My aunt Fatima left us. There, in the North of Gaza, she departed, without a last goodbye or a last kiss.
My beautiful aunt was born during the Nakba, and killed during the Nakba. She was born in 1948, at the peak of war and occupation. We do not know her exact birthday, as all those who were born during the Nakba have ‘January 1’ written on their IDs.
Mohammed Saleh Khalil, Dying series #1, mixed material on canvas 100x80 cm.
What we do know is that her time was no better than ours. Her mother was forced to escape the missiles carrying my aunt, a newborn, in her arms. My siblings carry my aunt today, escaping bombs and the Zionists’ ground invasion.
What I know of her life is an accumulation of details that sporadically crossed her mind when she felt like sharing. The stories I know were not told in chronological order nor were they complete. I could not ask someone so deeply wounded by their memories to revisit them for me.
I spent a lot of time with her. She was an important part of my childhood. My memories with her began in Al-Shati Refugee Camp, at her vast, ground-floor home built with galvanized metal panels. It consisted of wall-to-wall rooms with a big yard in their midst. Whenever my mother went to help my grandfather in our old printshop, which has since been destroyed by the Israeli Occupation, I would stay with my aunt Fatima. Every morning, she would boil eggs and pour me a glass of milk, then, she would sit with me until I finished my breakfast.
She was unmarried and had no children, but she treated all the children around her as her own.
My aunt was a determined woman who worked to provide for herself. Although, as they would say, everything was provided to her by my father, her younger brother with whom she was constantly displeased.
She had spent several years in Saudi Arabia working as a teacher of Islamic Studies and the Arabic language. She was fascinated by the history of Muslims; their victories, conquests, and remarkable historical personalities. She waited for our own victory, but will no longer witness it.
She loved Muhammad Al-Fatih, and Salah al-Din al-Ayyubi. She hoped I would have a son and name him after either of them. She wanted my child to be like Fatih Al Costantini and free Jerusalem, or perhaps like Al Ayoubi, to rid us of the Zionist Occupation himself.
She loved the resistance. She marched for them, sang their songs, and constantly praised them. My aunt hated the Occupation, but she did not anticipate, and neither did we, that she would leave us at a time more difficult than Occupation.
She kept the news channel on her old television at all times. Before falling asleep, she would switch to the small radio beside her bed — its loud volume reached the higher floors. When I would wake up, I would go downstairs to lower the volume and tell her that it was too loud. She never listened to me and would move on to her morning routine, which consisted of preparing a quick breakfast with a cup of tea, after which she would sit in front of her television.
My father had built her a small apartment on the floor below ours. She was with us all the time as a member of our big family. Hers was the first home we visited every Eid before we completed our routine Eid tour of our relatives’ homes. Every member of the family visited her. She would kiss us on each cheek, and tell us stories and jokes from the past, holding onto memories, the good and the bad.
She hated sitting in the house by herself. My aunt spent some of her working years selling clothes in stores. She used up her time leaving her house all day, working till she was tired.
We remember how she kept a stock of chocolate and candy. Every time we craved something sweet, we went to her. That was our childhood. She always gave us each a piece of chocolate, some jelly candy, or half a Shekel to go out and buy something sweet for ourselves.
She was always this way, even as we grew older, and I am in my forties. She would call my name when I was away from her, to tell me that she had “something tasty” for me.“Don’t tell anybody! I hid this for you,” she would stress. In recent years, she started to hide three pieces of candy: one for me, one for my wife, and one for my daughter Silwan.
I had a child of my own but my aunt never stopped treating me like one.
She taught me how adults like to be treated like children, to remain close to the memories most dear to them. Sometimes, we want to return to our childhood in certain parts of our lives. That was my aunt… She kept me close to my childhood, her care and affection never faltered.
I didn’t know much about my aunt’s personal life. People told me that she had been married and got divorced. She spent most of her life alone in her home. We kept her company — the relatives, and the children — checked on her, brought her food, and made sure that her needs and wishes were met. However, none of that is sufficient enough when a person is elderly without a partner or child to be with them during times of difficulty. My aunt suffered greatly during her last days. In the last few years, my siblings and I took turns in attending to her needs every morning; helping her get to the bathroom, take showers, making her breakfast, and fulfilling her requests. This was before the war.
At the start of this war, my aunt’s behavior changed. She had difficulty comprehending things. She was forgetful during her last days of this new Nakba.
She asked us many questions about the things and the people she had forgotten. She repeated her questions often which quickly became tiresome.
I worked late and would come home exhausted, so I could not listen to her repeat the same details. She would repeatedly ask about my daughter’s age. When I wouldn’t visit her, she would try to call me or my wife asking us to come over.
I would go to her, knowing she had sweets in store. I would go to her expecting her to be disappointed in me and my absence. I was always prepared to be scolded followed by a barrage of strange questions about the streets and the political climate. I never left her home before making sure she was happy and not holding any grudge against me. I would promise to visit again.
The first time we had to evacuate, my aunt was with us. She did not understand what was happening. She kept asking questions and I told her to listen and be less of a burden, the burden of the war was big enough. We were eventually separated and she evacuated to the south. I could not reach her for months.
I cried because it hurt to miss her, just like how I cried on the first day after I learned of her passing. I hurt every time I think of her.
She was buried near our house, where I am unable to return. They buried her and I could not say goodbye or kiss her on the cheek.
I yearn to go home and rest, I yearn to see her.
I was optimistic about returning but I have lost all hope.I know that if I were to return one day, I would see her house door, her bed, and her favorite chair, but will not find her. I will never hear her call my name again, nor will I hear her anguished cries for help to sit down or go to the bathroom. I will never hear her shouting through the phone that she cannot hear me clearly. I will never see her again, nor will I treat her like a child, as she treated me for decades. She is no longer here.
She was buried in Gaza’s soil, which I have not felt for the past seven months. At her burial, she was surrounded by only a few of my siblings and our relatives. They kissed her cheeks, prayed for her, and said goodbye. I was told that her face appeared kind and calm but I did not get to see it.
My aunt Fatima was the keeper of Palestine’s history and that of our family. She is now gone taking that history and the memories with her. For her soul, I pray for peace and mercy.
