Last week, an Israeli air raid destroyed a family home in Deir el-Balah, a town in central Gaza.
It belonged to the Mattars.
Al-Hassan Mattar, a 21-year-old student studying English literature, was killed, along with his father, his 12-year-old sister Tala, his grandmother and several relatives who sought refuge with them.
Video footage of the aftermath shows the house in ruins. In a widely shared 16-second clip, a young Palestinian can be seen pulling Tala’s body from the rubble.
The city suffered repeated attacks throughout the war. He was hit again Monday evening, causing casualties.
Israeli warplanes destroy a Mattar family home in Deir el-Balah on the heads of its civilian occupants.#StrikeForGaza pic.twitter.com/cShwG3vy7E
– Quds Information Network (@QudsNen) December 11, 2023
Abubaker Abed, a friend of Al-Hassan, wrote about his loss. Before the war, the two men talked about football and obsessed over what then seemed like big events, like Al-Hassan’s laser eye surgery. After the escalation of the latest episode of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, their conversations turned to their ambitions. Al-Hassan said he wanted to leave Gaza.
In his last message on God is enough, and yes, the agent.
Here is Abed’s tribute to whom he affectionately called Habibi Al-Hassan.
Deir el-Balah, Gaza – The last time I saw Al-Hassan was on the fifth day of the temporary truce. It was November 28, a Tuesday.
We were at his house, we were in a good mood and we felt at peace compared to the previous weeks.
His younger brother Kareem, a cheeky 19-year-old with blue eyes, brown hair and a round face, was there with Osama Abu-Omra, another friend. We roasted sweet potatoes and onions over low heat and made tea.
His father, Weam, was watching us from the balcony and smiling. In an ironic tone, he asked me: “How is Al-Hassan’s work with the coal fire going today?”
“Al-Hassan is the best,” I replied.
Then his father left with a smile on his face.
Al-Hassan lived in a modest two-story villa. His grandmother lived downstairs. Outside, the yard was full of parsley and mint. Before the war, Al-Hassan and I used to hang out on the balcony, watching Sponge Bob, eating chips and popcorn, or studying for our college exams.
After the sunset prayers, Al-Hassan brought me six eggs to cook for dinner. It was all that was left in his refrigerator. Back then, six eggs would have cost about a dollar. Today, as the food shortage worsens, they would amount to around $4.
“Are you sure you can cook them properly?” Al-Hassan asked me jokingly.
“Just get me some butter, salt and pepper,” I said.
He nodded and hummed in disbelief. “We will see.”
We ate the eggs with some bread. Al-Hassan said it was delicious.
“God willing, this war will end very soon and we will return to times like this together, in peace and comfort,” he said.
Around 7 p.m. we said goodbye and I left.
If I had known this would be the last time I would see him, I would have stayed there and died with him.
Would you believe it’s just one missile!!
Deir-Albalah#Gaza_Genocide pic.twitter.com/Fp4o8SSWJh– Alhassan WM Mattar 🇵🇸 (@Alhassan_Wm_Ma) November 9, 2023
(Post X above: On November 9, Al-Hassan Mattar shared his footage of an alleged Israeli attack in his hometown.)
We became good friends almost three years ago, one morning in February.
I had arrived at my first English language and literature conference at the Islamic University of Gaza, which is now a pile of rubble after Israeli airstrikes.
I was late and perched in a front row seat. Al-Hassan was sitting behind but when he caught my eye, he looked at me knowingly. His expression was friendly. We recognized each other. We had attended an UNRWA school together.
After the lecture, he said it was a “nice coincidence” to study together. I said I felt lucky. We caught up and talked about our childhoods.
He was both loud and polite. He was brilliant at mathematics. He loved reading books about animals in the school library during recess.
A day later, Al-Hassan visited me at home.
He begged me to join him for a ride around Deir el-Balah in his father’s car. I said no at first, I was shy. But Al-Hassan, with all his confidence and enthusiastic energy, convinced me.
We discussed our university life and our projects. After graduating, he wanted to study business and eventually work in Oman.
He was his father’s soul mate. He loved telling stories about his family. He got up early and loved watching movies, especially documentaries on astronomy. He was a big fan of Liverpool FC and in particular (of the player) Sadio Mané.
We were opposites. He is extroverted, me introverted. I used to wake up late and go to bed late, to study and develop my English skills.
But we bonded over football. Like him, I’m a big Premier League fan and I love Liverpool and Chelsea.
He was killed shortly before noon on Monday. He was 21 years old. His father Weam, sister Tala and grandmother were also killed.
It took me more than a day to confirm whether he was dead or not. The chaos of war is such that finding out if a loved one has died becomes a mission in itself.
The day before, he tried to call me several times. But telecommunications systems here have been hit by bombs and most calls are not coming through.
I logged onto Twitter and saw that he had sent me a message.
“I really tried to call you. If you really have a drop of blood, you should have called me. Al-Hassan always liked to make me feel guilty.
That fateful day, I woke up early with an uneasy feeling in my chest. Maybe it was a sign.
I made my breakfast – a slice of bread with a tomato and some canned beef, the kind of meat we gave to cats and dogs before the war started.
Around 11:30 a.m., I heard an explosion. A few minutes later, my friend Abdul-Rahman sent me a message. “The latest airstrike took place against the Mattar family house on Al-Beeah Street. »
I jumped out of my seat and told my family. I tried to call Al-Hassan. There was no response.
I madly ran towards Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital and started asking random people: “Where is the Mattar family?”
“We don’t know, but someone called Kareem is inside the intensive care unit,” someone said. I don’t remember much about them.
They were referring to Al-Hassan’s brother, who fortunately was not seriously injured.
I continued to ask about Al-Hassan.
I saw injured people lying on the floor, crying faces in the hallways, blood splattered in the rooms where patients were being treated.
I rushed to the emergency tent.
“I am Al-Hassan’s friend. Where is he?” I kept saying.
There was no sign of my friend. I went home in tears.
The next morning I returned to the hospital. My body felt weak and my heart was pounding. I prayed with all my strength that he would not be among those killed.
I asked a hospital official about it. He politely asked me to wait but I couldn’t so I rushed to the emergency tent but got no clear answer.
I headed towards the refrigerators where the bodies are stored.
I was nervous, but I looked at one, then another, and I didn’t see his name written on the shrouds. My hands were shaking. I took a breath and crept towards the final body. Again, his name was not given.
I felt overwhelmed by what I had seen. I also hoped that there was still a chance that my friend was alive.
I went back to the hospital manager and asked for confirmation that Al-Hassan was okay. He told me he had been killed. I looked up at the sky and asked him again.
“Wait a few seconds,” he said. Every second seemed like a year.
His next sentence pierced my heart.
“Yes, Al-Hassan Weam Mostafa Mattar was martyred yesterday.”
I collapsed in a corner of the hospital.
A week before his death. Al-Hassan called me. He told me that if he survived the war, he would try to realize his dream: to leave Gaza for Oman.
I can’t believe he’s gone. I do not recognize myself anymore.
