There, a relationship grew, laughter found a home, and memories were woven. It was the place where contentment and pleasure had once characterized existence.

Loss now hangs in the silence. “For me, the only place I feel close to Ahmed is in the wreckage of our house,” she remarks, holding back tears. “As I sit there crying, I keep wishing he’ll walk through the door with the sweet treat he promised to bring. But he never does.”

Though she describes her life as “a tempest of sadness,” she is Jasmin. The jasmine flower symbolizes purity and grace, and it fills the air with a heady scent. In the aftermath of everything that is broken and lost, my hope for Jasmine is that like the modest, elegant flower that bears her name, she will find the strength to flower once again, and her smiling presence will fill the room.