Salma Ibrahim

I've been trying for a while to write about Ibrahim, but I can't. Maybe it's the shock that Ibrahim, who loved life and loved people, and whom people loved, has left us and gone. Or maybe it's because Ibrahim is a whole book of stories, memories, laughter, and games. I used to envy my mother and father for having a son like him. He would sing a clip from the song "Sahrat Hubb" (An Evening of Love) to my mother, asking her, "How are you, Randa?" and my mother would reply, "Mniha!" (Good!), and he would sing back to her, "And oh, how tender her voice is." He was my brother and my friend, the best civil engineer in all of Gaza, my teacher for math, physics, and Arabic, and the keeper of my secrets. He showered us with kindness, fun, and love. His wife Aya, or my third sister as I used to call her, was like his twin in her kindness and her cheerfulness. They loved life and had many plans and many countries they dreamed of visiting. With their two beautiful daughters: Randa—witty and smart like her father, kind-hearted like her mother— and Salma, who didn't even make it to three months old. On October 23, I called my mother, and Ibrahim answered. It was the first time I was able to speak with him on video. He was happy, and around him were my cousins who were killed along with him. Ibrahim: "Come on, get ready, we're coming to you in Turkey." Me: "Haha, no, forget Turkey, it's full of racism. Go to Egypt and I'll come to you." Ibrahim: "I say we just meet in Paradise, and that's it, haha." The next day, Ibrahim, Aya, Randa, and Salma were killed. We will not forget. We will not forgive.