How could I have imagined that Oct. 9, 2023, would be the worst day of my 22-year-old life, a day seared in my memory and permanently circled in my calendar in black?

It was the day I learned what it means to lose the most precious people in my life: my beloved mother and my blond-haired, blue-eyed, angelic sister.

Yet even after the worst has happened, I’m learning that life continues and I still believe that hope can arise even in the midst of unbearable suffering.

My family, my life

Since 2006, Palestinian families like mine have endured more than five of Israel’s brutal attacks on the Gaza Strip. Every person inside the blockade understands to the core of their bones the sacredness of life. We rush against the clock to spend time with those we love because we know that any of us can be wiped out in seconds. We strive hard to imprint these moments in our memories.

Throughout my life, my family — my mama, papa, and six siblings — has given me an escape from the insecurity and pain of life in Gaza. Our time together shielded us, at least temporarily, from the outside world.

On regular days, I woke up to the sweet sounds of my dad and sisters preparing breakfast for my mum Nisreen to send her off to her job as an Arabic language consultant at the United Nations in northern Gaza.

Oct. 9 shattered everything that was once ordinary.

That day at 6:00 a.m., I woke up to my mother’s tentative knock on my bedroom door. The previous night my family had barely slept because of Israel’s airstrikes on thousands of residential buildings throughout the Gaza Strip. Nonetheless, I was comforted by the voices of my family gathering for breakfast — one of the happiest moments of my day.

As I did every morning, I welcomed my mother with a big smile. “Good morning, my sweetie chief,” I said as I played with her rosy-pillowed cheeks. While patting my head, she replied, “I prepared the dish that you adore, Habibi.”

A delicious aroma suffused my room. I asked longingly, “Is it shakshuka?” Shakshuka is a mouthwatering dish of eggs poached in spicy tomato sauce. I always wanted to learn her recipe.

As always, I rushed to sit next to her at our table in the garden outside where we ate, before any one of my brothers or sisters had the chance. I exclaimed with delight, “I am the one who shall sit next to Mama,” feeling like I owned the world.

Mama Nisreen saw into the future

As we sat in our peaceful garden, Mama Nisreen said, “I need all of you to eat very well. Who knows what will happen to us in the coming days.” Her eyes were filled with tears.

As if she were expressing routine worries, I replied, “My sweetheart, we are all going to be safe, ameen.” Yet I glimpsed her looking at us with intensity. Now, I realize she was seeing into the future. Could she know it would arrive so soon?

She made sure we each had a mouthful of her shakshuka. Mama Nisreen even gave a spoonful to our Persian cat, Zaatar, who only ate what my mom cooked. Indeed, he had his first shakshuka when he was only one week old.

Amidst the grim reality of Gaza, Mama Nisreen planted in us the seeds for fighting the political, humanitarian, and economic oppression that defined our lives. Her strongest weapon was education. She spent her monthly salary on our education, sending us to the best international schools and organizations. My mother always encouraged us to dream big; she believed that we could do anything we set our minds to.

After breakfast, my 16-year-old twin sisters and I talked about our aspirations for the future — Sara’s life-long dream of becoming a medical doctor, Noasah’s to become an astronaut. My dream is to become a filmmaker to tell the stories of the voiceless people of Gaza. While we talked, Mama read the Holy Qur’an in her soft voice that always gave me a sense of safety.

With mournful eyes, Mama Nisreen looked around the garden, then at each of us. She looked as if she wanted to leave us with her most important life lessons — her commandments to us.

She uttered her first one, “I need you to shine like a diamond in the sky.”

But as she was about to relay her second commandment, everything turned black. An Israeli bomb had hit our home and buried us in rubble. There had been no warning.

I woke up to my sisters’ terrified voices, “Ahmad, please say something!” Both of them were clinging to my bloody hand.

With a trembling voice I asked, “Is Mama OK?” I knew if Mama was OK, I would be OK. With wild eyes and an hysterical laugh mixed with tears, I kept repeating, “Mama, you are alive. Every one of us is going to be OK.”

Feeling excruciating pain, I was trapped under a heavy wall; my left elbow was broken, wedged inside our car’s wheel rim (I had been violently thrown across the courtyard). After many attempts, I extracted myself and then passed out.

I woke up in the Emergency Department of Al-Shifa Medical Complex in the Gaza Strip, a central shelter for more than 18,000 displaced Gazan families. I asked the doctor about my family and he reassured me that they were all OK.

Everywhere mothers and fathers were searching for their missing children and children were looking for their parents. Blood was everywhere. Gaza had turned into a death chamber with thousands of martyrs.

The next morning, my dad came to me, his eyes full of tears, and said, “I need you to be strong by my side, for the sake of our future.”

“Where is Mama?” I screamed.

“Our Nisreen is a martyr,” my dad declared.

“She was killed!” I yelled in disbelief. My heart broke into a thousand pieces.

Mama Nisreen was no ordinary mom; she was also our loyal friend and sister. She was my confidante, and her unconditional love grounded me in the world.

To this day I can’t believe she’s gone. I still can’t believe I will no longer meet her at our usual restaurant on the Gaza beach after her workday. I still can’t believe I will never hear her tender voice!

Life without Mama Nisreen

Without Mama, I am torn apart as I face life’s challenges. I still call out to her with the endearment she loved, “Holwati” (my sweetheart), hoping she will respond to me with the affectionate name she called me, “Ya Ahmadee” (O my Ahmad).

As we said goodbye and respectfully buried my mom, heavy shells continued to rain on Gaza. Despite our devastation, my grief-stricken family was faced with more pain. My 19-year-old beloved sister, Mayar, a skilled physiotherapist, had been critically injured and transferred to the Intensive Care Unit. How could we tell her about our Mama’s death?

This is when we faced our second tragedy — Mayar died before we reached her. Israel’s bombardment and blockade had destroyed parts of the hospital and left it without the life-saving medical equipment and supplies she needed.

With our heads reeling, we picked up a leaflet that Israel had dropped from the air, telling us to flee to southern Gaza immediately.

This was the first of the many times that my family had to escape Israeli assaults. With no end in sight, we live on the run, finding no safety and living with unrelenting hunger. The world watches and doesn’t stop it.

Arising like a phoenix

To this day, I remain overcome with grief and fear for my loved ones. Since our home was bombed, I can only use one arm. Yet, I cling to my mama’s directive: “Shine like a diamond in the sky.” It leaves me no choice but to hang on to the hope that this genocide will end. It drives me to persevere.

My dream is to become a journalist and filmmaker. I will tell the stories of the Gazan people, people the world has ignored.