Maryam Hamad, or “the beautiful Frenchie” as I used to call her, was my close friend for nearly 14 years.

We studied together in elementary, middle, and high schools. Our relationship was so strong that one day our Arabic teacher in 9th grade said, “Your friendship with Maryam is beautiful; how long have you two been friends?”

I replied, “Maryam is not just my friend; she’s my sister and a part of me. I’ve known her since I was 8 years old.”

After high school, we each joined a different university and chose different majors. Maryam loved languages and learning them. She would say, “Ohood, I will become a famous French translator in the future, and you will all be proud of me when I achieve success.”

Every week, we would go together to the beach. Maryam was always the one who organized our outings. When we sat by the sea, we felt a deep sense of peace. We would spend about 10 minutes just contemplating the sight of the waves and getting lost in their beauty. Maryam loved photographing the sea, capturing images of the crashing waves, the clear sky, and countless pictures that included me, her, and our innocence.

One time, I looked up at the sky and said to Maryam, “You know, Maryam, the clarity and beauty of the sky resemble your heart.” She laughed, thinking I was joking, but it was the truth. The innocence of her heart was like that of a child who hasn’t yet reached 10 years of age.

We would bring along cold juice and watermelon seeds, as they were my beloved Maryam’s favorite snacks.

She would always begin with her usual question, “Tell me, how was your week? I want to hear all the details.”

Then we would sit and discuss what to order for lunch — whether it should be Sfiha, grilled meat, or chicken — but each time, after all our deliberations, we would end up laughing as Maryam, with her soft and gentle voice, would say, “Of course, we will get Ohood’s favorite, shawarma.”

Those were the best moments when we were together, laughing, forgetting the worries of the world.

“The land of resistance”

When this war started, Maryam sent me a message on Instagram: “Ohood, my dear, how are you?”

I replied, “I’m fine, my dear. Don’t worry about me. What matters most to me is seeing you and us being together again.”

She said, “Don’t worry, my dear, we will meet and have the best moments, and I will rejoice in your graduation.” She always prayed for my success and promised me she would attend my graduation ceremony.

Maryam, there’s only a little time left until my graduation.

During the war, I was reaching out to her and saying, “Maryam, the war has lasted too long; I’m tired.”

“Ohood, it’s okay if the war lasts long. We are in Palestine, the land of resistance; we must be patient and endure. And if we die, it’s OK, as martyrs for the land, we will be with our Lord.”

I drew strength from her — she always saw life positively and loved it, despite its difficulties.

I will do it, Maryam. I will graduate to make you happy. I will dedicate my graduation to you.

We stayed in daily contact until I lost touch with her from mid-November until January 15, 2023. During this time, I was displaced weekly. In December, I headed to Al-Shifa Hospital to access the internet and communicate with my friends and relatives, not knowing if they were still alive or had joined the ranks of the martyrs.

I tried many times to contact my sister, Somya, who was married and with her husband in besieged Jabalia. But I couldn’t. When I finally managed to get in touch with her, she cried and said, “Dad, Mom, my siblings, are you all okay? Please, tell me that nothing bad has happened to you!”

As for Maryam, I didn’t know anything about her. Was she OK? I would comfort myself that she was OK, that nothing terrible had happened to her.

When I finally got a chance to access the internet, I found a post on Facebook from Maryam’s friend at the university saying that she had been killed in an Israeli airstrike.

A jumble of thoughts filled my mind: Has Maryam really been killed? Or is this some cruel joke? Is Maryam truly no longer here? Will I be deprived of her laughter and all the precious moments I spent with her forever? I wished I hadn’t comforted myself so much.

Israel killed Maryam on December 18, 2023.

“Beautiful May”

I cried my heart out over her death, especially since I learned about it a month after it happened. I couldn’t bear the thought of her being gone, of not even being able to say goodbye to her.

A week later, I gathered my strength and went to Maryam’s cousin, Iman. I asked her, “How was Maryam killed?”

“She was at an UNRWA school because the Israeli soldiers had been besieging the area where she lived. A tank shell hit the classroom where she and her family were staying.”

Maryam, the wound of losing you hasn’t healed yet. I don’t think it will ever heal. I don’t think I will ever recover from it. On my birthday this year, May 14, I waited for your usual message: “Ohood, beautiful May, happy birthday!” You used to say May was a beautiful month, and you called me “Beautiful May,” a name I treasured. Every year, at exactly midnight, you would send me that message.

You didn’t send it this year. I missed it. I miss you, Maryam.

I can’t forget how you called to check on me every day. One time, as soon as I said, “Hi, Mariam,” you recognized that I was stressed because of the exams. You said, “Ohood, get ready, we’re going out together.” As soon as I saw you and heard your childlike laughter, I felt safe and forgot all the stress, as if nothing had happened.

Maryam’s smile was so radiant, her face so innocent. Her voice exuded warmth, making anyone who interacted with her feel a sense of tenderness. Maryam was not just a friend; she was my sister, my entire life.

Maryam, I am in the northern part of the sector, just a few meters away from the sea. A month ago, during my visit to the sea, I saw a girl in front of me who resembled you. I thought it was you. I reached for my phone to call you, to ask, “Where have you been, Maryam?” The automatic reply was the same: “This phone number cannot be reached at the moment.” I realized again that you were no longer here and that Israel has deprived me of you.

It has been nearly 9 months since your martyrdom, Maryam, and every day I browse our photos and memories together, drawing strength from your laughter, messages, and your voice that never leaves me.

Every time I see your face, I ask myself: Was Maryam a threat to Israel?