My Friend in Gaza
I woke up one morning to a video message from my friend in Gaza. It was a view from her window that went on for a few seconds. I wasn’t sure what I was looking at until a rocket flew into the building a few streets over — erupting into a fiery blaze as it was reduced to rubble.
My heart sank. It was a stark reminder of the reality that Palestinians face.
I didn’t know the politics of the situation. I still don’t, honestly. All I know is that my friend is in danger every day.
And now things are the worst they’ve been in a long time.
I think back to when we first met. A friend invited me to sit with him and a group of international students who just arrived on campus. She sat across the table wearing a red floral hijab and matching red lipstick, what would later be known as her signature look.
“I like your headwrap,” I said, not knowing the proper name at the time.
“Thanks,” she smiled warmly, forgiving my naivety.
It wasn’t until later, as our friendship grew, that she teased me and corrected me on my mistake. It was the first of many learning experiences we would have about each other’s cultures.
The next time I saw her was in class. It turned out we were both English majors and had a thing for poetry. We would talk about linguistics, our faiths, and bond over our visits to Jerusalem.
At some point, I asked the international students what they thought of America. They shrugged, but I couldn’t blame them. All they had seen up to that point was our small campus that was plopped in the middle of an upper-middle-class suburban crawl. There wasn’t much to see. So one weekend, I took them on an outing to Old Town Alexandria, where they smiled at the quaint shops along brick walkways and centuries-old row houses.
We made our way to the waterfront and sat on the end of a pier with our legs dangling over the water. As we watched sailboats and tour boats cruise along the river, I looked at my friend, who was full of content, and she told me about how much she loved rivers and beaches — anywhere with water, really. Then we laughed as we struck zen poses for a picture by the water.
The semester ended, and we each went home — without saying a word or goodbye. Somehow between the chaos of finals and packing our rooms up, we got lost in the shuffle. But this never felt strange or regretful to me. We each had significant others by the close of the semester who were the focus of farewells by then.
I always just assumed we would continue talking and see each other again someday. And I was right about the first part. We did keep talking — for eight years.
The messages continued as seamlessly as before, as if we weren’t half a world away from each other. We would send each other pictures of serene nighttime cityscapes and cups of tea.
Later that summer, we acknowledged that we never said goodbye. But we both seemed to agree that it wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t “goodbye.” It was “See you later.” And we continued on with that sentiment as the months turned to years and as we each went through relationships, breakups, new relationships, personal crises, and self-doubts — talking through it all and cheering the other on.
We would talk about crushes and all the men who tried to court her in Gaza. We giggled about the man who took an hour-long cab ride just to give her a kiss and immediately get back in the cab he came in.
In some ways it seemed like we were on parallel paths, even as the beliefs in our respective faiths began to waver.
We were both raised in restrictive, conservative religions, and we both began to question and drift away from them as time went on. At some point, one of us confided our doubts in the other, and we were surprised to hear that we were both going through a crisis of faith.
We would take turns, writhing and lamenting the existential dread that came with the loss of faith. We shared writings, quotes, and theories of “why?” She told me that these conversations made her smile in spite of their heaviness because she had someone to have them with and to say exactly what she meant without judgment. I felt exactly the same way.
Years later, she told me that she found faith again on her own terms, and she encouraged me to try again because the faith we knew wasn’t all there is, and that God is good, not vengeful. She said she prayed for me to have some peace with God — or whatever it was I wanted to call it. I never did find that, but I’m glad that she did.
We would continue to be a source of comfort for each other through everything. When I had a family member attempt suicide, she told me that it wasn’t my fault, that I was a good brother, and that I was strong, and she listened. She was there with all the right words to say.
Later down the line, she told me her work as a translator was wearing on her. Part of her job was to translate humanitarian reports that sometimes became gut-wrenching — with details of victims of violence and impoverished conditions — sometimes it got to her. I told her that she was strong for doing the work, that she was giving a voice to victims who wouldn’t have one otherwise, and that she was letting others know the atrocities that might otherwise go unnoticed. I hope I said the right words in return.
Through all of this, the instability of Gaza would rear its head — as it did many, many times in our friendship. Video messages of rubble and explosions became the norm — wedged between our conversations of music and recipes, of course.
One day a bombardment came. As the bombs fell and her home shook, she huddled inside with her family through the deafening blasts. She would later tell me that she truly thought this was it, but she didn’t have an internet connection to tell me goodbye.
After that we made sure we had all forms of contact for the other. International rates be damned in a near-death situation.
Suddenly I realized that maybe someday, one of my messages would go unread. Maybe for a day at first, then a month, maybe longer. And I would be left to wonder if she was still here.
As tensions in the region cooled, we would periodically talk about meeting up somewhere. Turkey, Dubai, Jordan — I said I would meet anywhere she would be able to get to. But for some reason or another, something was always in the way. Work, visa issues, depression, rising conflict. “Maybe some other day,” we would always say. But “someday” has a way of never coming.
Then again, as it always has and seemingly always will, the bombs dropped, and calls for death cried out. Any chance she had of being able to leave Gaza would fall apart.
But in spite of the war and oppressive circumstances, she continues to live. She still sends me pictures of the night and beaches she always longed for. In spite of the war, she’s been my friend.
Even though her home is plagued by recurrent conflict, it brings her joy to hear from her international friends. Knowing that there is life outside of war brings her hope.
Sometimes I imagined what we would do upon seeing each other again. Would we walk slowly to one another in smiling disbelief, or would we run to each other so that nearly a decade of separation wouldn’t last another second.
But now I worry that I may never know.
I miss my friend.
