Nour Ashour and her fiancé, Dr. Khaled Abu Samra (social networking sites)
Like any girl who dreams of a wedding and wearing a white dress, I prepared everything necessary for this occasion. I booked a beautiful dress and flaunted it, and I was absolutely confident that it would be admired by everyone who saw it. My fiancé, Khaled, and I booked the hall, and we took care of the lighting, flower arrangement, and other details. As for the house that we were supposed to live in with love, we chose its furniture, design, and colors together, in a way that resembles us and our story.
One of our customs in the Gaza Strip is that after the bride prepares her clothes and belongings, she places them in decorated bags and takes them to her new home in a modest party to which she invites those close to her to share in her joy. At that time, my mother embroidered five charming Palestinian peasant dresses for me, and I was excited for everyone to see them and admire their beautiful colors and shapes. I prepared all this with great joy until the cursed war came.
On the third day of the war, the occupation forced us to leave our homes because it had become a dangerous area. We fled with the clothes we wore for a day, two days, or a week. We took the keys to our house with us in the hope of returning to it, our house that was bombed by the occupation in May 2023, and which we completed rebuilding at the beginning of October. Two weeks after the war, we were outside our house, it was bombed for the second time, and it turned into black rubble.
As for my beautiful clothes, they were all burned, and as for the Palestinian peasant dresses, I found no trace of them, and everything I had prepared for this wedding disappeared. I was very sad at that time because I had lost things that were precious to me and meant a lot to me, but I did not know that what was to come would be worse. The house that Khaled and I had prepared together was also bombed and leveled to the ground. This house did not come to us in “Al-Sahel”, as it was the result of years and months and long days and nights that Khaled spent awake at night. On hospital shifts.
The occupier killed some of the invitees as well. Most of my friends and relatives were martyred in this war. My words seem like a tragic story by a black girl, but my eyes, which used to see all the colors and distinguish them, now see only gray in the rubble, white in the shrouds, and bright red everywhere.
As for the wedding hall, it was completely destroyed, and became a relic after an eye. The dress shop burned down, and my dress burned with it. There was nothing in the city that reminded us of our joys and sweet days. Even our photographer friend, Ronde, who documented our engagement day with her distinctive pictures and we agreed with her to photograph us on the wedding day, was martyred along with her family. The occupation killed her and our wedding photos. How much I wanted to document these moments, as I documented the scourges of war, and recorded on my digital platform all the indescribable suffering I saw and heard.
The occupier killed some of the invitees as well, and most of the friends and relatives were martyred in this war. My words sound like a tragic novel by a black girl, but my eyes, which used to see all colors and distinguish them, now see only gray in the rubble, white in the shrouds, and bright red everywhere.
As for my beloved Khaled, since the outbreak of the aggression, he has been working with all his effort and energy in Al-Shifa Hospital, and he never left for his home. After a while, he lost contact with everyone, and the occupation completely besieged the hospital, and there was no news of him. Is he okay or not? I didn't do anything except sit in front of Al Jazeera, watching carefully if I saw his picture, or a quick hint that would calm my mind, but all I was hearing was doctors being killed, arrested, and abused, without mentioning their names. I turned from a girl coming to life, waiting for her greatest joy, to a desperate girl who cries all the time and wears nothing but black. The joy that used to fill my heart became sadness that covers the city.
After a month of this torment, the displacement house we were in was bombed, and we miraculously escaped being killed. I didn't want to die then before I heard Khaled's voice for the last time and told him that I loved him very much
These painful events occurred before our displacement from the northern Gaza Strip, and I was at risk of death at any moment, with the crazy raids on a daily basis, and I felt at the time that death was following us every night. I would leave my family sleeping while lava rained on the houses, and I would go praying to God and hoping for Him. I would look at the sky and cry, and all the strength that I claimed to have during the day would collapse, dissolving with the darkness to reveal a small, weak, frightened heart that could not bear sadness. I would tell God every day that He was more compassionate and more generous. We have to, and He knows what is in our chests, He knows our fear and weakness. I say to Him in a low voice: O Lord, You know me and I know my condition, and You alone know that I cannot bear this loss. If anything happens to Khaled, I will go crazy. O Lord, I have never loved anyone like him in my life. How do I know if he is okay or not? Give me a sign, please, God. The same days continued, no one reassured my heart, and I could not reveal to them the anxiety I was experiencing. The sadness was collective, and did not concern me alone, and everyone in the city was afflicted with all kinds of sadness.
After a month of this torment, the displacement house we were in was bombed, and we miraculously escaped being killed. I didn't want to die then before I heard Khaled's voice for the last time and told him that I loved him very much. The north was completely destroyed, and we were left with no choice but to flee to the south, and all this without receiving any news about Khaled. On the way, upon arriving at the terrifying army point, and after walking for miles and miles, I stood with a face pale from hunger, dirty water, and exhaustion. I stood imbalanced, with slumped shoulders and back. We bent over, and then the army ordered us to remove our IDs. I pulled out my ID and saw the picture of Khaled, which I had placed next to my personal picture. I began to cry uncontrollably because of the difficult days we had lived through, hoping for just one piece of news about Khaled that would warm my heart. But it's no use.
We crossed the fateful barrier of death and arrived in the south exhausted. I then tried to trace Khaled, but all I found was news that Al-Shifa Hospital had been evacuated of those who were in it, with the exception of its director, Muhammad Abu Salmiya, four doctors, and a small number of patients. I was happy that day and said, “There is no doubt that Khaled is among those doctors.” I thought so because I knew him better than myself, and he had previously told me that even if he was about to die, he would not leave and leave behind a single patient who needed him, and I was confident that he would not leave them behind.
After a few days, I learned that I was right. What I expected happened exactly, and Khaled was one of the few remaining in the Al-Shifa Medical Complex. I then saw him with a thin body, in which was etched the experience of being steadfast and stubborn, who had gone without food or drink in the face of the occupation and its brutal investigations. He witnessed the massacres and loss without anyone appreciating him. By the grace and praise of God, we lost what we lost, but Khaled remained fine. He was drinking the medical solution to gather his strength, fulfill his promise to the patients, and return to me, and that is enough.
The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Al Jazeera.