Malak was like a sister for me.
We had nine years when we met at Hamama School for Girls in the Sheikh Radwan district of Gaza City. It was in 2019 and Malak’s family had just moved to an apartment with three buildings in mine. When she joined the school, I introduced myself and from that day, we head to school every day and come from the school.
At the time, Sheikh Radwan looked like our whole world. We had beautiful buildings and shops where we buy candy. Families knew each other. The children played together. We knew all our neighbors and called adults among them aunts and uncles.
At first, I thought Malak blushes easily because it was new in our school. But over time, I understood that it was one of whom she was. Malak was shy and calm, soft and attentive. His name means “angel”. It suited him.
She cared about our classmates and each time one of them was upset, Malak would comfort them. I have often seen her help other children in their homework.
I was closer to Malak than other girls from school because we both loved the same subjects: mathematics, physical and music. I have a passion for physics, when she excelled in mathematics. We both played the piano. I specialized in classical music, as she loved the traditional music of Palestine.
Sometimes we played music outside contempt. I remember once joking that she should stick to her dream of becoming a nurse rather than a professional musician. She laughed and agreed with me. We have often made ourselves laugh.
But behind Malak’s smile, there was a sadness as if she was carrying a burden, a pain she kept for her.
“Why this sadness, Malak?”
One day in September 2023, we were sitting in the school courtyard, as we often did in the breaks between the courses, speaking of our dreams for the future. We had just finished a mathematics test. The school day was not over, but I could see that Malak wanted to go home. She held tears. “Why this sadness, Malak?” I asked him.
She first looked at the sky then towards me and replied. “My brother Khaled was born with congenital cardiac malice. He was only a year older than me, and he is very sick. ”
I had visited Malak’s house several times and I knew that his brother was weak and often sick. But I didn’t know how serious his illness was.
When she told me that he could die, I put my hand on her shoulder. “Who knows, Malak?” I said. “Maybe we will leave this world before him. Death does not care about age or illness. “
I never imagined that my ephemeral words would soon become a brutal truth.
That day in the school courtyard, we spoke for hours. Malak spoke of becoming a nurse and returning to Ramla, her ancestral house, from where his family had been moved during the Nakba. She told me that she wanted to take care of the sick, especially children. I thought she would make a perfect nurse because of her kind nature.
When the war started, we each sought security with our families and lost contacts. I have been moved from my family more than 12 times. We were forced to leave our house in Gaza City and fled in other places twice in the same city. Then in Khan Younis, Deir El-Balah, Bureij Refugee Camp, Al-Mawasi and now Rafah, from where I write these words.
Throughout these trips, I tried to reach Malak, but I could never pass. She and her mother’s phones were out of service.
Our school was transformed into a shelter for displaced people before being destroyed by Israeli air raids on August 3, 2024. Even after this terrible news, I could not reach Malak.
Meet again
After more than a year of inability to contact my friend, one morning in January 2025, while in our refuge in Rafah, I received a call from an unknown number. I was delighted when I heard Malak’s voice. She was happy and excited to speak to me, but she looked exhausted.
I asked her how she and her family were and on her brother Khaled, remembering that he needed medication. She told me that they lived in a tent in the Al-Mawasi region in Rafah, a few kilometers from where my family sheltered.
Malak was impatient to speak. She explained how her family had been moved several times through Gaza. Our conversation also brought us back to the good days of Sheikh Radwan – to our houses, our school and everything we did before the war.
Before finishing the call, I promised to visit and bring Malak and his family to our refuge. I thought it would be safer for them to be in the same shelter as ours because our building is made of stone while Malak lived in a tent.
Two days later, on January 8, I made plans with my mother to visit Malak. I called her to confirm. Replied Malak’s younger sister, Farah, crying bitterly. “Malak is gone,” she sobbing. “She was martyred at dawn by a bullet while she was sleeping in our tent.”
I couldn’t hear. Or maybe I didn’t want to believe what Farah said. My heart hurt me beyond words. I hung up on the phone, feeling muffled by my tears. I turned to my mother. “Malak left.”
Together, in death
The next day, my mother and I went to visit Malak’s family to offer our condolences. We found their tent torn by bullet holes. But no one was there. Their neighbors, who were also in tents, told us that Khaled died that morning. His illness had worsened without access to medicine, and sorrow on the death of his sister had broken his mind. The family went to bury it.
I remembered my words about our conversation in the school courtyard. I never imagined that Malak could die and that Khaled would follow her so shortly after. They were buried side by side. Even in death, Khaled would not be separated from her.
Who pulled this deadly ball to Malak? Why did they kill her? Was she a threat to the soldiers while she was sleeping? Did they fear his dreams of returning to Ramla?
Goodbye, my dear friend. I will never forget you. I will plant an olive tree on your behalf, and I will bring those who will remain from your family to be with us and take care of them as you would have done.