The Electronic Intifada 15 July 2024
A woman raises her hands to the sky in Rafah after yet another Israeli bombing, this one in March.
APA imagesOn 22 December 2023, I was lying on my bed when the evening was shattered by a missile setting off an earth-shaking explosion, its force reverberating through my chest, making my heart beat faster.
But why? It wasn’t the first one; the war had been going on for about three months.
That afternoon, my mother had yelled for me to come and sit with her. I knew she was afraid of losing one of us. She had been stuck in Egypt for the first two months of the war. Her vacation turned into a nightmare, and, though she made it home, her fear only grew.
I had been talking with my friend Eman about this. She had laughed, saying fear was normal until a person gets used to the situation.
With her words in mind, I turned my attention to my anxious mother, hoping to ease her tension by asking about her adventures in Egypt.
The next morning, we woke up and had breakfast. Afterward, my father got his clothes and went out. It was about 7 am, too early to go anywhere. I didn’t think much of it, assuming he had work.
Someone knocked on the door. From his voice, I knew it was my father’s friend. He asked my brother if my father was in the hospital with Abd al-Rahman, another close friend. I rushed to the kitchen to tell my mother. I felt she knew something I didn’t.
I insisted I be told what was going on.
“Pray for Eman,” my mother uttered softly.
“What happened to Eman?” I asked as every part of me refused to understand what that meant.
“Eman was killed while praying al-Maghrib yesterday evening,” my mother said.
“Are you kidding me? Just yesterday, we were chatting and laughing together, ” I exclaimed.
As my mother began to weep, the stark reality of her words hit me. I wished I had died before having to hear such news.
I ran to my room, opening my last chat with Eman on social media.
My favorite friend
Was that huge explosion yesterday the one that killed my best friend, Eman?
Did my heart beat faster because I felt something had happened?
Did you feel pain, Eman, or did you sleep in peace?
Eman Qamom was my favorite friend. Her parents were friends with my family before we were born. We grew up side by side; she is a year younger than I am.
Eman was the quietest, kindest and sweetest girl you could ever meet.
She hoped to be a children’s doctor because she loved kids as I do. Together, we experienced everything — laughter and tears, shopping sprees, nighttime strolls and shared dreams.
Almost every happy memory I have is tied to her.
Every photo on my phone reminds me of Eman.
Eman, I was later told, had welcomed her aunt and then went to pray al-Maghrib. She promised her aunt she would make tea and biscuits after she finished.
While prostrating, a bomb hit a neighbor’s apartment and the wall of the room Eman was praying in collapsed on her. Her mother, who was also praying in the same room, was injured. Eman, absorbed in prayer, was killed.
I dreamed of Eman on the first night after her martyrdom.
In my dream, we were in the elevator at the university we attended, carrying boxes and laughing. Suddenly, she stopped the elevator and stepped out. I asked her if she would leave me alone.
“No, I have to go alone, and you must stay here,” Eman said. Then she walked away and disappeared very quietly.
Nostalgia weaves through me for the souls departed, their faces snatched away by death
The last time I saw her
Eman, her mother and her sister visited us 10 days before she died. They had come to talk to my mother after her journey in Egypt.
I remember every word and reaction Eman made.
“I don’t want to be killed and forgotten, to be buried in some way,” Eman said while we were talking about how people were being killed.
My dear Eman, I hope you have found peace in a better place. We will never forget you.
Eman told me: “Shahd, when this war ends, let’s travel with our families on a vacation like your mother’s.”
Now, how can I travel without you, Eman?
At the end of the visit to our home, she hugged me tightly.
I didn’t know it would be the last hug.
My mother had thanked God for seeing them again in Gaza because she was afraid something bad might happen in their building while she was in Egypt.
What she feared happened.
Visiting Eman’s house
It took me two months after Eman had been killed to find the courage to visit her family’s home.
When we knocked on the door, her mother opened. My gaze darted around, expecting to find Eman, but she wasn’t there. As we sat with her mother, I could almost feel Eman’s soul enveloping us, as though she were sharing the conversation.
Our tears flowed unabated, to her now enduring absence. As I looked around the room where she was killed, I was confronted with the sight of Eman’s blood staining the walls. It felt as if an oppressive force gripped my chest, choking me with a profound sense of loss and anguish.
Eman’s mother gave me some of her daughter’s favorite things: a jacket, watch, necklace, earrings, ring and her favorite novel.
Wherever I go, Eman and her possessions will be kept by my heart.
I will always share the story about her, our friendship and her dreams.
Eman was a person with a good, interesting life to live; she was not just a number.
I hope you are in a better place, Eman.
I love you.
I miss you.
Rest in power, my sweetheart.
Shahd Ahmad Alnaami is a student and writer from Gaza Strip.
