Malik had set her alarm so as not to oversleep on her wedding day, but before the alarm on her mobile phone could wake her, the distant sound of an explosion jolted her awake.
Terrified, she placed her hand over her heart to calm its racing beat. When her eyes fell upon her wedding dress, everything else faded from her mind. Her frightened face brightened again, and she forgot about the Israeli missile. A few days earlier, she and her mother had bought that white gown from the market as her wedding dress, and Malik had hung it on a nail in the corner of the room so it wouldn’t wrinkle.
Before getting out of bed, she picked up her phone to check her messages. Ahmad always sent her a “good morning” message before she woke up. Something like this: “Hello to the girl whose beauty even war cannot diminish, good morning, my angel in this missile-filled world!”
There was no message from Ahmad; he must still be asleep to begin his sweet talk. He had every right to sleep in. They had talked on the phone until 1:30 AM the previous night. With the terrible internet and signal constantly cutting in and out, their two-hour conversation stretched longer than expected. Malik glanced at the clock; it was almost 7. She thought to herself, now is the time, I’ll call him in an hour to wake him up. He needs to get going and find his groom’s suit!
Excited by her wedding dress and the small boxes her mother had placed in the corner of the room as part of her dowry, her legs felt stronger, and she got out of bed. Malik and her family, after several displacements, had been living for some time in one of the classrooms of the Aldahyan School in the Sheikh Radwan neighborhood. Her mother had covered the 6×7 meter room with a few blankets and made a small sleeping area in the corner. They didn’t have much—just a few small boxes of belongings. That day, Malik would take those boxes with her as part of her dowry to her new home with Ahmad’s family in Deir al-Balah.
Almost everyone was awake and excited about the wedding. Her mother once again checked each item. Her father, while putting on his shoes, told the family where he was going: “I’m going to see if I can find some bread. After all, this is Malik’s last day with us, we need to prepare a delicious breakfast for our daughter!”
As Malik chuckled softly at her father’s words, she checked her phone again. This time, she wrote to Ahmad: “Good morning! I noticed you didn’t say good morning or send a message, Mr. Groom!” She was worried; she missed hearing Ahmad’s voice and, using the excuse that he might oversleep and miss his tasks, called him. The phone rang unanswered. It seemed Ahmad wasn’t planning to wake up anytime soon. Her mother came to check on her.
“Did he change his mind?”
“No, we were talking late last night; he’s probably just tired and sleeping!”
Her mother, as if suddenly remembering, raised an eyebrow and said, “Yes, I saw you. You had a blanket over your head and were talking until morning. Aren’t you embarrassed in front of your father!”
Malik changed the subject to calm her mother down: “Mom, Ahmad said he wants to find red roses for me. He knows how much I love roses, and he wants my bridal bouquet to be made of them!”
“Tell him, given our situation, we don’t expect anything from him. You shouldn’t expect anything either. God willing, you’ll be happy together.”
Malik was a second-year physiotherapy student, a 20-year-old girl, and Ahmad was a recent graduate in IT and web development, just turning 24. He had found a job in the market, worked in design, and had taken a week off for their wedding. They had gotten engaged a month ago, but even that short month was enough for Ahmad to win Malik’s heart completely. During these times of war, he had grown so fond of her that it felt as though there were no missiles or impending death lurking around the corner.
It was as if they were living in a romantic movie rather than in Gaza, where the smell of gunpowder and blood filled the air before anything else. Like other young men his age, Ahmad had bought Malik a necklace with the letter ‘A’ and promised that during their time apart, Malik would always wear it around her neck. On Eid al-Fitr, amidst heavy bombardments when no one dared leave their homes, Ahmad had traveled from Deir al-Balah to Khan Younis to surprise Malik.
Malik hadn’t expected Ahmad to come; she prayed he would stay safe indoors and that an Israeli drone wouldn’t target him in the streets or alleys. But when she went to the courtyard to wash clothes, she was shocked to see Ahmad standing behind the classroom door. He held a beautiful gift and was smiling.
“ Eid Mubarak, Miss Malik!”
“Ahmad, are you crazy? Why did you come? It’s dangerous!”
“I couldn’t celebrate Eid without seeing you!”
Malik snapped back to reality and took their ration of canned beans to prepare breakfast. Today, the sound of explosions didn’t scare her as they usually did. Today, she only wanted to live. It was as if all of Gaza had taken on the colors of life. She tried calling Ahmad again; he was such a heavy sleeper! Even from a hundred kilometers away, fear never left her heart. In normal circumstances in Gaza, if someone doesn’t answer their phone once, you’d suspect they’ve become a martyr. But Malik clung to Ahmad’s promise. Last night, while they were talking on the phone, Ahmad had said, “I won’t leave you alone for a moment, Malik!”
The bread in her father’s hands seemed stale, and he himself looked quite worn out. Her mother placed a piece of cheese on the table and complained, “Why did you take so long, old man?” Her father seemed not to hear anything, his eyes darting between Malik and her wedding dress, lost in thought.
Her mother spoke again: “Why aren’t you sitting at the table? We have a lot to do before Ahmad gets here in a few hours!” Her father’s trembling voice replied, “He’s not coming….” Malik’s eyes widened. She got up from the table and knelt in front of her father: “What?”
“The neighbors said their house was bombed last night; it seems they were injured.”
Malik lunged for her phone: “They’re lying, they’re lying! Look, his phone is ringing. If their house had been bombed, do you think his phone would ring…?” Her last words were incoherent. She screamed and spoke at the same time. She ran out of the house, and no one could stop her.
“I’m going to Deir al-Balah; Ahmad is just a heavy sleeper. I’ll wake him up. Today is our wedding day…” She screamed again.
A few shrouds were laid out on the ground. When she reached Ahmad, they opened the shroud for her. She wanted to know how Ahmad had become a martyr. Finally, someone answered: “He was conscious; we thought he would make it to the hospital. He recited the Shahada twice on my lap and passed away a few minutes later.”
Malik refused to accept it: “He’s sleeping! He slept late last night! Look, his face doesn’t even have a scratch. His body doesn’t have a single wound. How can you say he’s a martyr?! His hair is just a bit dusty; it’s okay, I’ll clean it myself. I need to wake him up; he has to put on his groom’s suit.”
It took several hours for Malik to finally understand what had happened. Relatives and guests who had been invited to the wedding arrived dressed in mourning clothes. Malik sat next to her wedding dress, making sure it didn’t wrinkle. She was still waiting for Ahmad. She wouldn’t put down her phone and kept sending messages: “Ahmad, it’s 8 o’clock. Aren’t you coming for me? I miss you. We agreed I’d wear white, and you’d wear black. Do you remember? Now I’m wearing a black shirt, and you’re in a white shroud! Ahmad, I notice you’re not replying to my messages! Wasn’t it a man’s promise? I told you I was scared of the war, and you promised to stay with me. Don’t forget to get me red roses…”
For me, people in Gaza aren’t just numbers that increase or decrease. These numbers have turned our human emotions into emotionless counters amidst this hellish war. But for me, it matters—even the 7,361st person who became a martyr in Gaza—who was he? How did he breathe his last? What were his dreams? What did he love?
I don’t count people by numbers. I want to count them through their stories and narratives. Perhaps these stories will awaken our weary and dormant consciences; more awake than just sympathizing and then returning to our own lives.
That’s why, among the newly announced names of martyrs, amid all those numbers, I sought out Ahmad. When I learned he was a groom-to-be, I wandered through the stories and memories left behind of him on what should have been his wedding day. Among all those who knew him even a little, I searched for traces of his unfulfilled dreams.
I messaged Malik, but I didn’t expect a reply from the newlywed bride who had buried her beloved. I simply pieced together fragments of their conversations and memories, writing their story—a love story that remained unfinished in Gaza.
fars