The Electronic Intifada 27 November 2024
My cousin Mahmoud, 16, went missing this past October from al-Mawasi.
This past October, my cousin Mahmoud, the son of my aunt Samah, went missing from al-Mawasi in Khan Younis in southern Gaza. He is 16 and has autism.
It all started the morning of 6 October, with a call from a relative. Samah was told that her mother’s health had suddenly deteriorated and that she had been rushed to the hospital after having a heart attack.
My aunt felt she had no choice but to go and check on her mother’s condition. She left Mahmoud with his 13-year-old brother Maher and urged him not to leave Mahmoud alone until she returned.
Maher briefly stepped out to buy essentials for his other siblings, unaware that his short absence would be enough for Mahmoud to slip away into the unknown.
Since that day, Mahmoud hasn’t returned. He vanished, as if swallowed by the void.
The family has exhausted every possible means to find him: They circulated his picture on social media, friends and neighbors shared it, and my aunt’s husband took to the streets daily, calling out his name through a megaphone, hoping that a familiar voice might guide him back.
But there was only silence.
Dark thoughts rising
Every day, more dark thoughts creep into my mind and those of Mahmoud’s other loved ones. With the Israeli genocide raging and soldiers stationed along the dangerous Netzarim and Philadelphi routes, our worry deepens. Those areas are no longer merely a risk, they are deadly.
After weeks, and with no sign of Mahmoud, we fear the worst: that he may have wandered too close to one of those perilous areas, lost and confused, and been unable to turn back.
Even our efforts to search for him are limited. The family can only travel so far. Every day is a reminder of the countless dangers that threaten anyone who ventures too far, and the terrifying reality that Mahmoud could have unknowingly entered those forbidden zones.
This is the thought that tortures us the most, one of many that linger in our minds every waking moment.
Caring for Mahmoud
Despite the financial strain, my aunt was able to rent a small apartment for her and her children after they were displaced from al-Nasr in northern Gaza. The Israeli army had destroyed their home in an airstrike, and they had no choice but to go south.
She knew that a tent would not be suitable for Mahmoud’s condition, especially since he endures occasional seizures that demand close monitoring and constant care.
But after only two months in an apartment the landlord doubled the rent to an amount that was impossible for my aunt to pay amid the chaos and insecurity surrounding them. With heavy hearts, she and Mahmoud moved into a tent in al-Mawasi, knowing that this decision would intensify her suffering and Mahmoud’s even more.
Mahmoud’s days were long and uneventful, spent mostly staring into the distance or playing with a few toys that my aunt had managed to bring when they were displaced.
My aunt scarcely left the tent, fearing that Mahmoud might wander off, unable to find his way back, as he struggles to understand distances and recognizes people only through his mother’s presence or signals. If she is not there to indicate that the person approaching is familiar or safe, Mahmoud becomes confused or frightened.
Despite the increasing frequency of his seizures, my aunt never ceased to care for him with unfaltering patience and tenderness.
A week after Mahmoud went missing, my mom visited my aunt in her tent. She was sitting on the ground, her eyes tired and vacant.
My aunt looked at her and said, “The thoughts are wearing me down. If only I knew if he’s alive or dead. If he’s dead, let me bury him, may God have mercy on him. But this torment of not knowing, it’s killing me.”
Her words fell heavy, draining what remained of her strength – and mine, too. Her pain made me feel helpless in the face of her suffering.
How I wished I could console my aunt with something, to tell her that her son had been found, alive or dead. I want to bring an end to the agony that consumes her.
We cling to hope, though it grows thin; we hold on to faith amid the pain, praying that Mahmoud will return to us, that his parents’ hearts will find peace and that these wounds, opened by war and deepened by time, will some day heal.
We can’t stop hoping.
Nour Abu Dan is a writer in Gaza.
