The Electronic Intifada 26 September 2024
Zakaria and his son Ali.
The cold, metal hospital bed felt like an iron cage. My leg throbbed, blood seeping through the bandages.
Sham and Hayat, my nieces, lay beside me, their heads wrapped in white gauze, stained with the crimson evidence of the Israeli violence that had befallen us. Relatives trickled in, their faces a mix of disbelief and sorrow.
Then, my mother arrived.
“Where are my sons? Where is Bashaer? My grandsons? Where is Zakaria?”
Her voice was frantic, almost unrecognizable.
“They told me he was martyred. Is it true?”
Allah yirhamu, came the reply. “May God have mercy on his soul.”
The words were heavy and final.
My mother’s scream shattered the fragile silence. Her pain echoed through my own body. She screamed until her voice gave out, the hospital walls absorbing the sound of our collective grief.
The last day together
On 19 July, just before everything changed, life still clung to its fragile semblance of normalcy. I was at home with my husband, Amir, and my brother Zakaria. The war had already taken so much from us — our peace, our sense of security, our sleep.
But on that day, we tried to hold on to something ordinary, something human. We were planning lunch, debating what to cook, when my nephew Asem called. The market was empty, he said. The war had emptied it of everything except fear.
Zakaria, always the optimist, smiled and suggested we finally make the spaghetti we had been postponing for days.
He wore a green T-shirt, reflecting the beauty of his green eyes, and black trousers that day, a combination that made him look both vibrant and calm, like he was in his element despite the chaos surrounding us.
We laughed, slapped hands in agreement, and set about our small, mundane task. It was a fleeting moment of light in what was about to become an abyss of darkness.
We prayed the noon prayer together, something we often did. But that day, Zakaria seemed different — more radiant, almost ethereal. As if he knew, somehow, that this would be his final prayer. His presence filled the room, his voice calm and steady, even as the world outside crumbled. He moved with an uncommon grace, as if he were walking on air.
Looking back, I wonder if that was a sign, a farewell that we were too blind to see.
Loud like silence
The afternoon heat had settled in, and we were all ready for a nap. The constant artillery fire from the Israeli military had robbed us of sleep for days, and exhaustion was beginning to take its toll. But just as we were about to find some semblance of rest, the sky fell on us.
We had barely entered our rooms when the missile struck. The explosion was deafening, a sound so loud it became silent. I felt the ground give way beneath me as if the earth itself had turned against us.
For a few seconds, there was nothing — no sound, no sight, just the crushing weight of stones and debris.
When I regained consciousness, the world was dark. I was trapped under what felt like the entire house, my leg throbbing in agony.
The pain was overwhelming, but all I could think of was the shahada. I whispered it over and over, preparing myself for the end.
Then I heard Amir’s voice cutting through the darkness, desperate and frantic, calling my name.
“I’m here!” I managed to reply, though my voice was weak and strained.
He found me, his hands shaking as he tried to pull me from the rubble. We fought our way through the wreckage, through fire and smoke, through what was once our home.
When we finally stumbled outside, we were met with a scene from hell. Our house was gone, replaced by a gaping hole and scattered debris. The air was thick with dust and smoke, and the smell of burning flesh and wood was suffocating.
Zakaria and Ali – his son, my nephew, our Aloosh, just four years old – were nowhere to be found.
The neighbors rushed to help us, pulling us to safety.
But I couldn’t feel safe. Not without Zakaria, not without Ali. They were still in there, somewhere beneath the stones, lost in the ruins that had once been our sanctuary. We called out their names until our voices broke, but the only response was silence.
Minutes later, Doaa and Hayat, Zakaria’s wife and daughter, were pulled seriously injured from the rubble, their bodies covered with blood, dust and stone.
Reality hits hard
The neighbors gave us shelter, but my mind was trapped back in the rubble.
Amir returned. Zakaria hadn’t answered our calls. A deep dread settled in my chest as I realized the truth: Zakaria wasn’t coming out.
It wasn’t until we reached the hospital that the full extent of the tragedy became clear. My father arrived; his face etched with grief.
“Allah yirhamu,” he said quietly when I asked about Ali. It was then that I understood: They were both gone.
Zakaria and Ali were killed together, their bodies fused in a final, tragic embrace.
Aloosh is now among the estimated 17,000 Palestinian children massacred during Israel’s genocide.
Zakaria was not just my brother; he was my closest companion. Before I got married, we had lived together with his family in our parents’ building. We shared everything.
During the war, we had fled together to Rafah, to al-Mawasi, and finally, after a brave decision, back to our damaged home. Despite the destruction, being with Zakaria made me feel safe.
His part of the house was razed to the ground during the first Israeli invasion of Khan Younis in December. Yet, despite the gaping holes where windows once were, the lack of doors and the crumbling walls, it was still home.
My parents were forced to live in a tent in al-Mawasi, a far cry from the warmth of the house we had all shared. But with Zakaria living in their room, the memories we had created in that house kept pulling me back, even as I tried to move forward.
Every morning, Zakaria would pass by my room and say, “Bashasha, good morning,” his voice a daily reminder that I was not alone.
Confusion and heartache
Lying in my hospital bed, I overheard my uncle Tamim, who had accompanied me in the ambulance, asking the doctors if there was anyone else in the house. The confusion was palpable; the doctors had mistakenly written my name on one of the unidentified corpses.
They didn’t realize the mistake until my uncles Tamim and Yahiya arrived. Zakaria and Ali had been so damaged that even in death, they were unrecognizable.
The rescuers had found Zakaria cradling Ali, the upper parts of their bodies mangled into one by the force of the explosion. The lower parts, including Zakaria’s legs, formed another unidentifiable mass.
Three weeks later, I found myself in a tent in al-Mawasi with Amir. Four days after it had killed my brother and nephew, the Israeli military had ordered us to evacuate our town.
I kept replaying the memories of Zakaria, of Ali, of the home that had once been our refuge but was now nothing more than a tomb.
As I sat there lost in thought, my phone rang. It was my sister, her voice trembling with fear and sorrow.
“Israel bombed our uncle’s home,” she said.
Tamim, his wife Islam, and their daughters Salam, Mais and Huda were all dead. Yahya’s wife Najat and son Abood were also gone.
The pain, already unbearable, multiplied.
This war genocide taken so much from us — our homes, our loved ones, our sense of safety — but it has not taken our memories. Those memories, painful as they are, are all we have left.
The souls of Zakaria and Ali, of Tamim and everyone else still linger in the ruins of our former lives, refusing to be forgotten. Their presence is a constant, haunting reminder of the life that once was and the devastation that had torn it apart.
I made a silent promise to Zakaria, to Ali and to all those who have been taken from us: I will not let your memory fade.
As I gazed up at the moon, its cold light reflected in the tears streaming down my face, two meteors suddenly streaked across the night sky. Startled, I screamed, thinking they were missiles.
Then I realized, deep in my heart: These were the souls of Zakaria and Ali, soaring above, visiting us one last time.
Bashaer Muammar is a Palestinian activist and translator from Gaza.
