Malik Tayseer. Photo: Sara Tayseer

Malik was 23. A young man full of life, light, and dreams too big for the world that held him. Dreams stolen in the quiet of night.

Malik was asleep when Israeli war planes killed him, as they have killed tens of thousands. But Malik is not just another name, not just another statistic. He was my brother. And I will speak about him every day, so the world never forgets him.

Malik was just a year younger than me. We grew up side by side, like twins.

Sara and Malik Tayseer as children. Photo taken by their mother, Raja’a

When he was young everyone adored him. He was loved. My dad’s favorite. The boys at school used to call him “daddy’s boy” to tease him. And I fought those boys like it was my job, because I knew he hated it. I knew how badly he wanted to be seen as big and strong. Maybe he thought “daddy’s boy” made him look soft.

He tried to look tough, but inside? He was softness itself. Cotton candy. A heart too full for this world. Everyone around him felt it. And I knew it best. I knew the heart he carried: full of kindness, emotion, and joy.

I remember once we had a fight. I don’t remember why. He cried. And when I saw him crying … I don’t know, something inside me cracked. I felt so guilty. Like, how could I have made him cry? I asked for his forgiveness. He forgave me without thinking, and we went right back playing, like nothing had happened. That was Malik. He never held onto pain for long.

Malik was supposed to graduate from the Islamic University of Gaza the month he was martyred. He was studying business administration, and we were so proud of him. Even with the war, we were planning to celebrate. Because to us, graduation meant something special. He was so excited. So full of hope. He deserved that joy. But Israel took that from him, too.

Malik studied and worked. He was determined to build a bright, beautiful, full future. He had a lot of dreams, but the biggest was to buy his own car. He loved cars with a passion and would sneak out at night in our dad’s car. I’d cover for him every time—angry because he’d always wake me up in the middle of the night to open the door for him.

And food. Oh, food. It was his love language. He always, almost every day, asked me to make desserts for him and his friends. And I always did.

The night before he was killed, he asked me to make his favorite dessert, Bavaria. But to get milk, eggs, cream, sugar, vanilla, cocoa powder, and biscuits in Gaza is impossible—let alone a freezer to set it. “I’m craving it so badly,” he’d said. “As soon as I find the ingredients, I’ll buy them—even if I have to sell a kidney.”

But Israel killed him before I could make his favorite dessert for him, one last time. I would give anything to share it with him again. Maybe in paradise.

Malik was one of the most generous souls. He gave without limits, without thinking, without ever expecting anything in return. If he had a little money in his pocket, he would spend it on the people he loved, bringing home sweets or snacks he knew we liked. He never made a show of his giving. He just did it, with so much love.

Without him, everything feels different. He’s missing from every corner of the house. My parents feel it the most. My father doesn’t speak of it often, but we can see it in his eyes. And my mother … my mother. She is always crying, always in tears, looking at pictures and videos of him. When she cooks something he loved, her tears tell us how much he loved that dish. How he would sneak into the kitchen to grab a bite while she was cooking.

Now, when she makes the meals he loved, with hands and heart that remember her little boy, she says it’s for his soul. But I know it’s for hers.

At 2 a.m. on December 9, 2024, the bombs took him away. Malik was not supposed to be there. He was meant to be home, but he’d returned to an apartment we’d been renting, to pick up a few things we’d left there. When it got late, he decided to stay. To be safe. But the bombs fell, and the whole building collapsed on top of him while he dreamed.

It’s been seven months, and still I can’t believe it. The last time I hugged him, he was already gone, his body covered in blood and sand.

I watched, numb, as my father and Malik’s friends lowered him into the ground. Since that day, nothing has made sense.

Sometimes, just for a second, I forget and expect him to walk through the door, to call my name, to ask what’s for lunch. But there’s nothing. Just silence.

But that silence is so loud. It constantly reminds me he’s really gone. The world keeps turning, but I’m still stuck in that moment when Malik was wrapped in white, and my dad lowered him into the ground with his own hands. My heart stayed there, buried with him.

I smile when I mention him because I want people to know who he really was. How warm, how full of light. I will keep writing him into this world because that’s how I can hold on to him.

Malik isn’t gone, not really. He’s here in every memory. In every car I pass. In every dessert I bake. In every quiet moment before I sleep. He lives in the ache in my chest and the corners of my smile.

You were not just a number.

You were my brother.

You were Malik.

The gentle soul the world didn’t protect, now in the highest ranks of heaven.