The Electronic Intifada 22 March 2025
Anwar Majdalawi
My uncle Anwar was deeply connected to his Beit Lahiya neighborhood and to the garden he cultivated there. From a young age, Anwar was drawn to trees and plants, dedicating himself to nurturing flowers and greenery. His love for nature became a defining part of his life.
When his siblings pleaded with him, their mother and his wife to evacuate with them after the Israeli ground invasion of northern Gaza that began in October 2024, their identical responses were: “If I am to die, I will die here on my land. Leaving the north would feel like dying in the south.”
Anwar had grown up before his time. He lost his father to a long battle with cancer when he was in his early teens. Anwar had to take on the responsibility of providing for his family at a young age. With five sisters and two brothers, all younger, depending on him, he started selling candies and chocolates. Later, he worked in construction to earn a better income.
As I grew up, I would see Anwar frequently, especially during special occasions, including Ramadan, Eid al-Adha and Eid al-Fitr, the main holidays.
He had a deep affection for my family. Anwar and his wife had tried unsuccessfully to have children, even undergoing numerous fertility treatments. Thus, I sense he viewed all children in his extended family as his own.
On 8 December 2024, at around 2 pm, I was walking home – we had been displaced to the Al-Nasr area of Gaza City at this point – after studying for my master’s degree in comparative literature. There were no taxis available, with no fuel to run them. When I was just meters away from the municipality park, where many Gaza City residents pre-genocide used to go to breathe fresh air and escape the overwhelming stress and turbulence of the city, I was suddenly thrown into the air, tumbling over and over, until everything went blank.
I must have briefly lost consciousness. When I regained awareness, the scene around me was hauntingly still. There were no sounds, no cries and no emergency responders or anyone close by to offer help.
Dealing with being attacked
Pain radiated from every part of my body. As I turned, I realized I was close to the doorway of an old building, surrounded by other people also on the ground. Some of those alive seemed equally bewildered.
The acrid stench of rocket smoke filled the air, searing my throat and causing me to cough uncontrollably. I slowly struggled to my feet, silently thanking God for sparing my life.
Looking around at those near me on the ground, I felt ashamed to complain or acknowledge my own pain. Determined to help, I focused on the injured. I assisted a child, getting him to an ambulance as he cried out, “My foot is gone! My foot is gone!”
The scene shattered me to my core.
The ambulance crew gathered the injured and rushed them to Al-Ahli Arab Hospital, prioritizing those who still seemed to have a chance of survival.
Sadly, there was nothing more that could be done for the martyrs. The process of identifying them began, with most being recognized by relatives; some of whom were also on the scene and injured themselves.
However, there was one person who couldn’t be identified at first. I overheard someone say: “Take this one to the horse-drawn cart and send him to the hospital. Register him as unidentified until someone comes to recognize him.”
That sentence pierced my heart, filling me with anger and sorrow over the man’s fate. Driven by curiosity, I went to see who it was – and then came the huge shock: It was Uncle Anwar.
Tears streamed down my face – a flood of denial, fear, terror and overwhelming shock at the scene before me. Anwar’s body lay motionless on the ground, surrounded by a pool of blood. His chest was bloodied; but I couldn’t determine exactly where the injury was.
A shiver ran through me, and in that moment, I wished for nothing more than to vanish, even to die.
Harbinger
The paramedics quickly surrounded me, trying to calm me down. They offered water and gently asked about my relation with the victim and if I knew his full name.
Choking back tears, I told them he was a relative on my mother’s side and that his name was Anwar Majdalawi.
Then came their next request, one that crushed me further: They asked me to inform his family of his martyrdom.
It felt as though the weight of the entire world had been placed on my shoulders.
How could I break the hearts of those who loved Anwar most?
I suddenly realized that my phone wasn’t with me. Panicking, I began rummaging through my belongings until I found my bag and phone near the spot where the airstrike had hit. The phone had a few scratches, just like me, and my laptop was damaged but still usable.I immediately called a cousin who was closer to Anwar and asked him to come quickly without explaining why.
When he arrived and saw my disheveled state, his expression shifted to one of deep concern. He asked what had happened, and I broke the devastating news that Anwar had been martyred and taken to a hospital. Though shaken, he managed to gather himself enough to support me. On the way to my house, he called his brother to inform him about Anwar’s death and asked him to notify the rest of the family and to go to the hospital.
By the time I got home I was shattered.
I spent the rest of the day crying, consumed by thoughts of Uncle Anwar, remembering his kindness and love for plants and all things horticultural.
I struggled to grasp the reality of what had happened. Even now, I am plagued by harrowing nightmares of Anwar’s death that jolt me awake.
In light of everything he endured, I made a heartfelt promise never to forget him in my prayers and duaa – supplication – especially since he had no children to keep his memory alive.
I also resolved to write his story, ensuring that he would not be reduced to another statistic. I want him to be remembered as what he was: a man whose life mattered to all who loved him
Asil Almanssi is a writer in Gaza.
