We met at university in Gaza mega concentration camp. The Jews' latest genocidal rampage changed the plot of our love story.
By Aya Al-Hattab: My long pink dress swayed while I did my hair, wearing it down over my shoulders.
It was 9 September 2025 – the date Mohammed, my fiancé, and I had planned to sign our marriage contract, known as katib kitab.
Mohammed’s sister and his father, alongside my father, mother, sister, uncle and aunt, gathered for the ceremony in my family’s rented apartment in Gaza City’s Tal al-Hawa neighborhood.
When the sheikh came to legalize the marriage, Mohammed joined us – but by video call.
Mohammed is in Egypt with his mother and brother. His father, still in Gaza, represented him during the marriage contract.
Even though Mohammed couldn’t be there in person, the ceremony was still beautiful and we took family photos afterward.
Mohammed and I each took photos on our phones from where we were during the ceremony. We later collaged them together, creating a single memory from two distant places.
How we met
Almost exactly three years before the signing of our marriage contract, on 14 September 2022, Mohammed and I talked for the first time during the final meeting of a youth writing program in Gaza City.
Mohammed initiated by talking about our university and professors; I was a junior and he was a senior.
Mohammed was bashful as he spoke. He rarely looked into my eyes, instead looking down at the table.
A few weeks later, after the course had ended, I followed him on Instagram and we began chatting, mostly by sharing songs.
I sent him a Fairuz song – “Habbo Baadon” – about two people who fall in love during one winter and part ways, painfully, during the next.
Mohammed replied by saying the song was very beautiful, but he wished they had not left each other in the end.
When we were back on campus, and our final exams began, we would occasionally pass one another in the hallways. We never talked, only exchanging brief greetings like “good morning” as we went our separate ways.
After finishing our finals, Mohammed and I agreed to meet at a café in Gaza City.
I arrived at the café on a cold and rainy January afternoon.
Mohammed was already sitting there and waiting for me. We talked about small details of life we had never shared with one another before – like how we both like to sleep in and stay in bed during the winter, some days not leaving the house at all.
We also talked about body language and the meaning of eye contact. I found myself looking into his eyes – he did not look down at the table this time – and wondering what our friendship might grow into.
As I prepared to leave, Mohammed was still sitting there, gazing at me as I got up and left.
Happiness then fear
Months passed, and somewhere along the way, Mohammed and I both started casually using intimate phrases like “my soul” and “my love” with each other as we exchanged text messages.
I had a moment of clarity and asked him to stop – I did not want this to mean one thing for me and another for him. I needed to know where we stood with one another.
On 19 March 2023, I professed to Mohammed that I loved him, feeling goosebumps and butterflies in my stomach.
“I love you too,” Mohammed replied.
Mohammed and I began to spend more and more time together, having long conversations about our routines during unhurried evening walks to the sea.
I would sometimes read him pages from Ibrahim Nasrallah novels as we sat. We also talked about our likes and dislikes – Mohammed loves video games and I love reading.
We slowly became part of each other’s daily lives. Mohammed visited my home many times and met my parents, who quickly came to love him.
One day in September, Mohammed and I went to a seaside café called Q. The weather had begun to turn to autumn and the cooler nighttime sea air played with my hair.
We talked about our plans for the future, travel and the paths we hoped to pursue – he planned to look for work in Qatar and I intended to pursue a master’s degree in interpretation.
Our conversation was filled with laughter and I wished the clock would stop so we could remain feeling this light for a little longer.
But nothing lasts forever in Gaza.
On 7 October, I was awakened to the sound of violent explosions shaking the city.
Mohammed checked on me immediately, and we spoke briefly for the first few days, after which electricity and internet became unreliable.
Alongside our families, we both ended up being displaced to Rafah.
While we were both in Rafah, we managed to see each other only twice. Both times, we met at Mohammed’s place, an apartment that his family had rented.
Our gatherings were brief, lasting less than two hours.
The second time we sat together was on 31 December 2023. We reminisced about our long walks to the sea and the many hours we sat talking together in my home.
I felt very sad while Mohammed kept reassuring me that the current situation would eventually end and that we still had a future to look forward to.
As Mohammed walked me and my sister Amal to where we were staying, Mohammed and I held hands tightly, trying not to let go.
Terrified
During that period, my family and I had to move to al-Zawayda, in the central Gaza Strip, which made it much harder for me and Mohammed to meet.
On 20 February 2024 – my birthday – Mohammed came all the way from Rafah just to see me. It was a very brief meeting. I cried when I saw him walk away.
That was the last time I saw Mohammed. Soon after, he told me that he was going to leave Gaza for Egypt.
I was happy for him because it meant he would be out of harm’s way. But at the same time, it was very difficult to not know when I would see him again.
At the end of April 2024, Mohammed, his mother and brother evacuated shortly before Israel seized Rafah crossing, halting travel in and out of Gaza.
I kept telling myself that the genocide would end soon and that we would see each other again and pick up where we left off.
But deep down, I was terrified. I was unable to stop thinking that our goodbye on my birthday might have been our last.
I kept choosing hope. But week after week, month after month, nothing changed. The genocide did not end, and there was no reunion.
In June 2025, my family and I returned to Gaza City, even though it wasn’t safe. We rented an apartment in Tal al-Hawa, where our home, which was destroyed in the beginning of the war, is located.
I couldn’t talk with Mohammed at first because I didn’t have internet access. A few weeks later, when Mohammed got an Egyptian phone number, he was able to call me every day.
We were able to talk for hours and make up for the time we had lost.
Our relationship strengthened despite the distance, and we decided to hold our engagement ceremony on 9 September 2025.
Whenever I look at our collaged photo – Mohammed and I together side by side, each in a separate country – I feel ambivalent. I am grateful that we still had something to celebrate and heartbroken that one of the most important days of our lives had to be lived apart.
Though this wasn’t how we had imagined the beginning of our life together, Mohammed and I were elated over our engagement.
We began making plans again: the places we would go when we reunited, the places we hoped to explore together – Ireland, Italy, Greece. We talked about the kind of home we hoped to build someday – a quiet, colorful and comfortable space filled with shelves of books. We talked about getting a dog.
The distance made us hold onto each other more tightly, as if we were both trying to protect what remained of a future we still believed in.
A month after our engagement, the October 2025 ceasefire was announced. But once again, nothing truly changed. With travel in and out of Gaza nearly impossible, we are still waiting to reunite.
Distance
Despite the distance, our days begin and end with one another.
Most mornings, Mohammed is one of the first people I speak to. Before either of us starts the day, we check on each other, asking about our plans for the day.
At night, our conversations often linger until we are both too tired to keep our eyes open. Before saying goodnight, we try to pull each other toward the future and away from the uncertainty of the present.
We talk about the ordinary moments we have been denied for so long, like preparing and sharing a meal together, walking along the beach, reading together or simply going on a date. Sometimes we even encourage each other to dream about those future days while falling asleep.
Yet the distance is always there. When I wake up, it just takes a few seconds to remember that he is still hundreds of kilometers away. At night, when everything becomes quiet, I often find myself replaying memories of our time together and wondering how different life would be if the war had never happened.
Whenever I get ready to go out, I think of Mohammed. I remember the care I used to put into choosing an outfit, styling my hair, or putting on makeup before our outings.
Back then, I knew he would see me. Now, those same rituals make me miss him more. Sometimes I catch myself wondering what he would say if he saw me.
Recently, I watched the animated film In Your Dreams on my phone in our rented apartment, powered by solar energy.
In the film, two siblings travel through their dreams in a surreal quest in search of a mythical Sandman to stop their parents’ divorce.
The children whisper: “Sandman, please I call unto you. Grant me my dreams, make them come true.”
For a moment, I caught myself fantasizing that I could make a wish to return the person I love to me, even for just one ordinary day together.
Aya Al-Hattab is a writer and translator in Gaza.
No comments:
Post a Comment