Fawzi Judi. Photo: Ahmed Mushtaha

Since the beginning of the war, we have lived two years of fear, destruction, hunger, and siege.

When the airstrikes and shelling escalated and the evacuation order came for our neighborhood, Tel Al-Hawa, we left. No one remained.

We carried everything we could with us, but we left behind corners that bore witness to our childhood and simple memories. Our laughter in the alleys.

A year passed after we left, and the shelling returned to take what remained.

The neighborhood was completely destroyed by explosives and heavy missiles, and all our homes and alleys were reduced to rubble.

After another year, we returned to the neighborhood to see the rubble and inspect our homes.

Nothing remained of our homes, except the wreckage of stone and iron.

Two years after the war news came that shocked me: Fawzi Judi was martyred first.

He was my childhood friend, a neighbor, and a playmate, and he always filled the place with laughter and energy.

I remembered our school days when I used to go with him every morning. I thought of when we used to go together to the mosque.

Fawzi bought a sewing machine to earn a living and save money to build a bright future amidst the destruction, war, and siege.

In the last invasion of the Tal Al-Hawa neighborhood, Fawzi left his shelter, fleeing the flames of missiles and the roar of planes and tanks, leaving his sewing machine behind. Fawzi returned a day later, on October 3, 2025, to take the sewing machine, but before he reached his shelter, the occupation planes surprised him, targeting him with a missile. Yes, a missile that tore his body into pieces!

What did my friend, Fawzi do to be killed by a missile? And for his body to turn into human pieces. What was his crime? He was only 21 years old.

Fawzi has left, but his memory will not leave me. He left with his soul, but I will continue to see him and his laughter in every corner and alley of our destroyed street. Before his martyrdom, I continued to see him in his shelter or on the street. We talked about little hopeful things: the end of the war, and living in a house of stones instead of tents. Farewell, Fawzi.

Fawaz Al Wahidi. Photo provided by his family

Only a day passed after the news of Fawzi’s martyrdom before I received the second news: Fawaz Al Wahidi was martyred. Fawaz, who was a consistent support to all of our age mates, a companion, a neighbor, and a schoolmate.

I remember how every day I used to call him to drink tea under the olive trees that were in the garden of his house. I remember when I used to call him to school or when we used to walk in the roads, streets, and alleys of our neighborhood. Fawaz, who was not more than 19 years old, had a childish face.

He was martyred in the Sabra neighborhood when the Israeli occupation launched a ground attack on Tal Al-Hawa. In the last attack, Fawaz left his home and fled to the Sabra neighborhood, adjacent to Tal Al-Hawa. Occupation aircraft targeted him with a missile, just as they targeted Fawzi. Fawaz had serious injuries to his feet and chest. Fawaz bled on the ground until rescue and ambulance support arrived and saved him. Fawaz’s injuries were serious.

But Fawaz did not go to the hospital. The rescue team returned him directly to his house. They did not take Fawaz to the hospital because the occupation targeted hospitals and because of a lack of medical equipment and consumables to treat someone so badly wounded. He was martyred a week after being targeted and wounded, on October 4.

Where is humanity? Where is global conscience? We continue to wrestle with death because of an unjust occupation, the lack of hospitals and healthcare systems. How can governments and citizens around the world allow international humanitarian law to be shredded? Our entire city, our entire territory is coping and trying to live without a single functioning hospital, and without medical services. Are we supposed to conclude that humanity is allowing this all because of the occupation’s stance? Because the occupation has literally sentenced every Palestinian in the city, in the territory, to death?

Fawaz was the second of my childhood companions to be martyred, but his presence, his voice is still with me, still in my mind, his laughter is still there, they never leave me. Goodbye, Fawaz.

My dear friends were taken from this world, but their memories never left me. Those playmates one grows with, at tender ages cannot be erased. Like others, who have not faced occupation, who are not wrestling with genocide, I will dream of my playmates during recess at school for all of my days left.

Still, now I feel that the entire neighborhood, the rubble, and the darkness surrounding us, is silent without their laughter, without their voices, without their presence.

Today, I walk among the rubble, carrying images of memories, flashbacks.

I remember us playing in the alleys, our long sessions talking about our lives and our little dreams, and how we tried to fill the void between explosions and devastation with a smile, smiles that did not stop until the last moment. I remember when we played soccer every afternoon.

Fawzi and Fawaz are not just names on a list of martyrs. They are real. Their stories are of honest lives, friendships (unknown to many), dreams that tried to live amidst the diabolic sentence, and souls that were only broken in the flesh.

I write these words to memorialize them, to remember them, to shout Fawzi and Fawaz to the world we lived among. I loved them, and they will never become numbers among numbers. They were taken, but my heart won’t allow them to be taken completely.

Nothing remains in Tel Al-Hawa, our home, Fawzi and Fawaz. There are no houses or trees left.

They were each taken, but we remain to curse the occupation once and 100 times for their wrongful sentencing and destruction.

For the last time, I say goodbye to Fawaz and Fawzi, see you later.

I wrote this story about the bond between children growing up together, about two young men targeted and murdered for existing, for being. Albeit, Fawaz and Fawzi are not the only who were killed by the Israeli occupation. More than 60,000 people have been killed, 10,000 are still missing, and more than 100,000 are trying to survive through their injuries.

Even though you haven’t felt it, you likely know, most of the Gaza Strip—hospitals, schools, mosques, roads, restaurants, businesses, and homes—have been destroyed. You have seen my territory reduced to demolition sites.

What we continue to ask is, will anyone hold the occupation accountable for its vile and wicked actions, or will the result of their actions be left without deterrence, without punishment?

Are we the only people remaining and willing to stand up for humanity?