May 16th, 2024
Dear Fatimah,
I was used to it. Waking up and hearing your voice singing melodies from Fairouz songs as you made breakfast of Zaatar on Pita bread and tea. It drove me crazy then, waking me up from my cozy bed that I am sure now is in splinters. But now, weeks without you, the North and the South, our separation in beautiful Gaza, I would do anything to hear it. I am constantly jumping. I’m sure you feel the unescapable shake in your body that comes with this terrible constant bombing of those rains from the sky. I think that months ago, we were arguing over who would get to have the car for the day. Now, there is no car, and there is no clear definition of a day. I feel as if there is no indication of myself; I am one of thousands of bodies running away, and it pains me to know that you aren’t one of them. Because if I’m going to run away from my home, from bullets and bombs, I’d rather it be with you. Tell me how it is for you, are the plastic tents as flimsy? Are you in a tent at all? A hospital? A camp? Did you make it to Egypt? I’ve heard from other refugees that a ground invasion has begun in Rafah. It seems that I spend the entirety of my time praying. Praying that you are safe. Praying for good food and clean water.Praying that this sickness spreading around doesn’t reach me. Amputees keep coming in, and in times when the blood is a suffocating stench, a suffocating sight, I wish I would’ve studied to be a doctor, a nurse, anything to be some sort of help instead of this whole adult body looking at children without arms, legs, and with distorted faces made up of grime and blood. So much blood. There are kids alive but are merely bone. There’s a constant frenzy in everyone, the whole camp alive with a shake that holds the fear of destruction from a bomb, a bullet from a sniper, a theft of a loved one, or a blockage of aid. I’ve also heard that the aid trucks at the Egyptian border are being barred from entering. Do you have any bakeries left in the South? Our last bakery was bombed a while ago, so we’ve been eating mulberry leaves, an animal’s food. And I’ve felt like one, an animal, for some time now. Crazed, unwashed, a body filled with wounds that open and close. I think about you all the time; I’m so alone. I know some of the families in this camp, but I want to go home, to the South, to you. Please write back. Tell me everything. I am trying to leave. I keep asking around, but no one knows anything. Our land has become estranged, and I’m tired, Fatimah; I need you.
Your sister,
Marwa Abdel-Halim
May 23rd, 2024
Dear Marwa,
Singing Fairouz, making those silly breakfast meals feels like a lifetime ago, Marwa. I am so happy to have heard from you, so elated that I got your letter from the few men who have made it down here. The South is in chaos. I’m not in Egypt, I won’t leave Gaza without you, even if I could. I’m in Khan Younis. After the bombing of our home in Deir al-Balah, oh, how I miss it dearly, I was able to make it to this camp with the help of the ambulances that have survived the constant slaughter. I only sustained a fracture in my wrist and several cuts across my body, but I am alive and grateful. Although I fear that, like you, we will have to start resorting to mulberry leaves with the number of people in this camp, they say it’s one of the largest. The heat and stuffiness are unbearable; the screaming is normal at this point. Although there is misery cloaking me every day, I’m glad to have all my body parts intact and to be breathing. My only wish is to find you, to bring you here to the south, closer to the border, farther away from the death they are sending the masses to up in the North. But with the bombs intensifying here by the day, it seems there is no reprieve, no way out, the North and the South both worse than the other. I miss you so much. Please stay safe, stay around others, and eat and drink what you can; aid trucks are getting in little by little; they will reach you, I’m sure of it, and if not, I will store what I can for you until I reach you. I have a risky plan, but it’s what I need to do. There are a few cars left here, although mangled but still functional. A group of men are planning to take one of them to drive up Al-Rasheed Street to the North to back their lost family members. Once the bombs calm for a few hours tonight, I will meet them to discuss my ride with them. They won’t leave for another week with all the injuries here and the constant bombardment, but I’ll write to you once I speak with them. We will find our way back to each other. I won’t leave; I won’t die without hearing your voice and holding you in my arms, Marwa. I love you. Don’t be scared, I’m coming.
Your sister, who loves you,
Fatimah Abdel-Halim
May 30th, 2024
Dear Fatimah,
I am having a nurse write this for me; I can’t move my limbs. I’m in the Indonesian Hospital; bodies are everywhere, and I didn’t want this. I tried to be cautious, but I was on my way to get more paper from the buildings nearby, but before I could blink, it was reduced to rubble. I was sent here in an ambulance I don’t remember getting into. I have a severe wound I sustained when running towards safety, a deep cut in my leg, and I can’t walk for a while. Sitting in this crowded room makes me feel useless, but what is there to do? The pain is excruciating there isn’t enough medicine to go around. I’m glad you’re in Khan Younis, but please, the travel is too risky; there are a lot of talks here from families who have members stuck in the south as you are, saying soldiers are rounding up whoever they find trying to mauver their way across the strip and committing mass shootings in abandoned buildings. They do it in secret, but bodies are found with bullets in the masses. Please, Fatimah, stay where you are; when I heal, when the situation is less precarious, we will find one another. I miss your stoic face when everyone’s looking, and you’re singing when nobody is. I miss your rationale and the hilarious jokes that slip out from time to time. The stench of death is everywhere, the remains of destruction are piling up, and I feel that I am losing who I am. That I’m incomplete without you by my side. Please don’t take this risky journey; we will find a way, but it should not involve you being out in the open for them to see you. I love you so much, just let me be.
Your sister, who loves you,
Marwa Abdel Halim
June 5th, 2024
Dear Marwa,
The drive should’ve been an hour from the north to the south, but there were roadblocks at every turn, soldiers posted behind every building, and a maze that we had been traversing for the past three days. We make a stop almost every hour for shelter, parking near abandoned buildings and hiding beneath the seats. By the time your letter reached me, I had made my choice, and I’m glad about it. I am heartbroken and desperate to reach you after learning of your injury. I have a few supplies from the European Hospital in Khan Younis and some bread. I’ve heard about the roundup mass shootings; help my breath every time we spot an army jeep from afar. But thankfully, all mighty God Allah (SWT) has been on our side throughout this journey to you, Marwa. Gaza is unrecognizable; almost every building has turned to rubble, and there is no clear distinction of place, just a near-constant gray haze that cloaks everything. Abonnement is everywhere: lost items, pets scrounging for life beneath the rocks and grime, vehicles smashed in, trees uprooted. Its chaos. But to keep me tethered, to bring me a little bit of sanity in all the despair I feel from losing our homeland and being apart from you, I think of Gaza’s sunsets, her beaches, her olive trees, and her love. Please, Marwa, just do the same and hold on a little longer for me. I have to go now.
Your loving sister,
Fatimah Abdel-Halim
June 13th, 2024
Dear Fatimah,
I’m back to writing again. The nurse who wrote to me last time lost her husband and son in a bombing a few streets away. Her name is Iman. I’m weak, very weak. I’ve lost too much blood, and there aren’t proper supplies to try to prevent infection. I’ve been able to get a little food from the cans that have reached us up here, but that’s all; at the beginning of all this, I had to ask Iman to feed me because of the inability to move my arms. Sickness is spreading throughout the tents, fevers are racking up, and there is near-constant crying from babies, wailing from patients, and sobs of grief from mothers. It’s not just the stench of blood and grime that’s suffocating, but sadness as well. I haven’t heard from you in a while, which is expected considering our circumstances and the deaths that have stolen away our messengers, but this feels troublesome, and I’m worried. According to your last letter, you should be here by now, and I’m terrified. This silence feels heavy. How far are you on the road? Will I see you in a few minutes? Days? Weeks? I’ve asked everybody who enters this dingy room if they’ve heard the news of Fatimah Abdel-Halim, and nothing. I’m constantly crying. Just please come back to me. I just need to hear that you’re alive. See your pen on paper, your messy scrawl. Hear the order and calm in your voice. I feel so alone. I miss our home. I just want to feel the firmness of your hands. Please, come back to me.
Your lonely sister,
Marwa Abdel-Halim
June 20th, 2024
Dear Marwa Abdel-Halim,
My name is Majd Rakkan. I know it’s jarring to hear from you and not your sister. So let me explain. I noticed that throughout our journey to the North, your sister Fatimah would be scribbling in a tattered notebook and giving them to messengers we met along our travel. I’ve gathered one of her unfinished letters and attached it to this one. She told me on our long breaks between pursuing the road that she was writing to you, her sister, and her reason for joining me and my men on this trip. This trip has been discontinued as I am back in Khan Younis. We lost our car a few days ago as it gave out on us, and we had to continue on foot, a feat in itself as we were out in the open for the eyes in the sky to see. We kept in the shadows and held out as long as we could. I am one of the two left out of the five on the journey up Al-Rasheed Street. It comprised me, Omar, Malik, Zaina, and your sister, Fatimah. Troops were blocking our last leg of the journey, so we decided to hide out in an abandoned building that was miraculously still intact. Your dear sister joined Malik and Omar to scout ahead before continuing while I helped nurse Zaina’s cut hand back to health as she fell on our walk earlier that day. After a few minutes of wrapping the wound in gauze, I heard the shots. It was a sight that I will spare you of hearing the details from. I hid all night with Zaina and waited until the sound of the men abated. I called some brothers back in Khan Younis to help me with the bodies. I am so sorry for your loss, Marwa; your sister was a special soul. One determined to get you back into her arms. She was strong and fearless and died in bravery as a martyr. We will see her in heaven if God wills it. Live for her, for Fatimah. I have attached her unsent letter below.
Your brother in Islam,
Majad Rakkan
Attached Letter:
Dear Marwa,
We are almost there. I can feel it just a few miles ahead. Which shouldn’t be much trouble, but soldiers are crawling everywhere, and the bombing is making it hard to maneuver easily. I have not lost hope; I will make it to you. So, you can hear my terrible singing voice, and I can feed you this bread, although it lacks the Zaatar it needs. I am with generous and kind people, such as me, who have loved ones waiting for them. There is Majd, Omar, Malik, and a sweet girl named Zaina. She reminds me of you, sweet but made of steel. I don’t know if I’ll be able to send this letter, so I’ll write it so you can read it in the future as a reminder of these moments, of this life that has swept us out of comfort and into a constant uneasiness. I have to go now, but I’m hoping we don’t have to write to one another much longer, and I’ll hear your voice soon, kiss your wounds, and hold your hand. I love you so much. I’ll see you soon, Marwa.
Your sister, who loves you,
Fatimah Abdel-Halim
June 30th, 2024
Dear Fatimah Abdel-Halim,
I am in Khan Younis now. In the camp, you wrote to me about that day in May, before your journey to reach me. I am here, and you are dead. Every breath I take hurts, knowing that you won’t be able to see our Gaza be whole again. I miss you in every limp I take with this broken leg; I miss you with every Fairouz song I hear on the few phones still working at camp; I miss you with every beat of my heart. When I read Majd’s letter, I felt my entire life start over to this moment, to the moment I lost you. I’ve changed, become firmer, colder, and, I hate to admit it, less hopeful. I try to remember your steadfastness and hold it in me, but it’s hard as each day gets worse and worse. We have gotten food trucks in, but they only feed so many. I’ve become a makeshift nurse to help with the injured as we have lost so many of our professional staff. It gives me purpose. I love you more than anything, and I feel that you are always with me. I will make it my duty to survive this, and once I do, I will live for you and every martyr in Gaza. I’ll love you forever.
Your beloved sister,
Marwa Abdel-Halim
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