Ahmed (right) with our friend Abdullah Subaih. Photo: Abdullah Subaih

Every evening, when it’s time for dinner, I can’t stop Ahmed’s specter from appearing in my mind. Ahmed Ibrahim Zaqout. He wasn’t just my relative, he was my friend. Together we would share the minute details of daily life and discuss everything from complex philosophical questions to the best way to cook shakshuka.

On October 14, 2023, Ahmed’s life was cut short. The residential block where he lived in Jabalia was targeted by an Israeli missile strike and turned into rubble. Beneath his home, at the age of 24, Ahmed left behind a world of unfulfilled dreams and an indelible ache in our hearts.

I remember our discussions well before the Tawjihi (high-school leaving exams). Having passed them a year before me, Ahmed had “experience” in predicting questions. We would argue about a specific question in literature. He insisted it would be in the exam while I vehemently denied it. The debate usually ended with laughter but on that day, Ahmed was right, the question did indeed appear on the exam. This isn’t just a fleeting memory; it’s a glimpse into the dynamic of our relationship, into the discussions that sharpened our minds and brought us closer.

Our debates weren’t limited to academic studies. My family’s kitchen witnessed other arguments, no less intense, especially those related to food. We would differ on the “best” way to make shakshuka, a simple dish of tomatoes and eggs. Each of us had our own method. Ahmed would always insist, with endearing stubbornness, that his way was the tastiest. I remember us sitting there. I can smell fresh tomatoes cooking on the stove. The sound of them sizzling still echoes in my ears.

Ahmed loved food. I find myself remembering and missing him acutely at dinner time—how he would list the other dishes he adored, like maqluba and fatteh, too. These late-night talks about food and about our shared passions are what bring Ahmed back to me now.

But Ahmed wasn’t just a cheerful friend who loved debating and cooking. He carried within him, and in his serious eyes, an ambition as wide as the world. Whether we were in my room or walking the streets of Gaza, he always talked to me about the future.

“Insha’Allah, when I finish my bachelor’s degree, I will register for my Master’s immediately to make the most of my time,” he would say in a tone that affirmed his determination and resolve.

This wasn’t just empty talk. Ahmed was planning to become a university lecturer, then open his own school “so that everyone can benefit from my knowledge.”

His ambitious dream wasn’t unrealistic. Ahmed was the primary breadwinner for his family, and the private tutoring he diligently provided was their sole source of income under the weight of the Israeli occupation. He struggled to balance his ambition and his responsibility.

Ahmed (right) with our friend Mohammed. Photo: Mohammed Omar

What I remember most about Ahmed, and what best embodies his character in my eyes, is his nobility as manifested in an incident I will never forget.

It was a Wednesday, and we both had exams on the same day. Mine was in Arabic, at school, and Ahmed had a university exam. Without hesitation, Ahmed prioritized my needs over his own. He sat with me, reviewing and revising my notes for hours, not studying properly for his own exam. In such moments, he wasn’t just a friend, he was an example of selflessness.

Ahmed always reiterated this advice: “Time is gold, don’t waste it.”

Today, 18 months after his sudden and tragic departure, I feel a great longing and a deep sorrow that never leaves me. The war didn’t just steal Ahmed’s life, it stole from him his big dreams, his promising future that would have blossomed. It also stole from us a noble teacher who would have left an indelible mark on many students.

Ahmed is not just another number added to the growing list of martyrs in Gaza. He was a friend, a relative, a young man with dreams, a natural-born teacher, and a dutiful son who shouldered responsibility early on. His story, which I share here with some of my memories of him, is a testament to a beautiful and noble human being.

Fate did not allow him to achieve his ambitions, but his memory will remain alive in all who knew him. For me, his memory lives on in every debate I can recall, every aroma of the food we shared, and every piece of advice about the value of time.