My butterfly, Haya.

During the first displacement, I wished it would end quickly.

I became someone else then.

Someone who just waits—waits to go home.

A year and a half later, they gave her home back.

And now—again—they took it away.

She returned, a version worse than before,

stuck again in the waiting room of life.

Days slip by, waiting.

Waiting, hoping, trying to accept.

I remember my twentieth year as if it were yesterday.

I sat on a blue sheet in the middle of green earth.

Trees surrounded me. Flowers.

A cake in front of me, the number 20 written on it,

a candle flickering.

So many loved ones around,

now only seen every three months, maybe less.

Some—like Haya—I no longer see at all.

Haya, my younger aunt.

Not much older than us.

A mother to a boy and a girl.

She gave me college advice, always.

Every Eid morning, she had a way of praising—special, tender.

After she married, she visited three times a week,

from eight in the morning.

The first day of Eid, the third day too.

The last ten days of Ramadan—spent with us.

She never missed a birthday of mine.

When trouble came my way, she was the first to warn me.

She loved butterflies.

And now—Haya disappeared.

Since December 19, 2023.

At 2:00 AM.

Until now.

Haya refused to leave Gaza during the first evacuation.

The whole family left—everyone—except Haya, her husband Saed, and their children, Bilal and Joan.

They were trapped.

In a basement of a house in Gaza.

No food.

A deadly fear stretching over a week.

Tanks shelling outside.

Bullets flying past them.

We called every number for civil defense—

everyone stalled, ignored us, offered no help.

And still—Haya, Saed, and the children—

trapped.

Under siege.

Under fear.

After the long road, fear ran through their veins,

running for miles,

pressing against any wall in the street to dodge bullets—

Haya and her family crossed the Israeli checkpoint—Netzarim.

They moved south.

Haya reached us in Deir al-Balah.

Exhausted.

Fainted.

Usually, she was strong—mentally unbreakable—but this… this was unbearable.

After attempts to hold her, Saed, and the children together,

Haya decided to move to Rafah.

A place the Israeli army called “safe” too.

Weeks passed.

And then—suddenly, at night—

the occupation hit the building next to hers.

Haya was sleeping in a room beside it.

Bilal and Joan in her arms.

The explosion threw her into the street.

She was found there, lifted by the blast.

She died.

Her children.

Her husband.

That night—the night she was killed—

Haya called us at 8 p.m.

She was crying.

Joan too.

She wanted to speak to everyone.

When I took the phone, I said,

“Haya, what’s wrong?

Please, don’t worry.

Everything will be okay.

I know it’s hard,

but it’ll be okay… I promise.”

I’m sorry, Haya.

I gave you false hope.

I didn’t know it was the last time I’d hear your voice.

I didn’t know we’d never get to see you,

never get to say goodbye.

I still have a message from you.

I can’t open it.

You wrote that you were afraid—

afraid to die without saying goodbye.

And with all the sorrow in this world,

that’s exactly what happened to you,

my Haya.

I won’t go deep into my feelings

when I learned that Haya, Saed, and the children were gone.

But my own heart—

it broke that day more than ever.

I still see her in the butterflies.

In every moment.

In every day.

I still can’t believe she’s gone.

As if she’s on a journey,

and one day—she’ll come back.

I am always in the waiting room,

waiting for them.

Haya, her children, her husband—

they were asleep in the so-called safe place.

I lost Haya, Saed, Bilal, Joan.

How many others in Gaza lost someone they loved?

Nothing can replace a loved one.

How many families—peaceful families—were killed?

How many children—killed in the worst ways?

How many children left orphaned?

How many women widowed?

How many homes burned? Crushed?

And yet—the count continues.

All of this—just a partial picture

of the horrors the enemy paints

with twisted skill.

Even the smallest creatures on earth

deserve more compassion.

More mercy.