Upstairs in my father’s house in Gaza’s Tel al-Sultan neighbourhood, an Israeli-designated “safe zone” west of Rafah city, I remember seeing my son, Abdullah, just a few months before his 13th birthday.
On that day in late 2023, not long after the war erupted, he was in the kitchen making a cup of tea. In his hand was a packet of salted biscuits he had just bought from a local shop.
He said to me: “Dad, do you want to share it?” I replied: “Thanks, my love. I prefer sweet biscuits in the morning.”
“But you’ll like these,” he said. “Try one.”
I took a piece from him. “You’re right.” He told me to let him know when I wanted more, and he’d get me some from the shop.
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The night before, Abdullah had gone to bed hungry. Bread and flour had been cut off from the markets after Israel’s defence minister ordered a complete blockade of Gaza, prohibiting the entry of food, fuel and all goods.
That night, we held a large family gathering with more than 15 children, and divided two loaves of bread among them. I gave a small piece to Abdullah and told him to share it with his sister, Batoul. But the scrap of bread did not satisfy their hunger, so Abdullah woke up early the next morning and headed to the shop to buy whatever food he could find.
Darkness and silence
I remember sitting in the living room with my three children, drinking tea. Afterwards, Abdullah told me he was going to a nearby school to switch places with his cousin, Bara, who had been staying there to wait for the family’s phones to charge; it was one of the few spots where this could be done via solar panels, after Israel cut off power to Gaza.
I can recall the exact moment it happened: my son Mohammed and my daughter Batoul were sitting to my right, and Abdullah was standing in front of me, ready to leave the house.
Then I lost consciousness, and everything went dark. When I opened my eyes – I’m not sure if only a few minutes had passed, or longer – I saw Mohammed and Batoul screaming and pointing at Abdullah, who was lying on the ground.
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In that moment, I didn’t hear anything; it was just silence and as it turned out I lost my ability to hear due to the strike. I saw that the walls of the house had collapsed, and bodies were lying in front of me. Outside, people had gathered. We signalled to them to come and save us from the rubble.
One of them carried me down the destroyed stairs and outside. I motioned with my hands for them to go back up and retrieve the injured children.
At a medical point near our house, I received first aid, and was then transported by ambulance to Nasser Hospital in Khan Younis. My brother, who was unharmed, tried to reassure me that the children’s injuries were not serious, but I kept interrupting him: “What about Abdullah?”
Aboud thought that this world was a safe place, and that his father was strong enough to protect him. But the monster of death kidnapped my son from my arms
On the hospital bed, the details became clearer. Our house had been hit by a missile dropped from an Israeli fighter jet. It had exploded less than two metres from where we were sitting.
Miraculously, my children and I had survived, although my stepmother, two aunts, a cousin and a neighbour were killed instantly. I couldn’t walk, and my body was covered in burns. I was told that Abdullah and my nine-year-old niece, Jude, were in intensive care, and their lives were in danger.
On the morning of 26 October 2023, my brother and brother-in-law, who were with me at the hospital, told me the news I had been expecting: “May God multiple your reward for the loss of your son Abdullah. May He grant your heart patience.”
I stared at the ceiling and prayed in my heart that God would grant me patience and peace.
After a brief silence, they asked whether I’d like them to bring me a wheelchair so I could see him one last time. They told me that Abdullah’s body was covered in burns, his skull fractured. I hesitated for a moment, then decided: “I want to keep his beautiful face in my memory. This body is only a garment that wears out – what matters is that his soul is eternal.”
I told them to go to his funeral. I remained in my bed, closed my eyes and covered my face.
The next day, Jude also passed away.
Angel on Earth
Abdullah came into my life like a gentle breeze – an angel sent to Earth, bearing a message of peace and purity, who then quickly returned to his true home of eternal peace.
In the last two days before the attack, I took him with me to our apartment in the city of Hamad. We had lunch together, sharing one plate. He ate a little, then got up.
“Finish your food, Aboud,” I said, using an affectionate nickname for my son.
He replied: “I’ve had enough – this is for you, Baba.”
After lunch, I told him: “Go down and play with your peers.” He left for a short time and then came back up. I asked him: “Why didn’t you play, Aboud?” He replied that he just wanted to sit quietly at home.
The next day, I asked him in the morning: “What would you like for breakfast, Aboud?”
“Whatever you like, Baba,” he replied. I told him we had many options: cheese, beans, eggs, whatever he would like. He answered: “You choose what you like. I’m fine with it.”
Seven days before the attack, I was in my apartment, and Aboud was at his grandfather’s house in Rafah. I told him over the phone that a money transfer I had been expecting had been delayed.
He replied: “Baba, I’ve saved 50 shekels ($15) in my piggybank. I’ll bring it to you now so you can use it.” I didn’t take his money in the end, but he didn’t stop insisting until I promised I would ask for it in the future if needed.
Aboud had a generous soul. His kind heart found happiness in giving. He always sensed how I felt, even if I didn’t say a word. He stood up for me when his siblings pressured me to get them something: “Baba gives us everything; don’t bother him.”
Full of life
Despite his young age, Aboud was a vital support in my life. A few weeks before the war, I lost my phone on my way home one day. At home, I was exhausted and fell asleep – but when I awoke two hours later, Aboud said excitedly: “Baba, I have a surprise for you!” He took my phone out of his pocket. “I contacted the number, and the man who found it answered and came to the neighbourhood and gave it to me.”
Aboud embraced life with passion. He constantly surprised me with abilities that exceeded my expectations. Once, he wrote a script for a six-minute dramatic film, recorded it with the help of his siblings, and then edited it using my device.
Another time, he produced a programme simulating a Palestinian newscast. He divvied up the roles with his siblings: one was a reporter, another a cameraman, and Aboud was the news anchor.
I once took my children with me to a friend’s farm. Aboud used my phone to capture all its small details, and then produced a video set to music. My son had a deeply refined aesthetic sense.
Aboud was full of life and energy. He loved swimming and football, and was driven by a curiosity for exploration. Once, we were sitting in the sand dunes, when he saw an unfamiliar insect. “Dad?” he said. “Have scientists discovered all insects? What if they haven’t discovered this one yet? I want to register its discovery under my name.”
He took my phone, photographed it, and recorded his name and the date of the recording.
A few weeks before the bombing, I was talking to my children about dinosaurs, and Aboud asked: “Are there other animals that have gone extinct?”
“Yes, there are mammoths,” I told him. He asked me to watch a documentary on YouTube so he could learn more about mammoths.
Extinguished souls
During its war on Gaza, Israel decided that Aboud, along with more than 20,000 other Palestinian children, did not deserve to live.
Israel extinguished 20,000 beautiful souls who were embracing life with innocence, love, and a longing for discovery and creativity.
Israel does not kill Palestinian children by mistake. It kills them deliberately, as part of a calculated strategy, because it sees them as a “demographic threat”, rather than an opportunity to build civilisation and enrich life.
To the genocidal, settler-colonial ideology that governs Israel, killing children is seen as justified – not something worthy of an apology, or even sorrow. In a televised interview, a prominent Israeli settler leader couldn’t utter a single word of sympathy for the 20,000 Palestinian children her state had killed, despite the host repeating the question over and over again, insisting on an answer.
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How did the pilot who killed Aboud and Jude spend the rest of that day? Perhaps he carried out more air strikes, killing more children and their families, hoping it might earn him bonuses and promotions.
Maybe, after his shift ended, he returned home to his family, or spent the night with his girlfriend. Perhaps he attended a concert in Tel Aviv. Maybe he appeared friendly, patting a dog on the head, or joking around with a child.
Aboud lived a short life in a world that did not resemble him. He entered it with love, innocence, selflessness and generosity. He did not live long enough to discover the cruelty and brutality of this world. He left before he could even grasp that children can be killed for no reason.
Aboud thought that this world was a safe place, and that his father was strong enough to protect him. But the monster of death kidnapped my son from my arms. I could not protect him.
I am one of tens of thousands of fathers and mothers whose hearts have been shattered by the loss of their children; this break is irreparable.
Aboud ignited in me a longing for the pure world from which he came. His departure ignited my anger towards the racist, colonial system that thinks its stability and prosperity can be built on the skulls of children, and watered by the tears of mothers and fathers.
The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Eye.
