To find love is not easy in times of peace, but a miracle in time of war. Here in Gaza, the proposing groom hardly knows his prospective bride, and she knows little of him. This is why I resisted many of the traditional pressures to marry until I had met a man who could be a true partner, who understood my passions and ambitions, who would encourage me to complete my education and reach my full potential.
Luckily, I was blessed with a father who put my desires at the forefront of these decisions. I met such a man with intelligence, wit, and heart in Mahmoud El-Okor, with whom I felt comfortable as soon as he proposed. We were engaged on September 3, 2023, one of the happiest days of my life.
That brief, happy month of September went in a blink of an eye; then the war started! At the time, the geographical space of 9 kilometers was the greatest barrier between us. Mahmoud lived in El-Nuseirat, and I lived in Gaza City. Movement was forbidden, as the Zionists had constructed a border between the north and the south of Gaza. We kept in contact via mobile, only hearing each other’s voices, rarely able to send photos or videos on the internet.
In previous wars, when I was single, I faced the possibility of martyrdom without regret, but this war was completely different. Mahmoud had increased my love for life, and unexpectedly I wanted more of it.
The routine from early in the war
The first days of this war were largely routine, with our focus always on the news. We would tidy up the house, and often have guests, though our conversations were often alike: a family had lost their son; this one had been evacuated; our nephew had disappeared; our uncle was getting too thin and sad.
After this, my brother Hamza would always go to the available supermarket to buy biscuits or chips for us. This was followed by a late lunch, as food shortages meant that dinner was inevitably cancelled. Mahmoud and I kept in touch with innumerable messages, the only means available to us.
With time, the biscuits and chips disappeared; there was less available food, no electricity, no water, and most miserably, no signal for contact. I got up one day to find the signal keeping people in touch had been cut along the entire Strip. I lost contact with Mahmoud, who once was emotionally close, but now was geographically so far away. I felt my heart had been cut like the electricity — viciously and without mercy.
In the following cruel days, conditions worsened across the length of Gaza and we were forced to evacuate. My family and I carried bags containing only our essential possessions and some clothes! We walked south with heavy bags and heavy hearts in the direction of El-Nuseirat camp, 8 kilometers away.
I was engulfed in paradoxical emotions. I did not want to leave the place where I was born, but at the same time, I truly missed my fiancé. This was the only opportunity for me to see him. However, the decision was in my father’s hands and he sought safety for us, though there was no such thing as safety anywhere.
Finally, I saw Mahmoud, but the emotions in the first moments of the meeting were not like what happens in films. I was too exhausted to even welcome him! He hugged me, and I said nothing, but cried with relief that now when the bombing returned there was no need to track the news, no need to frantically call a silent line, no need to fear!
We rented an apartment in the same tower as Mahmoud’s family, and each day we would spend hours talking through beautiful moments together, as any couple does. But in war, anything can happen! Without warning, Israel distributed maps of the “safe” areas in El-Nuseirat camp. Our area was included in the red areas, the dangerous ones! We were evacuating again — Mahmoud’s family in one direction and mine in another. Saying goodbye to Mahmoud felt like the weight of a mountain on a fragile heart.
A leap into the future
Mahmoud rang. “I have something important to tell you, Asmaa, and I want your opinion.”
“I’m all ears,” I replied quietly to the enthusiasm in his voice.
“The war seems endless and we have been engaged for more than seven months. What about getting married during the war and I promise to prepare a house with all its requirements? This is a shared decision and nothing will take place if you refuse,” he inserted gently.
At first I didn’t welcome this idea. People are dying, experiencing the worst of their days, and I get married? Seems unkind, right? I refused tenderly. “Patience is good, Mahmoudi.”
However, when I told my father Mahmoud’s point of view, my father welcomed the idea. He understood that in Palestine we can’t wait for the right time; we must grab at life. I called Mahmoud the next week and accepted!
Preparing a marriage was far from easy. When anything was available, it was too expensive. However, we mustered the things we needed. The lesson of war is it does not matter how much clothing you can afford; it does not matter how attractive your house is; the only thing that matters is that you live in love. We might die at any moment, but will live or die together. When things were hard, I remembered our motto ,which Mahmoud had expressed at the very beginning: “Satisfied together forever.”
Mahmoud chose April 14, 2024, as the date that would set our love pulsing to our last breath. That morning, my mother and I went to look for a hair dresser to prepare for my beautiful day. However, all the salons available in the area were closed! Mahmoud called to ensure everything was okay, only to find his bride despairing, wishing that everything be cancelled. He was sure that a hairdresser would be found, though.Two hours later, my mum and I tried again and found one of the hair dressers open.
I wore simple make-up and a dark purple and beige abaya with twinkling silver crystals. At the tent, my father prepared juice, some sweets, and coffee to distribute to the guests. My parents invited all our family who had been displaced from the north, and those who were still trapped sent me congratulations via mobile. At around 4:00 p.m., Mahmoud and his family came to my father’s tent for a simple party without music but with traditional Palestinian songs and clapping.
Thankfully, outside the drones and quad copters were silent, and it was the sounds of normal life that echoed around the tent: cooking, shouting, cleaning, and the calls of the goods sellers. Neighbors whom we didn’t know came to our tent to congratulate us. Even though I did not hold my wedding in a large hall or wear a white dress, I felt entirely satisfied. It is not about the large hall or the white dress. What matters is the man I chose to be my partner. Does a woman need more than this?
Leaving my father’s tent wasn’t easy, though. However, Mahmoud compensated for all that I was afraid to lose. He has been everything and everyone: a kind father, an advising mum, a close friend, a near brother, and most importantly a helping-and-sharing husband. I discovered that love is possible in war.
We, Palestinians, love life as much as we can. Despite the misery we live in, we smile; we get married; we study; we read; we memorize the Holy Qur’an; we apply for scholarships and we dream of our future. We simply love life. In the case of Mahmoud and I, even in war, love was our guiding star.
