Through Nakba, exile and genocide, my aunt Fatima never lost faith

My aunt Fatima, known as "Umm Sidqi", was one of many Palestinian women whose personal story reflected both the tragedy and resilience of the Palestinian people - from the Nakba in 1948 to the final chapter of her life during the genocidal war on Gaza in 2023.

She was not just my aunt. She was my second mother.

Allah gave her to me to compensate for my separation from my own mother, and filled her heart with compassion towards me from my earliest childhood. She used to say she loved me like one of her own children. Even without saying it, her love was always evident.

That love was mutual. I grew up deeply attached to her, and my affection for her remained alive in my heart until her final days. Her visits to my father's house or mine always brought joy and warmth. Though I grew older, the child inside me who rejoiced at her arrival never disappeared.

I visited her often. I would sit beside her, listening to her stories about the Nakba, the First Intifada and everything that came between and after them.

Allah blessed Umm Sidqi with acceptance among people. She had no conflicts with anyone, and everyone loved her. She would often repeat to me: "The tranquil soul will find paradise."

My aunt carried an oral memory of our people's tragedy. She was more than ten years older than the state of Israel itself. Her memory stretched back to 1948 - the year Israel was established, the year of the Nakba, the forced displacement of Palestinians and the beginning of a catastrophe that continues to this day.

Life in exile

In 1948, my aunt was still a child living with her parents and siblings in a village in the Ramla district, in the lands where the Zionist movement would soon establish the state of Israel.

She remembered that year vividly. Her mother - my grandmother - locked the door of their home, gathered a few belongings and took with her the family's cow, which represented wealth to them. Then they climbed onto a truck with hundreds of thousands of others fleeing Zionist massacres.

More than 78 years later, the refugees' tents have become stone and mud homes, yet people still call their neighbourhoods "camps". Families preserved their house keys and identity papers, passing them down to their children and grandchildren.

Like so many Palestinian refugees, my aunt lived in miserable conditions. She grew up, married and had children.

In 1982, when the Israeli occupation authorities built the separation barrier between Egyptian Rafah and Palestinian Rafah, the family was torn apart. Umm Sidqi remained in Palestinian Rafah while three of her sisters and two of her married daughters ended up on the Egyptian side, separated from her by the border.

When the First Palestinian Intifada erupted in 1987, thousands of young Palestinians joined resistance activities and thousands were imprisoned by the Zionist occupation authorities, including my aunt's three sons.

The occupation authorities pursued anyone involved in national activity, even those accused of writing slogans on walls or participating in demonstrations. Some were arrested simply for carrying the Palestinian flag.

My aunt's three sons were detained for varying periods, from several months to years - sometimes individually, sometimes together.

Her youngest son, Muhammad, joined the armed resistance and decided not to surrender, choosing instead to live in hiding. From then on, my aunt's home became the target of repeated Israeli military raids carried out at night. Soldiers would storm the house, destroy its contents and drag family members outside for interrogation.

Continued tragedies

During the First Intifada, the occupation often imposed curfews on Palestinian neighbourhoods and refugee camps.

One summer day in 1993, while Rafah camp was under curfew, a neighbour came to my aunt's home to tell her that her daughter Fathiya, who lived in Egyptian Rafah, had died suddenly.

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Overwhelmed by grief, my aunt defied the curfew and headed towards the border, only 50 metres from her home. An Israeli officer stopped her and said in broken Arabic: "Go back home. Curfew."

My aunt reached the border and looked through the barbed wire. On the other side, her sisters and relatives had gathered around her daughter's body as they carried her towards the cemetery.

Why do filmmakers turn to fantasy when real life contains tragedies more powerful than fiction?

My aunt returned home alone, wiping away her tears in silence while the curfew prevented neighbours and relatives from gathering to mourn with her.

A few days later, another piece of news arrived: Muhammad had managed to jump over the border fence, escape into Egypt and eventually reach Libya with the help of smugglers.

Faced with either imprisonment or exile, he chose exile.

Another sorrow entered my aunt's heart, yet she also felt relief knowing he would no longer face arrest or death at the hands of Israeli soldiers.

Years of loss

When the Second Intifada erupted in 2000, another chapter of suffering began.

Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, head of the colonial government, ordered the demolition of homes near the border separating Egypt and Gaza in Rafah. Thousands of homes were bulldozed, including my aunt's house and the land surrounding it, where the family grew olive trees and other crops that provided them with a livelihood.

Once again, my aunt and her family were displaced.

In 2005, after the Israeli army withdrew from the Gaza Strip, the Rafah border crossing was briefly opened. During those few days, her son Muhammad returned to Gaza after 12 years in exile and built a new house for my aunt, as though both mother and son were trying to make up for the years stolen from them.

Still, my aunt never lost faith or patience. She constantly repeated: "Alhamdulillah" - praise be to God.

In the early days of the war, Israel bombed the house where my aunt's eldest son and his family were sheltering. Two of his children - my aunt's grandchildren - were killed, while her son suffered severe injuries to his head and chest.

The home of her middle son, Ibrahim - Abu Salah - was bombed. Ibrahim was killed, along with another grandson, the son of Muhammad, who had himself been killed during the 2014 war. The rest of the family were severely wounded.

My family realised it would be impossible to keep hiding the truth from my aunt. She constantly asked about her children, and sooner or later she would learn what had happened. So they decided to tell her gradually.

Enduring faith

They told her first about Ibrahim and her grandson. That day, I travelled to Rafah to console her. Tears covered her face. I sat beside her while she wept uncontrollably.

Every few moments she would turn to me and say: "Abu Salah has been killed." Then she would pray for him and continue weeping.

I could find no words strong enough for such grief. I told her only: "The life of martyrs with God is better than this world, and congratulations to you for the reward of the patient."

My aunt spent the entire night crying without sleep. She had endured many hardships throughout her long life, but the loss of her son Ibrahim seemed to devastate her more than anything before.

How many Palestinian mothers are like her - mothers whose sons are killed or imprisoned, whose homes are demolished, yet when asked how they are, respond only with patience, gratitude and faith?

My aunt Khayriya, who had stayed with us to comfort her sister, told me she and my stepmother were preparing to attend the funeral. "I will go with you," I told them.

By then, Umm Sidqi had finally fallen asleep after my father brought her sleeping pills from the pharmacy. She still did not know about the death of her fourth grandson.

I sat in the living room with my children, watching my aunt sleep on the bed opposite us. My mind raced back to the series of misfortunes and tragic losses she had endured throughout her life.

I wondered how my aunt, now more than 85 years old, continued to endure such relentless grief. Could death itself become a form of mercy?

I knew she was not afraid of death. In her later years, she often told me: "I long to meet Allah." She believed death meant reuniting with the people she loved. She believed it meant another life - one without fear, sorrow or separation.

Our home was struck by a missile fired from an Israeli warplane. My children and I were wounded. My aunts, my stepmother, my cousin and our neighbour were killed. Two days later, my son Abdullah and my niece Jude died in intensive care.

While my aunt slept in her bed, the force of the explosion threw her into the street.

Later, neighbours who rushed to help her and carried her to the ambulance told us that as she drew her final breaths, she kept repeating: "Alhamdulillah. Praise be to God. There is no god but God."

My aunt lived a life filled with hardship, but she never lost her inner peace. She left this world expressing satisfaction and faith. She is an inspiration in her resilience, but she is not unique.

How many Palestinian mothers are like her - mothers whose sons are killed or imprisoned, whose homes are demolished, yet when asked how they are, respond only with patience, gratitude and faith?

The deep faith carried by these mothers has helped Palestinians endure enormous loss and unimaginable violence despite the overwhelming imbalance of power.

Without that faith, endurance and resistance would have been impossible.