Written by Shahd Ahmad Alnaami, from 16th October Group
My best friend, Eman Qamom, was martyred in December by an Israeli attack. She had told me she didn’t want “to be killed and forgotten.” I am here to remember Eman. I hope she has found peace in a better place.
On the evening of Friday, December 22, 2023 I was lying on my bed that no longer exists. The house I was in has since been destroyed but it wasn’t that night. That evening though was shattered by the piercing cry of a missile. An earth-shaking explosion followed, its force reverberating through my chest, making my heart beat faster.
My mother yelled for me to come and sit with her. I knew she was afraid of losing one of us. She had been stuck in Egypt for the first two months of the war, her vacation there had turned into a nightmare. She was terrified of us being harmed, and even though we were now together, that fear had not subsided .
That afternoon, I had been talking with my friend Eman about this. She laughed, saying fear was normal until you get used to the situation. With her words lingering in my mind, I turned my attention to my anxious mother, hoping to ease her tension by asking about her adventures in Egypt. My brother came in and said, “Don’t wait for Dad; he will be late tonight.” It wasn’t unusual for him to be late, but it was unusual for my brother to mention it. Everyone went to back to their rooms and slept.
The next morning, we woke up and had breakfast. Afterward, my father got his clothes and went out. It was about 7:00 a.m., too early to go anywhere. I didn’t think much of it, assuming he had work.
Someone knocked on the door. From his voice, I recognized that it was my father’s friend. He asked my brother if my father was in the hospital with Abd Al-Rahman, another close friend. I rushed to the kitchen to tell my mother. I felt she knew something I didn’t.
I insisted that she tell me what was going on.
“Pray for Eman,” she uttered softly eventually.
“What happened to Eman?!” Every part of me refused to understand what that meant.
“Eman was killed while praying Al-Maghrib, yesterday evening.”
“Are you kidding me? Just yesterday, we were chatting and laughing together!” I exclaimed.
As my mother began to weep, the stark reality of her words hit me. I wished I had died before having to hear such a truth like this. I ran to my room, opening our last chat.
Was that huge explosion yesterday the one that killed my best friend, Eman?
Did my heart beat faster because I felt something had happened?
Did you feel pain, Eman, or did you sleep in peace?
Remembering Eman
Eman Qamom was my best friend. Her parents were friends with my family before we were born. We grew up side by side; she is a year younger than me. Eman was the quietest, kindest, and softest girl you would ever meet. She hoped to be a children’s doctor because she loved kids as I do. Together, we experienced everything—laughter and tears, shopping sprees, nighttime strolls, and shared dreams.
Every happy memory is tied to her.
Every photo on my phone reminds me of her.
On the day she was killed Eman had welcomed her aunt and then went to pray Al-Maghrib. She promised her aunt she would make tea and biscuits when she finished. While she was prostrating, a bomb hit their neighbor’s apartment, and the wall of the room she was praying in collapsed on her. Her mother, who was also praying in the same room, was injured, but Eman, absorbed in prayer, was killed.
I dreamt of Eman on the first night after her martyrdom. We were in the university elevator, carrying boxes and laughing. Suddenly, she stopped the elevator and stepped out. I asked her if she would leave me alone. “No, I have to go alone, and you must stay here.” Then she walked away and disappeared very quietly.
Nostalgia weaves through me for the souls departed, their faces snatched by death
Eman, her mother, and her sister visited us ten days before she died to see my mother when she returned from Egypt. I remember every word she said and every reaction she made.
“I don’t want to be killed and forgotten, to be buried in some way,” she commented, while we were talking about how people were being killed. My dear Eman, I hope you have found peace in a better place. We will never forget you.
She once planned, “Shahd, when this war ends, let’s travel with our families on a vacation like your mother’s.”
Now, how can I travel without you, Eman?
At the end of the visit, she hugged me so tightly. I didn’t know it would be the last hug. My mother thanked God for seeing them again in Gaza because she was afraid something bad might happen to them while she was in Egypt. What she feared happened.
Moving forward
It took me two months to find the courage to visit their home.
When we knocked on the door, her mother opened it. My gaze darted around, expecting to find Eman, but she wasn’t there. As we sat with her mother, I could almost feel Eman’s soul presence enveloping us, as though she were sharing the conversation. Our tears flowed unabated, to her new enduring absence. As I laid eyes on the room where she was killed, I was confronted with the sight of Eman’s blood staining the walls. It felt as if an oppressive force gripped my chest, choking me with a profound sense of loss and anguish.
Her mother gave me Eman’s favorite things: her jacket, watch, necklace, earrings, ring, and her favorite novel.
Wherever I go, Eman and her things will be kept deep of my heart.
I will always tell your story and your dreams.
You were a person with a life to live; you are not just a number.
I hope you are in a better place.
I love you.
I miss you.
Rest in power, my sweetheart, Eman.
Published before: Mondoweiss
