Malak was like my sister.

We were nine years old when we met at Hamama School for Girls in the Sheikh Radwan neighborhood in Gaza City. It was 2019 and the Malac family has just moved to the apartment of three buildings away from mines. When I joined school, I presented myself, and since that day on, we have been walking to and from school together every day.

At that time, Sheikh Radwan seemed to be our entire world. We had beautiful buildings and shops where we buy sweets. Families knew each other. Play children together. We knew all our neighbors and called on adults, including aunts and uncles.

Initially, I thought Malak was easily ashamed because it was new in our school. But with the passage of time, I understood that this was part of who was. Malak was shy, calm, gentle and care. Its name means “angel”. It suits her.

I took care of our classmates, and whenever one of them was upset, your money was comfortable. I often saw her helping other children in their homework.

I was closer to Malak than other girls at school because we loved the same topics: mathematics, physics and music. I have a passion for physics, while it was superior in mathematics. We both play the piano. I specialize in classic music, while she loved the traditional music of Palestine.

Sometimes, we played music outside the melody. I remember as soon as she jokes that she must adhere to her dream to become a nurse instead of a professional musician. I laughed and agreed with me. Often we laughed at each other.

But behind Malak’s smile, there was sadness as if she had a burden, sadness kept by herself.

“Why is this sadness, your money?”

One day in September 2023, we were sitting in the school yard, as we often did in breaks between the classroom, and talk about our dreams for the future. We have just finished testing mathematics. The school day did not end, but I saw that Malak wanted to go home. She was preventing tears. “Why is this sadness, your money?” I asked her.

I first looked at the sky, then I answered. “My brother Khaled was born with a defect in the moral heart. He is only one year older than me, and he is very sick.”

I visited Malak’s house several times, and I knew that her brother was weak and often sick. But I did not know how dangerous his illness.

When she told me that he might die, I put my hand on her shoulder. “Who knows, Malak?” I said. “Maybe we will leave this world before he does. Death does not care about age or illness.”

I never imagined that my transient words would soon become a brutal reality.

On that day in the school yard, we talked for hours. Malak talked about becoming a nurse and returning to her He fallsThe house of her ancestors, where her family was displaced during Nakba. She told me that she wants to care for patients, especially children. She thought she would make an ideal nurse because of her gentle nature.

When the war started, we sought every one to safety with our families and lost contact. I have been displaced with my family more than 12 times. We were forced to leave our house in Gaza City and fled to other places in the same city. Then to Khan Yunis, Deir al -Adl, and the Burij refugee camp, and the Mawasi, and now a Rafah, where I write these words.

During this displacement, I tried to reach Malak, but I couldn’t reach it. Herpha and her mother’s phones were out of service.

Our school turned into a shelter for the displaced before that Destroy By Israeli air strikes on August 3, 2024, even after this terrible news, I could not reach Malak.

Find each other again

More than a year after the inability to contact my friend, one morning in January 2025, while I was in our shelter, I received a call from an unknown number. I felt overwhelmed when I heard the voice of Malak. She was happy and excited to talk to me, but she looked exhausted.

I asked her how she and her family and her brother Khaled, recalling that he needed a medicine. She told me that they were living in a tent in the Maousy area in Rafah, just a few kilometers from where my family was protected.

Malak was keen to talk. She shared how her family was repeatedly and repeatedly via Gaza. Our conversation also brought us back to the good days of Sheikh Radwan – to our homes, school, and all that we used to do before the war.

Before ending the call, she promised to visit Malak and her family to our shelter and bring her to our shelter. I thought it would be safer to be in the same shelter as our building is made of stone while Malack was living in a tent.

Two days later, on January 8, I made plans with my mother to visit Malack. I called her to confirm. Malak’s younger sister answered Farah, crying bitterly. “Malak has gone.” “I was cited at dawn with a bullet while she was sleeping in our tent.”

I have not heard. Or maybe I did not want to believe what Farah said. My heart is painful behind the words. I hung the phone, and I was suffocated by my tears. I turned to my mother. “Malak went.”

Together, in death

The next day, my mother and I went to visit the Malac family to offer our condolences. We found their tent torn with lead holes. But there was no one. Their neighbors, who were also in tents, told us that Khaled had died that morning. His illness worsened without reaching medicine, and he broke the sadness of his sister’s death. The family went to bury him.

I remembered my words from our conversation in the school courtyard. I never imagined that Malak could die and that Khaled will follow her shortly. They were buried side by side. Even in death, Khaled will not be separated from it.

What fired this deadly bullet in Malak? Why did they kill her? Was it a threat to soldiers while sleeping? Did they fear her dreams of returning to Ramla?

Farewell, my dear friend. I will never forget you. I will plant an olive tree in your name, and I will bring those who stay from your family to be with us and take care of them as you did.