Ahmed Al-Mufti, the captain of the Palestinian national volleyball team,  wearing the national team’s jersey that bears his country’s flag. Photo: Mohammad Ali El-Agla

Ahmed crouched low, eyes tracking the hitter, knees tense and ready to spring. The spike came hard and fast, but he had already read it. His shoes scraped against the court as he slid left, arms out, and lifted the ball clean into the setter’s hands. The counterattack was quick—one set, one hit, and the point was ours. Ahmed’s smile promised: “I’m here, I’ve got you.” Like a true libero, his defense saved the day.
—A dispatch from a volleyball tournament

But no matter how keenly Ahmed Al-Mufti observed the commotion at the food distribution point that day, he couldn’t prepare any defense for the bullets that would take his life.

Like most people in Gaza, Ahmed had run out of food, leaving him no choice but to venture to the aid distribution areas, even though they were dangerous. For weeks he had avoided going, knowing how perilous it was. But when there was nothing left, he was forced to make his way to the U.S. aid center in Netzarim, south of Gaza City. There, amid the bustling commotion, the Israeli military opened fire on the crowd. Ahmed was one of 23 killed on June 20, 2025.

His death reflects a broader pattern in Israel’s deliberate and coordinated killing of civilians. According to the Palestinian Ministry of Health, more than 2,000 Palestinians have been killed and more than 13,500 wounded since late May while attempting to reach humanitarian aid distribution sites during the current siege—highlighting the deadly risks of seeking basic necessities in Gaza.

That’s what it’s come to here: A simple errand becomes a fight for survival. But Ahmed, a father of four little kids, faced the danger with the same quiet strength he always had possessed.

When I got the news that Ahmed was gone, it felt like someone had punched me hard in the stomach. I couldn’t breathe. I still can’t. It wasn’t just a loss for Palestine’s sports scene; it also shook everyone who knew him and even those who didn’t. Ahmed wasn’t just an amazing captain of our volleyball team; he was the kind of guy who earned your respect without ever asking for it. Whether he was spiking a ball or talking to you off the court, he carried himself with the same steady presence. He was only 36 years old. 

Ahmed, like every other Palestinian killed by Israel in its ongoing genocide, was more than just a statistic.

Ahmed Al-Mufti (center) celebrates a championship victory with his teammates, raising the trophy high. Photo: Mohammad Ali El-Agla

Ahmed had an incredible ability to lift people up. Living in Gaza, it’s so easy to lose hope, but Ahmed’s positivity was a lifeline. He always chose to see the bright side, and you could feel it in that big, genuine smile of his. It wasn’t fake; it was him believing things could get better, no matter what. That’s why his last words cut so deep. People who were with him when he died said he whispered, “Our livelihood is steeped in blood,” as he slipped away. It wasn’t him giving up—it was him facing the truth, the harsh reality that we Palestinians all continue to live with.

I can still picture the first time I met him. It was in a loud, crowded indoor netball court, sneakers squeaking, ball thumping, crowd cheering. That was Ahmed’s turf. He was the libero—a specialized defensive player in volleyball who focuses on receiving serves and digging attacks from the opposing team. And sure, his quick moves were impressive, but it was how smart he was that struck me. He’d read the other team like a book. 

After our first game together, we started chatting, and before long, we were talking about more than just volleyball: relationships, hopes, money, life. We got close. We were the kind of friends who could sit quietly watching the sun go down and feel completely understood. He was an amazing listener; somehow your problems felt like his, too.

For Ahmed, playing for Palestine wasn’t just about winning. He’d say every trip the team took was a chance to show the world who we are—through hard work, teamwork and not letting the news define us. Our last tournament in Algeria in 2023 wasn’t just another match for him—it was his way of carrying our story one more time.

Ahmed believed volleyball was more than just a game; it was a way to show the world that Palestinians have a life beyond the constant news of death and destruction. Through every match and every pass, he demonstrated that our people are strong, united and full of hope. He wanted the world to see ordinary people with dreams, who worked hard and held their heads high despite all the challenges. In this simple way, he conveyed a human message about Palestinians beyond the images of war and crisis.

If you want to know what made Ahmed tick, there’s one story he told me that says it all. Back in 1999, he was just a 10-year-old kid, staring in awe at Ayman Oudeh, a well-known Palestinian volleyball player. Ayman was on the court, playing with full strength and focus, while young Ahmed watched in wonder. It wasn’t just a game—it was a lesson: seeing someone you admire play with unstoppable spirit, realizing you could one day be like them. That moment stuck with him; it shaped him into the leader he became.

Ahmed never forgot how it felt to be seen by someone who was admired, so he always made time for the kids who looked up to him. He’d sign their stuff, toss in a few encouraging words like, “I can see you leading the team someday.” It took him 12 years to make his own dream come true, 12 years of grit and focus. And when he chose the libero spot, it was perfect for him. He loved being the guy who held it all together, the backbone of the team. That’s how he was in life too.

You could really see that in his last days in Rafah. The displacement camp was a tough place, everything uncertain, where even fun seemed impossible. But there was Ahmed, piecing together a volleyball net from some old rope and a worn-out cloth. It wasn’t just to keep the kids busy—it was his way of showing us all that you can’t let tough times take away what makes you human. Hearing those first shaky hits on the ball turn into real laughs? That felt bigger than any trophy.

With a smile, Ahmed told me, “Even in the hardest times, we have to give the kids a chance to be happy.” The children played until nightfall, filling the place with laughter, as if they had found a moment of life amidst all the death. Ahmed didn’t just string up a volleyball net—he strung up hope, sending a message to everyone that life has to go on, despite everything. This scene remains etched in my mind as a symbol of the resilience he embodied.

Ahmed always thought big, beyond the next game. He’d get fired up talking about a sports system that could stand on its own, not needing handouts from outside. He wanted a proper academy in Gaza to train the next generation. It was a dream about building something lasting. Ahmed deeply believed in the strength of the Palestinian volleyball players he coached. To him, they were more than just athletes—they embodied an unbreakable spirit, unwavering determination and a heart full of hope despite the harsh circumstances we live in.

Ahmed Al-Mufti celebrates a point in a passionate moment on the court. Photo: Mohammad Ali El-Agla

His vision for the academy went beyond teaching volleyball skills—it was about creating a place to showcase these players to the world, proving that we are capable of competing and excelling. For Ahmed, sports were not just a game; they were a message of peace, hope and strength. He believed sports could be a powerful tool to build the character of youth, instilling confidence, belonging and perseverance. To him, investing in sports was an investment in the Palestinian people, their future, and the strength of our nation.

It’s beyond heartbreaking that someone with such vision and plans could be killed while just trying to get food for his family.

But that’s life here in Gaza.

It’s on all of us now—his friends, his family, everyone who hears about him—to keep Ahmed’s memory alive. We have to talk about him, share who he was, and make sure he is more than just a story that fades away. He was a dad, a leader, a friend—not just another number. His real legacy isn’t in the games he won, but in the people he reached, the hope he sparked, and the way he lived with guts and grace until the end. Telling his story is how we prove that a life which mattered so much won’t ever be forgotten.

This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.