Shahed’s brother Anas. Photo: Shahed AbuAlShaik

While Anas, my brother, was a university student, he worked as a model in a clothing store. He is stylish, handsome, and tall with green eyes and dark hair. His clothes were always impeccably tailored and trendy. I can’t remember seeing him in anything mismatched, wrinkled, or even ordinary.

Anas had a huge closet filled with every color of shirt imaginable, countless pairs of pants in various styles, and I should mention the jackets he never wore twice. His shoe collection was something else entirely. He had 21 pairs of shoes, including black, green, white, gray, and navy. Not a single pair cost less than $100. I always admired his impeccable taste and style.

Anas in a fashion shot taken before the war. Photo provided by Shahed AbuAlShaik

When the war displaced Anas from northern Gaza to the south, he left all his beautiful clothes behind. He packed a bag with a few old clothes suitable for displacement, leaving his prized possessions behind in the hope of returning soon. But hope turned into pain.

He was displaced from Khan Younis to Rafah in the same old clothes, which became increasingly worn and faded. Then, Anas had to move to Deir Al-Balah wearing the same old clothes; he was ashamed of their dull appearance. Living in a tent means no electricity or washing machine. Mother washes all our clothes by hand and wrings them out well so they dry quickly. My brothers bring her a bucket of water from far away, and another clean bucket for Anas’s clothes, so their smell would be acceptable to him.

The sadness in this war has been endless. Stories are countless, tragic, and painful. It breaks the heart to see someone like Anas — once the epitome of elegance — reduced to such a state. He was the one who never wore the same outfit twice, whose scent of cologne would bring joy from the end of the street. Now his clothes were faded, torn, and recycled over and over again.

Days passed, each as bleak as the last. The war had been raging for fourteen months. The scent of war filled the air in the Gaza Strip, a smell of fear, death, and displacement that no one desires.

Thankfully, Anas found temporary work as a data entry clerk at a hospital in Deir Al-Balah. We were overjoyed, a ray of hope born from the depths of suffering.

However, Anas, the once impeccably dressed young man, now had only his worn-out clothes. How could he work like this? What about his colleagues and the professional environment he was stepping into? The thought of starting his first official job in faded and tattered clothes was like a sharp stab in his chest. He even thought of turning down the job and apologizing to them because he couldn’t find clothes that would make him feel confident in front of his colleagues.

We refused to let despair take over our tent, so we began coming up with solutions. “What if you asked your nearby friends to lend you some clothes?” we suggested. But the sadness in his eyes was unrelenting. How could he borrow clothes when his own, cherished, beautiful clothes, were covered in dust back in northern Gaza?

I don’t know how the idea of the trucks came to him, but it was certainly risky. Bringing items from northern Gaza to the south could put the truck driver at risk, and the goods would be confiscated if the Israeli army discovered the operation. Anas searched until he found someone willing to transport a bag of his clothes. They would do it for $100.

Our financial situation in northern Gaza had been good enough to buy whatever we wanted. But after a year and two months of displacement, and skyrocketing prices, we were now barely managing to cover our daily needs. Paying $100 for the truck was something that required careful thought and cutting back on what little we could buy for the tent.

Mother said, “Where will we get the money to replace it? And if the items are lost, what will we do?”

I replied, “Let him get his clothes. I don’t want pocket money for three months, so just give him that money so he can enjoy going to work like other young people.”

Mother agreed. “We’ll give it to him, my dear, God will provide for us, and hopefully, I will be able to make up for all these tough days for all of you.”

For our brother, we decided not to add to his sadness. The war and its devastation were enough. We gave him the money to retrieve his clothes.

Anas contacted our cousin who was in northern Gaza and explained where his clothes were and exactly what he wanted, including how many pairs of shoes. He also described each item’s significance and sentimental value. After many calls and messages, our cousin packed a bag with the best pieces, labeling it with Anas’s name and phone number.

The days passed slowly. Anas dreamed of being reunited with his beautiful clothes. In anticipation he imagined himself dancing around the tent in his favorite shirts, trousers, and shoes. We waited for a message telling us the bag had arrived in the south. But alas, such a message never came. For us in Gaza, sorrow and disappointment are woven into every detail of our lives.

Anxiety began to creep into our tent. We all prayed that what we feared had not happened — that the clothes hadn’t been stolen or lost amidst the chaos. But such is the mind of a human being — it always imagines the worst possible scenarios.

Anas told us he’d called the truck driver to find out what happened, and the driver said the shipment had arrived in the south eight days ago.

“It arrived? What about your bag? How could it get lost? I told you that you should have kept them in Gaza City. Well, there’s nothing we can do. Don’t get upset, dear. May God compensate you, and hopefully, you’ll stay well and get even better things.”

That’s what mother said to comfort Anas and ease his sadness that had filled our tent. We were certain he’d lost his best clothes and the $100.

Then, at 8 p.m., a message arrived on Anas’s phone: “Anas Abu Sheikh, please come to … tomorrow to collect your package from the north. We apologize for the delay.” There can be no complete happiness in the midst of war, but this one message brought a glimmer of hope.

Anas tried on all his clothes from the bag three times instead of once. Then he walked out of the tent, and strode back in, just like he used to model, smiling and asking us how Gaza’s finest clothes looked. He was waiting for the morning he could go to work with confidence and elegance.

Anas posing in a favorite sweatshirt. Photo provided by Shahed AbuAlShaik