I was waiting for the school bus just like I did for the past three years. I got on and found an empty seat, and sat next to my friend. His name was Yousef Dawas.

-Hi Ahmad, how are you?

-Oh, hi Yousef. I apologize, I didn’t see you.

-It’s okay. Did you have your breakfast?

-No, I woke up late.

We were both used to sleeping and waking up late, but in spite of that we were busy together, members of an English language literary team at Tamer Institute for Community Education and regular users of the library close to the university.

We spent many hours discussing our studies — psychology for him, law for me — and complaining about our professors.

It was Thursday when we met on the bus.

-So Ahmad, will you spill the beans and tell me what we will talk about in this week’s team meeting?

-Sneaky, I see what you are doing. Okay, I will talk about clothes and fashion; we need to rethink them.

-You do know about thrift stores, right?

-I do, but I can’t seem to find one.

-Oh, I know a good place. Saturday 9 a.m. good with you?

-Great, meet you back there, at the bus stop.

Saturday October 7, 2023. I was supposed to meet Yousef, but it was too late to commit to buying fewer clothes and reusing old ones to save the planet. It was the beginning of the end of this world.

That Thursday was the last time I saw Yousef in person, but not the last time I heard from him. A few days later, during the initial bombardment of Gaza, Yousef called me asking for advice, as he was giving an interview on the situation.

I never heard anything further from him until one day later when I got a phone call. I knew it was not good news, I knew that I had lost another friend, I didn’t answer. I got a message from another friend, Besan, saying: “We have lost our dear friend Yousef, may his soul rest in peace. Stay strong.”

It was sunset and I went to my room. At that time we were home in Gaza City. I hid my tears from my brothers. I packed my tears and bags. I will cry later, I said to myself, and prepared to move to Rafah the next day in the morning.

With the rising sun and a spy drone above, reminding us that we were being watched, filling our ears with its buzzing, we stuffed our car and drove through the Gazan graveyard, careful as a cat not to drive over someone or drive over anyone’s house.

We drove for two hours to Rafah. For the last thirty minutes we found ourselves in a forbidden zone. No one was there to tell us, only a spy drone getting closer and closer to let us know that we were seconds away from being bombed.

We realized that it might be our last seconds, so we stopped the car and kept looking at each other, the spy drone overhead. My dad said: “Okay, okay, we will get out of here, just stop!” The poor guy thought they could hear him.

We reversed and tried to be quick, yet also keep an eye on the tires, because we had no repair kit nor was there anyone in this desert of red and gray to help.

In Rafah, we lived with five other families in a two-story house. I was able to get an internet connection from street sellers, but I wish I hadn’t. Messages started flooding my phone of loved ones being found on the streets or known to be dead.

I didn’t respond to any messages. Instead I turned off my phone and went back home. The next week, when I returned to the wifi spot, I messaged Yousef: “Where are you, dude?”

I waited but there was no response. I called, and yet no response. I called other dead friends, and none picked up the phone. In every escalation, phones keep buzzing and ringing. They will answer eventually; they can’t run away from their friends.

We left home with only summer clothes; it was supposed to only last a month at worst, but life had other plans. I walked for two hours mindlessly, trying to make a mind map of Rafah, and to my surprise I found a thrift store. It was called “Ameer” but I read it as Yousef. I remembered my friend and snatched up my phone and cursed him — why wouldn’t he pick up?

It was getting dark, so I went inside the store and bought anything I could find. Every jacket had “Yousef” written on it, and everyone who worked at the store was called “Yousef.” I started to see my friend on my old-new jacket. My brother asked me where I got new clothes and I told him about the store, and then he also bought a new jacket with “Yousef” written all over it.

When do people die?

Do they die when we learn of their death?

Do they die when we see them lying with no movement?

Do they die if we stop talking about them?

I keep ringing my friend. Can’t you just stop playing this silly game? I know that you’re living in another tent somewhere in Gaza, I believe that I will see you soon. And I promise you, Yousef, I will kick you for doing this to me. I know that Besan’s message said you were killed with all of your family, but did you die? Did you die just because I was told so? I walk and walk, ringing you, Yousef, and ringing other friends. I’m sure you will answer one day.