The Electronic Intifada 11 February 2025
Hani Hussein, the author’s father, was killed in an Israeli attack on Bureij refugee camp in September 2024.
I grew up in the Bureij refugee camp in central Gaza, in a small and modest home filled with warmth and love.
On the ground floor of our building, my father ran a pet shop that specialized in birds. My father was a passionate bird enthusiast since childhood, and in his shop he showcased all kinds of them: parrots, canaries, finches and lovebirds.
He had a fondness for parrots, especially. He loved how intelligent they are; how they can communicate and interact with humans.
We always kept a few birds in our home above the shop, and their morning songs brought tranquility to the always busy space, filled with my mother and all six of my siblings: Touline, Shahd, Huzaifah, Muhammad, Jihad and Khaled.
Hani Muhammad Khalil Hussein, my father, was my refuge, my sanctuary. He said that birds helped teach him patience and unconditional love, and he taught me those same things.
Displacement and survival
On 2 November 2023, our home was partially destroyed by an Israeli airstrike. We counted six powerful explosions in our neighborhood that day. Our windows were shattered, our doors blown out. Two of my brothers were injured, but we all survived, and we were able to stay in our home.
But during the Israeli ground invasion the next month, we were forcibly displaced to Rafah. My father took with us all the birds he could. When we returned on 5 May 2024, however, we found what looked like the scene of an explosion at the door of the shop. All the birds had been killed.
We lived in our home, even though it was not in the best condition.
Then, on the morning of 30 September 2024, my father woke up praying for deliverance from the hell we had lived in for the past year. His gaze lingered on the sky, as though he could see the fate it held for us.
Over the past year, my father had suffered a great deal. He had a chronic bacterial infection that weakened his immune system and caused severe joint pain. Yet he hid his pain behind his smile and would always say: “My pain doesn’t compare to the happiness I wish for you.”
He remained steadfast and compassionate to everyone around him. But I could see the profound anxiety in his eyes as he asked me that day, “When will this war end? Will we ever live in peace?”
I didn’t realize these would be among his last words to me.
Israeli attack
My father had gone to his shop beneath our house that morning with three of my siblings. I was taking an exam online, sitting by my window. I heard the sound of planes and then my father screaming for everyone to take cover.
My siblings were able to run to safety, but my father wasn’t.
Moments later, a missile struck our street.
When the planes had passed, I ran outside and was met with a scene of blood and debris scattered everywhere. My younger brother Jihad screamed out that our father had been martyred.
I approached what remained of my father and was horrified to see that the attack had disfigured him. It was no longer the face of the father I knew.
No graduation celebration
My father and I would often discuss plans for my future graduation celebration. That date was still far off, as I was a junior at the Islamic University of Gaza in October 2023, with just one more year to go until I obtained my degree in English literature with a minor in translation. But we talked about the guest list and potential gifts.
He spoke of my future with excitement, and he would always call me after my exams, his concern palpable.
After October 2023, my university studies were postponed for months, but I’m now taking online university courses. I save the video lectures on my phone, complete assignments using recycled paper, and hold on to my father’s words that education is my weapon.
I am aware, though, that perhaps there will be no graduation ceremony. At least, it will not be the joyful ceremony that my father and I had planned.
He longed to see me as the happiest person in the world, and he celebrated my achievements as if they were his own. I can still hear his voice inside me.
Shaimaa Hussein is a freelance writer in Gaza.
