Yusuf with his cousin, Mohammed ‘The Mustache’ El-Mbayed (at a time when he’d shaved his mustache and beard), taken in August 2024. Photo provided by Yusuf El-Mbayed

I have hundreds of selfies, both of myself and those I care about. I love to capture joyful moments of get-togethers, festivities, cozy evenings, and the shared meals that unite us.

Sometimes, at night, when I have a little quiet time, I go through my digital photo albums and look back at those golden moments when I was happy in the company of family and friends.

It has been more than two years since the genocide tore everything apart for us. Now, tragically, I have a special collection of pictures dedicated to the people who were ripped from my life by the Israel. The photographs of my late cousins are among the most poignant for me.

My cousins, the three siblings Mohammed “The Mustache” El-Mbayed, 27, Saleem El-Mbayed, 28, and their eldest brother, Rami El-Mbayed, 44, and I were often side by side. We lived in high-risk zones as cousins, neighbors, and friends who were there for one another, sharing the good times and the bad.

My three cousins and I would regularly stay up until midnight, preparing communal meals called Eshwah bedeawa. We congregated around the fireplace to savor barbecued wings, kebabs, fish, and mangeesh (a flatbread with toppings) while sipping hot tea.

I loved them all because spending time with them was like watching a hilarious movie. They were so funny, they could easily have starred in comedy films in Hollywood. With them, anxiety and depression melted away — it was just nonstop laughter.

Mohammed the Mustache stood out. He was one of my best pals, nicknamed after Mario, the video game character, because of his characteristic mustache. One of Mario’s famous catchphrases was “Who cares?!” Which, in Arabic, is “Eesh Ifhamit.” Mohammed used it so frequently we became irritated to hear it, but he made us all laugh with his crazy antics.

I remember how he loved to take a shower in our secluded area of Al-Shuja’iyya during the genocide. He would grab a gallon of water and pour it over himself in the middle of the street. I can also picture how he cultivated the field, preparing it for planting — wearing only his underwear.

Mohammed El-Mbayed with his eponymous mustache. Photo provided by Yusuf El-Mbayed

Saleem, his brother, was a more solitary man. He was routinely found in the fields, farming and planting whatever seeds were available. However, when it was time for breakfast, Saleem always stepped in to tackle the cooking because The Mustache was a terrible cook.

It was always a laugh whenever The Mustache tried to play chef. Saleem would walk up and shoo him away in jest, saying, “Do you really think you can cook, idiot?”

Not being one to back down, The Mustache would tease right back: “Okay, let’s see what you can do, you falta,” which means “know-it-all.”

Saleem would just roll his eyes and fire back: “Alright, get out of here now, pygmy, and watch how a real chef cooks!”

The Mustache and another cousin would bet the rice was going to burn, while Rami and I would back Saleem, confident he’d make a perfect dish. We’d all gamble a bundle of twigs from a dangerous area on the outcome. Saleem would then go on to prepare a delicious breakfast for all of us — The Mustache, his father, Rami, and me.

Saleem at the wedding of a cousin, August 2018. Photo provided by Yusuf El-Mbayed

Rami was always calm enough to smooth things over when friendly fights broke out, so everything was stable and peaceful when he was around. He was a devoted father of four and one of the most knowledgeable and kindhearted men in our family. He was a builder by trade, a multitasker who could manage many roles even if he mastered none.

Rami at a party celebrating a friend, May 2020. Photo provided by Yusuf El-Mbayed

When the second wave of starvation hit Gaza, they all chose to volunteer with the Turkish organization, IHH Humanitarian Relief Foundation, which played a crucial role in providing much-needed aid to our community. Rami took on the responsibility of organizer and logistics coordinator, ensuring that resources were distributed efficiently. Mohammed and Saleem toiled away carrying firewood from the buffer zone for cooking, distributing food to the destitute despite serious daily risks.

The demands of our lives at that particular time forced us apart. On the only opportunity I had to call, we arranged a time to get together. They were killed three days before that meeting, after working only a month and a half.

In that last call, I asked Mohammed, “How’s it going with the new job?”

“Job?!” he jokingly replied. “Do you think it’s a career? Rather, it’s death, cousin. We could be killed at any moment.”

That moment came far too soon. In Gaza, the end shows up in odd ways. It frequently arrives in fragments, early rather than late, and often abruptly. Instead of knocking like a courteous visitor, it bursts in and shatters the tiny, brittle pieces of stability we struggle so hard to preserve.

While my brother and I were fetching gallons of water, I received a call from my cousin, Adam. He said, “If you haven’t heard yet, we had the painful honor of burying our dearest cousins, The Mustache, Saleem, Abdulhakim, Jamal, and Rami, among many others.” My hands began to shake uncontrollably, as my heart sank.

They were killed on May 27, 2025.

These were not just the fun-loving cousins of my youth, they were heroes of humanity continuing to risk their lives to serve the poor, knowing that they themselves were among the poor. Losing them all at once, in the same moment, turned that day into one of the darkest moments of my life.

The Mustache, Saleem, Abdulhakim, and Jamal were single men who dreamed of returning to Al-Shuja’iyya to marry a wife, build their own nests, and have the lives most young men hope for (as I mentioned earlier, Rami was already married and a father). Many Palestinians in Gaza, despite terrible circumstances, continued to tie the knot. Marriages were acts of fortitude, a demonstration that this happiness could not be taken away by the enemy. Now, all that my cousins had known was occupation, struggle, and devastation.

I wasn’t even there when Mohammed, Saleem, Rami, and the others took their final breaths. I didn’t see their faces in their last moments, didn’t get to hold their hands, couldn’t whisper a prayer over them as they returned to the soil. There was no chance to say, “I’m here. You’re not alone.” Instead, I find myself staring at their photographs, apologizing for being absent with all these goodbyes I never got to give.