Eman. Photo: Shahd Ahmad Alnaami

When I woke up, I reached for my phone. “It’s September 19, her birthday.” I opened my notebook to write her a message. I wished I had the chance to call her or send a text, but I couldn’t let the day pass without at least writing to her. I’m sure, somehow, she will receive it.

I lit the candle we had bought together.

***

Dear Eman,

Do you remember that day?

It was a rainy day. I was at the university when you called, telling me you were tired and couldn’t study. I told you to come over and wait for me to finish my lectures so we could enjoy the day together. When you arrived, you were wet from the rain, but you smiled as if the weather didn’t bother you. We walked down Remal Street. You always said the rain made you feel alive, as though every droplet washed away the burdens of life.

Eman and Shahd. Photo: Shahd Ahmad Alnaami

And I remember how your eyes lit up when we found colorful notebooks and highlighters at Molhem, a stationary store that sells locally made supplies. “These will help,” you said with renewed determination, and I believed you. I always believed in you. No matter how tired or frustrated you were, you had this quiet strength, this unshakable faith that everything would eventually work out. And somehow, when I was with you, I believed it, too.

Afterward, we went to Atik, a boutique shop, and bought candles. We share our love for candles and the idea that even though the candle melts, it hardens again and continues to shine until the very end — teaching us to return to life with all our strength. I recently found one of those candles we had bought together beneath the rubble of my home. It made me so happy to find something that reminded me of you and our days together. Something so small, yet it carried so much of our shared memories.

That day was truly special. We ended it at the beach, where you opened your notebooks and started studying mathematics with this huge burst of energy. You always had this fierce determination. You were so set on passing Tawjihi with flying colors, and I never doubted you for a second. You did it, of course. You passed with a 92, just like I knew you would. I was so proud of you.

Now, as I look at the candle, I can’t help but smile when I remember that day. I only wish I had more time to spend with you.

Candles Eman and Shahd purchased together. Photo: Shahd Ahmad Alnaami

Maybe if you were still alive, we would have a small party at our favorite park, celebrating your 19^th birthday. We would be singing, wishing you many beautiful and successful years, and eating your favorite chocolate cake.

But you left us too early to do these things. Even your dreams — you didn’t have enough time to achieve them.

I’ll never forget our last conversation. It was the day you were martyred. We were laughing, talking about all the things we would do once the war ended. “This will end soon, we just need to wait,” you said. But you never got to see that end. You were killed, and the war still goes on. The world keeps spinning, but without you, it feels so much emptier.

You know, I’m lucky to know where your grave is. I visit it every chance I get. When I sit there, I tell you everything — the big things, the small things, everything in between. I tell you about my days, my struggles, my hopes. Sometimes, I imagine you’re sitting beside me, listening, smiling, telling me everything will be okay. I know you’re watching over us. I feel you everywhere, in the breeze, in the sunlight, in the quiet moments when I’m alone with my thoughts.

I’m sure you’re happy in heaven. I bet this birthday is your best one yet. You deserve all the peace and joy the world couldn’t give you. But I miss you. I miss you so much. Visit me in my dreams, my dearest friend Eman.

***

Eman Abdalrahmn Qamom was my closest friend. Our families had been friends even before we were born; we grew up together. She was the kindest girl you could ever meet. Her spirit was full of life, and I could see the beauty in her eyes. Her dream was to be a pediatrician because she adored children, like me. We shared countless experiences, laughter and tears, shopping adventures, late-night walks, and dreams for the future.

She was a year younger than me, and after graduating from high school, she joined me at the Islamic University of Gaza. I was so excited for her first day. I couldn’t wait to show her all my favorite spots, the hidden corners of the campus where we could relax and chat. But the war came, and we never got to explore all those places. The university was destroyed, and Eman was martyred.

Eman was killed on December 22, 2023, while she was praying the Maghrib in her room. As she was on her knees, a bomb struck their neighbor’s apartment, causing the wall of her room to collapse onto her. Her mother, also praying nearby, was injured, but Eman, deeply focused in prayer, lost her life. She was just 18 years old.