I have always hated grey, an indistinct color. It’s not like black or white, happiness or sadness, love or hate, laughter or crying, light or darkness, life or death: Grey is indistinct, and what I dislike most is a lack of clarity and an uncertain fate.

I have heard many times that bodies decompose after they are buried, and that honoring the dead means burying them promptly. The sooner this burial is done, the more we honor and love them, offering our final farewell, a kiss on the forehead, or even our last glance, hoping the next meeting will be in God’s heaven.

But when war comes, corpses are scattered and thrown in the streets, on sidewalks, roads, rooftops, in rooms, in the rubble — everywhere. Some are decomposed, some are not. I have heard about this a lot in this war; I witnessed scenes that I was forced to see. But I never expected this grey to afflict how I remember my friend.

In the month of December 2023, just when dreams are supposed to begin, I lost them all, at the same time that I lost soulmates. When the occupation kidnapped one of my comrades from the “safe corridor,” they also killed my uncle and cousin, and they invaded the neighborhood of my friend, Shahad Hamdan Abu Lebdah.

My dear friend and classmate, whom I’ve known since 2013, is just 24 years old. We were inseparable, attending the same school and class, spending most of our time with our close-knit group of friends. We cherished hugging each other, talking for hours, telling jokes, playing, thinking deeply, and reading books and having passionate discussions about them. Shahad graduated from the university just two months before the war. She was artistic and a beacon of love, inspiration, and passion. She was so clever and blessed with a heart of gold, always spreading joy with her laughter.

The last time I spoke with Shahad was on December 3. I was checking on her and her family, who were living in Khan Younis. They were desperate to survive! She asked me if I knew anyone who could help them escape Gaza.

Just a week after our conversation, Israel attacked their village with tanks, drones, and airstrikes. I read that Israel had surrounded their home, and then we lost all contact with them. What happened? We have no idea. Shahad, her father Hamdan, her mother Amneh, her sisters Reem, Razan, and Tasneem, and her brother Islam were all in the house. We don’t know their fate. My heart aches with unbearable uncertainty and fear for them all.

The only one who survived physically, although not mentally, from this unknown fate is Shahad’s oldest sister, Hala, who is studying for a master’s in the UK. She doesn’t know what happened to them.

After Israel withdrew from the area at the end of January, I tried to get someone to visit their home, praying we might find information about their fate. One of my relatives who had been evacuated to a school nearby tried to visit, but it was too dangerous because of the drones that were still circling the area.

Then somebody brought a dead body to the school where my relative was staying, saying they found it at Shahad’s house. I was sent a photograph of the covered body, which bore a note stating the date of the last communication and the family name. The note also said “unidentified” because the body was decomposed, and that it was assumed to be female (because of the long hair that remained, I learned).

When I received this news, I started shaking uncontrollably, as if heavy stones were crushing my chest. I began sweating heavily, lost focus, and was on the verge of fainting.

Two weeks later, they found two more decomposed bodies of females in the garden of the house — likely other members of the family. Her relatives and friends who visited the house told me that it was half-destroyed and there were traces left by soldiers who had stormed the place. There was also evidence of execution on the first body with the note, and that the two others had had their hands tied. Hala tried to identify them, but they were too decomposed. However, she thinks that one of them is her mother because of her distinctive teeth.

There are many scenes that play out inside my head, even as my mind and heart reject the idea of their leaving. I can see the one missile that ends the lives of many; it may be targeted, or it may be random, intended to kill indiscriminately — these are always the intentions of the occupation. I imagine the scene of invasion, with soldiers storming the house and executing those in it. I see in my mind how, after the withdrawal, the people of the area find bodies in the house, and try to determine the identities from the remaining hair, earrings, bracelets, or phones lying next to them

Is my friend one of them? Or are these her siblings? Where are the other family members? Were they all killed? Were any of them kidnapped? Was everyone executed? Where is Shahad? What my heart fears is that their bodies have been stolen by the occupation forces and buried anonymously. How can my heart endure?

I cried a lot and prayed that she would be still alive. I prayed for her to visit me in my dreams, and in fact each time I urged God to let me see her; he did. She never hesitated, not once, to reassure me that she is fine, and she about me about her dreams, that she had travelled somewhere, and she apologized for her absence. The last time she visited my dreams, she hugged me, cried a lot, and slept in my arms like a newborn baby — small, delicate, and very beautiful, as always.

My friend always knew how much I hated the color grey, as she did. We always loved clarity; if she could now explain her fate to me, she would not hesitate to do so.

Every day, as the weight of unanswered questions settles on my heart, I am consumed by an unremitting guilt that gnaws at my soul. I imagine her in desperate need of help. That I cannot reach her, that I could not be there when it mattered most, haunts me deeply.

I scoured every possible corner, hoping for a miracle that never came. The countless hours spent canvassing hospitals, makeshift shelters, and the wreckage of bombed-out neighborhoods now feel like futile attempts against a tide of despair. I can still see Shahad’s bright eyes, her infectious laughter, contrasting sharply with the stark reality of what we found in the faces we confronted in the search.

There is a cruel irony in searching for someone in a place where the very infrastructure meant to offer aid is crumbling.

I do not know the fate of my friend. Even if it is suspected that the hair of the first decomposing body may belong to her, I do not accept this loss, I will not accept it, I cannot; I am weaker than all of this. I want to see my friend’s face, even if just for one last time, to take a final farewell look, kiss and hug her, and tell her “I love you” one last time, even if through a phone screen; to kiss the screen and pray for her mercy and a close encounter with God’s blissful paradise. Is this too much for my heart to ask?

They killed them, they killed us,
I cried, I tried.

I cried for death, I tried to live,
One life, one sky.

Stars here, strikes there.

They killed the light,
They killed the hope.

I tried to rise,
But fell to rust.

In the darkness, under the stars,
I cried for them,
For the dreams that died,

In shadows we weep,
Where justice hides.

I tried to survive.

But I’m tired
Of being tried.

Darkness all around,
Strikes in the sky.

They killed them, they killed us.

They killed me.