Ibrahim and his sons. Photo provided by Ibrahim Zaki Abu Mhadi

Ibrahim Zaki Abu Mhadi—my only uncle—lived the early part of his life brotherless. All he wanted was a brother for a companion, but God’s plan was for him to face his life alone. Later, when he got married, it was as if the heavens heard the ache in his silent prayers because God granted him six sons to carry his name: Mohammed, Ahmad, Mahmoud, Zaki, Mustafa, and Abdullah. They were the six pillars upon which his home was built.

They were more than just sons to their father; they were his brothers and his best friends; they meant everything. Mohammed and Mustafa were engineers, Ahmed was a doctor, Mahmoud and Zaki were accountants, and the youngest, Abdullah, was studying in school. They all made their father proud.

I used to visit them often and stay for days. We’d grown up like branches of the same tree, and we would eat from the same plate and sleep in the same bed. I was the closest to Mustafa, since we were born in the same year and grew up side-by-side, like brothers whose hearts beat in sync.

He often called me just to say that he missed me and wanted to see me. He would come all the way from Deir Al-Balah to Jabalia (an hour and a half away) to spend long hours with me, sharing his stories and secrets, and I was listening to him without any boredom. Then we would go out together for a walk and return home around midnight after a day full of joy.

I remember one day I was at home, feeling bored and down. Mustafa called to check on me, and I told him how I was feeling. His response was, “Damn the distance! Get ready, I’m on my way to you.” And indeed, there was barely any time between his call and his arrival—just the length of the road. He never left me alone, no matter the long distance between our homes. He was the true embodiment of what people call a soulmate.

The author, Mohammed (left), and Mustafa (right). Photo: Mohammed Abdulhay Abumhadi

Then came the genocidal war, the war that tore us apart. It ripped Gaza in half, north from south, and we could no longer see each other. However, we kept in touch constantly by phone, clinging to the threads of connection across the destruction.

A year and a half passed like that, until the morning of Sunday, April 13, 2025, at 8 a.m. That day, Mohammed, Ahmad, Mahmoud, Zaki, and Mustafa decided to head out for their volunteer work with a charity distributing rice meals to displaced families. As they got into the car, their youngest brother Abdullah asked to join them, wanting to help with the food distribution.

It was as if fate had written their final chapter together. As they drove off to carry out their humanitarian mission, the occupation forces bombed their car. The army claimed it was targeting militants. Since when did rice meals become weapons?

At that moment, their mother sat with Mahmoud’s child in her lap, still wrapped in peace, unaware of what happened to her sons. Neighbors gathered at their doorstep, their faces pale, their lips trembling. Their eyes said everything, but their tongues were tied by the weight of grief.

Silence loomed until Riyad, their maternal uncle, made the call. His voice trembled, “Have you heard anything?” My uncle, unaware, replied with worry in his voice, “No…why?”

Then the truth dropped, sharp as lightning. My uncle’s wife let out a sound no language could capture. My uncle stood silently, not saying any word. A strange silence fell over him; he couldn’t comprehend whether it was real or a nightmare. All he could say was: “There is no power nor strength except through God.”  It was news no human heart could bear. The tragedy was so immense that shortly thereafter, Riyad suffered a stroke and also died.

At that moment, we hadn’t yet heard the news ourselves. We were having breakfast, until phone calls came one after the other, “Did something happen in Deir Al-Balah?” We grew anxious. Something was happening, and we didn’t know what. We stopped eating. I called my brother Fadi, who lives in Deir Al-Balah, and asked him if anything had happened. He told me:

“My dear, your uncle’s sons… they were all martyred.”

I couldn’t imagine it. I asked, “Are you sure?” He said, “Yes. All of them. May God have mercy on them.”

When my mother heard, her scream tore through the walls like fire through paper. She couldn’t stop crying. Her brother’s sons, all of them, were gone. We hadn’t finished our breakfast. We left everything and put on black clothes. Moving between northern and southern Gaza was extremely dangerous, but we didn’t care. Those we had shared our most beautiful moments with were gone.

When I arrived in Deir Al-Balah, I felt something strange. I was used to them waiting for me and welcoming me, but who would do that today? When I reached the house, the door was open. I found no one there except my grandmother. I kissed her forehead and asked her about my uncle. She told me, “He has gone to bury his six sons, the same sons who were with him just yesterday. He is praying over their bodies now.” Then she broke into tears.

I felt deep anguish because I hadn’t been able to say goodbye or even pray over them due to the long and difficult journey. At that moment, every memory came rushing back to me: the nights we stayed up together, the laughter, and Mustafa…

All of it vanished in the blink of an eye, with one missile. My uncle’s sons, who resisted with rice meals, were now martyrs.

The funeral prayer for the martyrs. Photo: Atia Darwish