The Electronic Intifada 24 September 2025
Siham al-Ashi, also known as Soso, was killed by Israel in November last year. (Photo courtesy of the author)
In Nuseirat refugee camp, my home sits at the intersection of two streets: a by-street at the entrance of the house and a main street behind it.
The by-street would often be filled with children — my younger siblings and cousins and neighbors’ kids, most of whom were displaced and living in the six-story building beside us.
The girls would play hajala or hopscotch while the boys would usually play qulul or marbles, trying to knuckle down each other.
These simple games were an attempt to stitch together fragments of normal life, shredded by displacement and horror.
Since April 2024, my family and I started a simple voluntary initiative where we used our solar panels to power a screen in the backyard of our house and display cartoons for the displaced neighboring children.
In May 2024 – when an institution started funding our initiative – we expanded to include psychosocial support for children through joyful activities such as drawing and dancing.
Soso
Every time I passed from the by-street with children there, the children would circle me and ask excitedly whether there would be an activity today or not.
“I want ‘Masha and the Bear’ today, please,” Soso, a 5-year-old girl, would say. She would always ask me to play the famous Russian cartoon whenever we would start an activity.
Her name was Siham al-Ashi; Soso was the pet name I had given her as she would always run toward me, her arms wide open, ready to fold me into a hug.
Her delicate face was always accompanied by a shy, beautiful smile.
Soso had bright brown eyes and her hair was black, most often streaming behind her like a ribbon in the wind.
I often noticed her during the sessions dancing and cheering with her whole being, as if trying to escape the war through joy.
Real Madrid fans
A few meters beyond in the same by-street, I would usually sit with a group of friends on the edge of my house stoop.
Hisham al-Talatine, 21, was one of my close friends.
Hisham and his family lived next door in the same six-story building after being displaced in March 2024 from Gaza City to Nuseirat.
Hisham and I became friends on 30 April 2024 when he came to the door of our house and asked if he could watch the Champions League semifinal between Real Madrid and Bayern Munich.
We watched it together – our friendship grew even vaster as it turned out we both were Real Madrid fans.
Whenever Real Madrid lost, we would sit and complain about every detail. When the team won, we celebrated as though we were the players on the field.
On 1 June 2024, my birthday coincided with Real Madrid lifting the trophy of the Champions League.
The next day, when Hisham and I were at a cafe facing the sea, Hisham handed me a fresh strawberry juice.
“Is that for my birthday or for the champions?” I asked him jokingly.
“This is for the champions – who cares about your birthday?” Hisham replied with a teasing laugh.
He was only joking, far more caught up in Real Madrid’s victory than anything else.
After every Real Madrid match we watched together, Hisham and I would analyze it as though we were part of the team – discussing the coach’s decisions and the players’ substitutions.
With each game, I felt our bond grow stronger.
Hisham and I even shared clothes – he would often come to my house to borrow some.
Whenever I gathered with my friends – where we would debate about football between Real Madrid and Barcelona fans – Hisham would always side with me.
Chess
The by-street wasn’t just filled with children and youth.
Every day, Abu Ahmad Diab, Abu Nahed Halil and his cousin Abu Hadi Halil – displaced men over 50 and displaced in the same nearby building – would gather in the street.
During the cool hours of the day in the late afternoon, they would usually place plastic chairs and gather around a chessboard.
Despite the age gap, joining them was my favorite part of the day. We often played chess until the call to prayer or sometimes until the children’s voices faded into the night.
One day in October 2024, I was hurrying to my tutoring center as a high school student when I passed by Abu Ahmad and Abu Hadi who were in their usual spot, playing chess.
“Come! Let’s see if you’ve learned something new today!” Abu Hadi called out to me.
As Abu Hadi was still learning chess and kept losing, Abu Ahmad teased him: “Right after a clever checkmate? Maybe you should teach yourself first!”
They burst into laughter, and I joined them laughing as I continued my way to the tutoring center.
Apocalypse
On 10 November 2024, at around 1:35 pm, I stepped outside my home.
Children were completely absorbed in their games, and Soso was there, hopping between chalked squares.
A few meters away, Abu Hadi, Abu Nahed and Abu Ahmad huddled around the chessboard.
“Come and see how I’m finally going to beat Abu Ahmad!” Abu Hadi called me with a voice full of playful confidence.
I smiled and was genuinely curious as he had never won a single game before.
But something made me hesitate – some kind of a providence.
For the first time, I didn’t join them and went back inside.
I sat down, scrolling through my phone for a few minutes.
My curiosity tugged at me more to see if Abu Hadi would really manage to defeat Abu Ahmad.
I got up at 1:45 pm and opened the front door.
I headed toward the garden door to open it and go out to the by-street.
But I felt as if everything collapsed – an explosion tore through the street and hurled me back.
A storm of fragments and dust engulfed me, and my eardrums felt as if they had been perforated by the piercing sound.
Chunks of flesh clung to my face and shirt.
Blood splattered across our front door.
I froze.
My arms were trembling – my legs numb.
I couldn’t move. For a moment.
The world went silent – except for the ringing in my ears and the heaviness crushing my chest.
With faltering steps, I tried to open the garden door, but it didn’t budge as it had been twisted and shattered by the blast.
I sprinted back inside the house, turned to the door facing the main street, then stepped outside and headed toward the by-street where we used to gather every day.
The scene was ineffable – horrifying beyond anything words could describe.
Four or five bodies lay motionless on the ground, right in front of our house.
I couldn’t move forward. My knees locked. My voice cracked.
“Ya Allah… Ya Allah,” was all I could cry out.
Dust was all around.
I took a few more steps, and that’s when I saw a little girl, lying on the ground with part of her brain exposed from her head – she was Soso.
I bent down and checked her chest, feeling for her heartbeat with shaky hands.
She was still breathing, her pulse faint.
Some people screamed around me: “Leave her!” “Cover the body!”
I couldn’t. All I was thinking about was saving Soso.
I picked her up in my arms and hurried a few steps toward the main street, desperate to find any transportation to take her to the hospital.
Just then, two people with a motorcycle stopped, took Soso and rushed her to Al-Awda Hospital Nuseirat.
I returned to the site of the incident.
The dust had settled, and I saw the full picture of the street – it transformed into something I still cannot name.
Beheaded and torn bodies were scattered around.
I couldn’t recognize a single face. Not even one.
Then I saw a body – wearing a navy blue T-shirt I knew very well. It was mine.
Only then did I realize it was Hisham’s body.
He had been killed alongside Abu Hadi and Abu Ahmad.
Abu Nahed was severely injured and succumbed to his wounds the next day.
Soso went into clinical death and passed away two days later, on 12 November.
The smell of death in Gaza became familiar – almost routine.
The street that was once full of life now turned into a ghost street.
That airstrike didn’t kill me but it destroyed something inside.
It wiped out all of the vibes that filled the place.
From that moment on, I started avoiding walking through that road – not out of fear, but because I don’t want to relive that terrible scene again.
It is a mental wound that I will carry for the rest of my life.
A few moments separated me from death, but maybe God chose me to live and tell the story of my friends and neighbors.
Ahmad Abu Shawish is a journalist and an activist in Gaza.
