Ahmed Abu Aziz was more than a colleague. He was a brother and friend

I was sitting at the bedside of my mother in Emek hospital in Afula town in northern Israel, when I got a message saying my friend and colleague Ahmed Abu Aziz might have been among the 22 Palestinians killed by Israel in the yard of Nasser Hospital in Gaza.

I went into shock. We had just been in touch the day before. I called Ahmed’s number, hoping against hope he would pick up. A friend of his answered his mobile. I asked him if Ahmed was alive. He said he might have been killed, but he would check when he returned to the hospital.

“I am on my way to bury my other friends,” he said. Five minutes passed before Ahmed’s death was confirmed. It was a picture of his body, surrounded by his wife and mother, sent to me on WhatsApp.

We had never met, but we had been in touch with each other every day for the last 22 months, and had grown to know each other.

Ahmed would message or call every morning and update me with the latest news. He would religiously send every detail of each death, the names killed, the footage.

In the last year, a distinctive element of doubt was embedded in each text from Ahmed. They ended with the same three words: “Are you interested?”

Mass death in Gaza had become the new norm, and the lack of interest of the international media made Ahmed – and every journalist trying to operate there – unsure if anyone out there was really interested any more.

A few months ago, I asked him to send me a quote about a journalist colleague who was killed. He asked me: “What will you write about me when I die?”

I told him he would not die and changed the subject.

Strong personal bonds

I was his bureau chief, at least as far as Middle East Eye was concerned. To perform that function when the life of my colleagues can end at any minute is to reshape my relationship with the team on the ground.

They become far more than freelancers pitching stories. They are brothers and sisters that I check on every day, and they on me. I know how they sleep, if they have found something to eat. We speak about details that get buried under the headlines.

We have learned to look after each other and build strong personal bonds. It’s the only thing to lean on when the free world abandons any effort to stop Israel committing genocide.

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A few days ago, I had to fly back from London to be with my mother after getting a message from my family saying that she was near death.

Nothing prepares you for the loss of a parent. Their imminent death provokes the pain of belonging, especially at a time when my people are exposed to genocide.

I didn’t have the chance to adjust from the normal world in which I had lived for a while in London, back to the one I live in as a Palestinian in Israel. In London, I could move from one place to another without going through roadblocks or seeing people with guns.  I could speak Arabic without having anyone staring at me.

Whom, I wonder, does Israel want to defeat? Is it those little faces and hands of starving children holding pots to get food?

Ahmed sensed something was wrong. He texted me on Saturday while I was on my way back. He said he felt I was going through something, but I did not want to tell him about the condition of my mother.

We Palestinians who live outside of Gaza feel that our pain and problems are small compared to what is happening there. So we feel ashamed to even complain about checkpoints, settler violence and anything personal.

How could I tell Ahmed about my fear of losing my mother, while he lost half of his family and friends – and couldn’t even say goodbye to them or grieve?

In the hospital, Jewish and Palestinian citizens of Israel lay side by side. But that is where co-existence ends. A big Star of David flag dominates the wall on the ward. Many visitors carry guns, their own private weapons.

Afula is a small Israeli town, known as a hotbed of the extreme right. The mayor of Afula took part in a demonstration against the sale of a house to an Arab family. Among the demonstrators, who waved the flag of the Lehava organisation, were also the deputy mayor, Shlomo Malihi, and members of the city council.

Destruction of all moral values

Every morning when you arrive at the hospital and pass the security check, you cannot miss more than 100 stickers with the faces of soldiers killed in Gaza. There are stickers with the phrase “We will win” or “With God’s help we will win”.

Whom, I wonder, does Israel want to defeat?

Is it the 28-year-old Ahmed who holds his camera and dreams about a better life? Or Mariam Abu Dagga, who lost her mother in the war and hoped to see her only son graduating?

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Or is it those little faces and hands of starving children holding pots to get food?

This genocide is not only destroying the fabric of our Palestinian life. It is destroying the souls of Israelis too.

The wilful demolition of Gaza is a reflection of the destruction of all moral values in Israeli society. The souls of soldiers are dying as they kill women and children queuing at the aid points.

I always think about what is going on in the head of an Israeli soldier as he aims at children waiting at the aid points. What kind of father will he be, and what kind of society is Israel building?

I woke up at 5am to the loud noise of sirens. At first, I thought I was still in London, and it must be the sound of an ambulance. But then I realised I was back in Israel, and it was an incoming rocket from Yemen.

Was another round of war with Iran about to start, and how would I reach my mother every day?

I couldn’t go to sleep. What about my mother, Iran, Ahmed and Gaza?

The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Eye.