Dear Tasneem,

I write to you with courage that only came to me after your martyrdom and that of so many loved ones. How devastating is this loss that leaves my fingers paralyzed, unable even to hold a pen.

It’s been nearly a year since your martyrdom, my friend, and I still wonder in disbelief at the audacity of that missile to crush everything so carelessly.

Doesn’t the soldier who fired it realize that he extinguished a human life forever?

He snuffed out the light, energy and passion of the person who was lost.

Every day, I come to understand that we are at war with a Zionist enemy who cares for nothing but senseless killing.

You were a gracious and kind girl, Tasneem, and I used to tease you, laughing about how you seemed to know most of the girls in our English department at the Islamic University of Gaza. You were incredibly social and loved meeting new people with boundless generosity. You were well-known among the students for your willingness to always help them.

You were also a source of joy and happiness for your family. I remember many times when we would talk on the phone late into the night with your sisters joining in and our laughter echoing. I knew you adored your sisters’ daughters, always posting their pictures on social media. I’ve never seen an aunt love her niece as much as you loved Misk. Your older sister, Aya, said you were everything beautiful in your family home.

Two days before the Israeli genocide began, I asked for help with a university subject – legal translation. You helped me greatly, even insisting that I take your notebook home so I could study more comfortably. I declined, wanting you to use it over the weekend if you wished.

The following Saturday, 7 October 2023, marked the beginning of the curse, as Israel then launched its genocide of Palestinians in Gaza. The university suspended classes indefinitely, and I never saw you again.

I wish I had taken your notebook then as a memento.

You were so excited about this year’s graduation and couldn’t wait for this summer.

Did you know that we haven’t graduated yet and the university has been completely destroyed?

This summer you looked forward to has come, bringing so much grief, sadness, bloodshed and the unknown. When I open our WhatsApp conversations and read your messages full of life, I can hardly believe that you are no longer with us.

We were in touch from the start of the war until 1 December 2023.

Your last text message to me was: “The bombing hasn’t stopped all night; the sounds are terrifying.”

After that, our communication was cut off, and every time I tried to call, the recording would say, “Sorry, the phoned number cannot be reached at this time, you can try again later.” This phrase became a form of terror in Gaza, due to the anxiety and uncertainty it brought. This continued for about two months regarding my trying to reach you until the tragic news came.

In February, I saw a Facebook post that mentioned you had closed your eyes forever on 5 December 2023. You had been martyred in Khan Younis, southern Gaza. For two months, I did not know you had been killed.

In Gaza these days, we often don’t know how and where people we are close to are martyred. We are deprived of saying goodbye to them one last time.

You visited me in a dream, smiling and telling me that you had not died and were still alive.

How I wished it weren’t just a dream.

You left without a farewell, and your grave stands as a somber witness to the dreams that were never fulfilled.

I am still here, alive (for now), to share your story and, hopefully, others will do the same for the tens of thousands whose lives were stolen by war.

We will forever keep them in our prayers and hearts, honoring their memory in every way we can.

Ghada Eyed had been an English Literature and Translation student at Gaza’s Islamic University, which was destroyed during Israel’s genocide in Gaza.

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