When the ceasefire was announced in January 2025, I told my friend Abubaker Abed that I was packing my things and planning to come for a short visit from Amman to Gaza.

He thought I was joking. But I wasn’t. I told him I meant it – I wanted to come home to Gaza as soon as the border was open.

He told me not to. He reminded me I was receiving chemotherapy and said he was afraid I might get exhausted – or worse, get stuck in Gaza and lose access to treatment.

Then he said jokingly, “Who knows, Khaled, maybe it will be me who one day will come to Amman and visit you.”

Knowing Abubaker

I met Abubaker during my freshman year at the Islamic University of Gaza in 2021. His academic sharpness was immediately apparent.

He was always attentive in class, inquisitive and eagerly questioned everything. He wanted to understand every detail, every nuance, regardless of the subject matter.

He spoke English fluently – meticulously, even – with a British accent so polished I assumed he was from the UK.

We weren’t close friends. But his presence was impossible to miss.

I wasn’t really friends with anyone during my first year. Some of my fellow students would give me that look – the kind that made it clear I was from Jabaliya refugee camp while they were from Gaza City.

Being from Jabaliya – a place often stereotyped for its rural and modest roots – meant being looked down on, and sometimes belittled, by other students.

They’d even mock the Jabaliyan dialect in front of me, elongating certain syllables, especially at the end of words.

But I was also afraid that Abubaker might turn out to be another obstacle in my way – another competitor for being the valedictorian in our batch.

How foolish I was for thinking so.

From refugee camps

Years passed, and at the end of my third year, I was facing a registration issue and went to the fourth floor of the administrative building on campus.

The professor I had come to for help was on a call, so he asked me to take a seat and wait in the hallway.

I stepped out and found Abubaker already there.

The long metal bench had three seats. He was sitting on the far left, so I took the far right, trying to avoid conversation.

But Abubaker leaned in and asked why I was there. He said he was also dealing with an issue, though I don’t remember what it was.

The conversation went on, and he mentioned he was from Deir al-Balah – another refugee camp, just like Jabaliya.

I opened up. I told him how some students looked at me differently and sometimes mocked the way I spoke.

He told me not to let those people get to me – that what defines a person isn’t where they come from or how they speak, but their decency and values. He said that everything a person becomes is, in one way or another, a reflection of the place that shaped them – and that we don’t rise despite where we come from, but because of it.

“Always be proud you’re from Jabaliya refugee camp, Khaled,” he told me.

Around that time, I was about to publish my second article with The Electronic Intifada – about how people with disabilities cope during Israeli attacks on Gaza. I asked for my bio line to be updated to: “Khaled El-Hissy is a journalist from Jabaliya in the Gaza Strip.”

I began seeing myself differently – and stopped giving weight to how a small number of people might look at me.

More importantly, I started seeing Abubaker differently. I started spending more time with him in Deir al-Balah – often alongside our mutual friend Alhassan Matar – and a quiet friendship began to grow.

“He has tested you twice”

Within days of the genocide erupting, I was diagnosed with blood cancer.

Abubaker called me and reminded me that Allah is the best of planners.

“When Allah loves someone,” he said, “he tests them with hardship. Just imagine how much Allah must love you, Khaled – he has tested you twice: with war and now with illness.”

His words calmed something in me. I began to see my cancer differently – no longer as a burden, necessarily, but as a door that had opened countless opportunities. I even started calling it a blessing.

On 11 December 2023, I received the news that Israel had killed Alhassan, along with members of his family.

I didn’t know how to feel or react. I messaged Abubaker to offer my condolences then found myself scrolling through my conversations with Alhassan, pausing on the photos we had taken together.

Alhassan was one of the most decent and generous friends I had ever known.

Abubaker and I stayed in touch throughout the genocide.

Sometimes he would check on me. Other times I would check on him. We chatted on WhatsApp about new story ideas.

I would write a pitch and send it to him to review. Abubaker would shorten it and send it back. He would then tease me and challenge me to be even more succinct, to further shorten the pitch.

In July 2024, I vented to Abubaker about the pain of the chemotherapy, how my whole body was vibrating and trembling.

“Alhamdulilah I’m able to receive this chemotherapy, as other cancer patients can’t receive it,” I wrote.

Abubaker told me that I should write about this. I did.

He sent me a video of the three of us – him, Alhassan and me – and told me how much he missed Alhassan. I told him I felt the same.

Other times he would send me photos of himself in a press vest, asking how he looked, or a video of himself chopping vegetables for a quick meal.

Once, he insisted that I be the one to write a short biography – just two paragraphs – for his new role as a correspondent. I told him that someone like him couldn’t possibly be summed up in two paragraphs.

He replied that “it would be an honor to have you write something for my new career.”

On 17 January 2025, with a possible ceasefire in Gaza set to be implemented two days later, I was consumed with worry for Abubaker. Whenever I saw news of an airstrike in Deir al-Balah, I would rush to message him on WhatsApp.

If the status of a sent message remained undelivered, likely due to a lost internet connection, I would call his number internationally.

Abubaker would eventually answer and reassure me that everything was fine, alhamdulilah.

Meeting in Amman

On 17 April 2025, my sleep was fitful as my thoughts kept returning to my cousin Wasim El-Hissy, 10, who had been killed the day before when Israel bombed my cousins’ family home in Jabaliya.

Mohaned, 5, Khaola, 3, and Wasim were the children of my cousin Hamoda – a pet name for Muhammad. Mayar, just 2 months old, was the only daughter of my cousin Haitham.

Israel killed them in an instant. My cousins later collected the remains of one of the children’s intestines from a tree.

After countless attempts at falling asleep – tossing in bed, staring at the ceiling, checking the time on my phone, moving to the couch then back to bed again – I still couldn’t quiet the jumble of thoughts crowding my mind.

I was already exhausted. Two days earlier I had taken a dose of chemotherapy medication, and the side effects were brutal.

I drifted off eventually, only to be woken at exactly 8:45 am by two calls from a Jordanian number I didn’t recognize.

Half-asleep, I squinted at the screen and muttered to myself, “Who’s calling at this hour?”

I didn’t answer. I went back to sleep.

I woke up around noon and decided to grab a falafel sandwich with some fava beans for breakfast from a nearby shop.

At 1:20 pm, while I was on my way, Abubaker messaged me: “Call me now, immediately!”

I thought something might have happened to him – or that he wanted to show me the field where he was working as a correspondent at Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, as he often did.

I tried calling, but the line didn’t go through. A moment later, he called me instead.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I’m fine – but it’s you who I should ask ‘how are you’!” I replied.

“I want to tell you something, but promise me you’ll keep it a secret. Promise me,” Abubaker said.

“I promise,” I replied.

“I’m in Amman.”

“You’re joking, ya rajil,” I said, using the Arabic word for “man,” thinking he was messing with me.

“Wallahi, I’m not joking,” he said, swearing by God. “I’m really in Amman.”

I was sitting in the front seat of a taxi, and I froze, staring ahead at the road. Three tears rolled down my cheeks. A fourth filled my left eye and rested on the edge of my eyelid.

I didn’t wipe them. I didn’t move. I had no words – no idea how to respond.

Then Abubaker asked, “When can you come to meet me?”

I closed both eyes, letting that fourth tear fall.

“Stop here. Stop here, please,” I said softly to the driver.

I replied to Abubaker, “‘When can I?’ What kind of question is that! I’m coming now – right now – to see you!”

I gave the driver the new location, and he headed there.

In the room

Minutes later, I was standing outside Abubaker’s room.

I folded my arms and stared at the dark brown door. I didn’t move for two or three minutes.

A flood of memories ran through my mind – how we first met, that afternoon outside the administrative office, our quiet talks.

I thought of Alhassan, may he rest in peace, and how the three of us used to sit together, how his presence always brought ease.

“Is this really happening?” I asked myself.

“Is this real?” I asked again, just as Abubaker opened the door.

I moved toward him and we embraced.

“Who is the one who came all the way to Amman to see you?” he said, still holding me.

I didn’t say a word. I just kept stroking his back and shoulders, needing that moment to feel real – to believe it was truly him.

“I told you I’d come to Amman and see you. What, did you think I was joking?” he said, smiling.

I froze once more as I sat on the edge of the bed. I couldn’t stop watching him as he moved around the room, offering me a banana and a sandwich someone had brought him.

“Are you hungry? Khaled – walak I’m talking to you. What, are you deaf now?” he said.

I smiled and said no, reassuring myself that this was real – Abubaker was real.

Still, he insisted I take the sandwich and the banana. And I did.

Then he told me why he had left – and how he had managed to leave the Strip. I listened.

Luxury of running water

At some point, he mentioned that it was him who had called me at 8:45 am, right after he arrived in Amman.

I explained to him why I hadn’t answered, all while silently scolding myself for missing the call.

Then he told me he needed to pray Dhuhr and make wudu – the Islamic cleansing ritual performed before prayer.

He rolled up his sleeves and, just before turning on the tap, paused.

“You know, Khaled, I lived 559 days under the genocide,” he said. “Even the faint buzz of the refrigerator in my room reminds me of the zananah drones. It still haunts me. I’m not used to this kind of silence.”

He opened the tap gently, letting only a thin stream of water flow – careful not to let it pour too fast. As he began performing wudu, he continued: “This water, running so freely from the tap – it feels like a luxury. I never imagined I’d live to see this. I have malnutrition, serious health issues. When I arrived here, they offered me all kinds of food.”

He paused for a moment, then added, “But there’s something more important I want to tell you.”

I leaned my right shoulder against the doorframe, folded my arms, focused in and told him, “Go on. I’m all ears.”

He said, “In just three hours, I experienced all the luxuries that anyone in Gaza might be dreaming of right now. But I didn’t feel any real difference. No real relief. In fact, I felt guilty – because my family and my people are still there, starving and being killed day and night. Allah knows I only left because my family insisted, and because of my medical condition.”

He gestured toward the medications and vitamins lined up beside him.

“But Khaled,” he continued, “do you know what truly brought me relief? That short journey through our land – through Palestine. Seeing it for the first time in my life. That journey alone was enough to ease so much of the pain I carry from Gaza.”

He paused, his voice firm.

“I’d give everything up just to take that journey again. To see Palestine again. Our country is the most beautiful in the world – and that’s exactly why they’ve stolen it.”

He finished his wudu then placed his hand on my right shoulder and said:

“I’m telling you, Khaled – once I finish my treatment here, I’m going back to Gaza. We all need to go back. Our country needs us.”

I cut in, “Me too. As soon as I finish my treatment, I’m going back – just like you. Gaza needs us and –”

“Not just Gaza, Khaled,” he smiled, gently correcting me. “All of Palestine needs us.”

He looked at me, his voice steady.

“We, the youth, are the ones who will liberate this land. No one else will do it for us. It’s on us to free Palestine.”

Khaled El-Hissy is a journalist from Jabaliya in the Gaza Strip.

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• Gaza genocide
• friendship
• Jabaliya
• Deir al-Balah
• Islamic University of Gaza

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