As Israel continues to bomb Gaza, media’s Maram Humaid writes about never getting the chance to say goodbye to her mother.
My beloved mother, I began writing this piece in the first month after your passing.
I gathered my words and my pain to pour into this text, but my tears would choke me, and I’d close the file.
I came back to it two months later, then six, then again at the end of the year, but I still couldn’t finish it.
Each time I returned to it, I carried new burdens, new grief, and new tears as the war wove itself into our lives, adding sorrows.
One time, I opened the file crying, between joy and heartbreak, with news you had waited so long to hear: A ceasefire had been announced. But you were no longer there, and I closed the file that day, too.
Now, I gather my strength to write this on the first anniversary of your death.
Eulogising our loved ones is not a choice, it’s a form of preservation.
Can you imagine, Mama – the war stopped, only to return with even more force?
How can I explain that, as much as I miss you, I’m relieved you don’t have to see these unimaginable days?
In our family home in the north, there’s only half a bag of flour left. They guard it fearfully and try to make it last. The canned food is running out, and the struggle to find food is daily.
I can imagine your agony if you were calling us now, worrying that we are starving.
A war without your prayers
Many have starved to death, and thousands are lining up at charity kitchens and communal food stations. The crossings have been closed for over two months, with food, medicine, aid – all banned by Israel.
Mama, my tears defeat me often, my fear that this war will go on even longer without your prayers, your constant prayers for our safety and protection, which I say every day now.
We gathered them and keep them like treasures that still carry your scent. We prioritise them in case, God forbid, we have to flee again.
Recently, I’ve been thinking about your last days in the ICU, how I struggled to stay on my feet, distracting myself with work.
But that was a false escape. This is the conclusion of a year of grief.
My mother passed away on May 7, 2024.
That morning, we woke up to images of tanks storming the Rafah border crossing as the Israeli assault on Rafah started. The one way out of Gaza was blocked; we were trapped.
Then, like a thunderbolt amid the darkness of that day, came the news of my mother’s death in Egypt, five months after her medical evacuation there.
We wept, for her and because we, like thousands of others, were paying the price for simply existing in this besieged land.
We were denied a final farewell to the one we loved. Denied a funeral, denied burial, denied condolences. All we could do was weep and pray.
My mother suffered from pulmonary fibrosis, a severe respiratory illness. She needed an oxygen pump, an electric one, which meant any power outage was life-threatening.
Since October 7, it felt like we were living through multiple wars. Electricity was cut off at the start of the war, generators gradually stopped working, and the healthcare system was collapsing.
