I would like to share a few words about my relatives who have been affected by the war.
Unfortunately, several members of my extended family have been injured, displaced or killed.
On 17 July, my aunt, Fumia Ayyad, a respected retired teacher, died in a shelling that struck Holy Family Church, which was sheltering civilians. Our friend Saad Salameh was also killed in the same attack, and others were injured, including Father Gabriel Romanelli.
In that same tragic incident, Najwa Ayyad, my father’s cousin, was also killed.
As with many families in Gaza, we have been deeply affected — psychologically, physically and economically.
Despite the pain, we are trying to remain resilient, support each other, and keep hope alive.
My aunt served as a school principal at UNRWA schools for nearly 40 years. She was a proud member of the Ayyad family, married without children, and remained devoted to education until she reached retirement.
The life of Najwa Ayad was filled with pain and loss in recent years. She had lost her son, Hani Abu Dahoud, a kidney patient. The war in Gaza forced him to move south in search of dialysis, but he never found a facility and died without treatment. Soon after, Najwa’s husband died of cancer, with no access to diagnosis or therapy. Najwa herself suffered from multiple fractures and tumors, but had no opportunity to receive proper care. Ironically, illness did not kill her, but a strike on the church where she had taken refuge did.
Saad Salameh was a kind and committed man who worked with the Near East Council of Churches in Gaza. He had been assigned to guard the Church of the Holy Family — the Latin Convent — which had become a shelter for displaced families. He died protecting those who had sought a haven from the missiles and airstrikes.
He was unmarried and around 60 years old. He supported all his relatives and extended family. Most of his family had left Gaza before this war, scattered worldwide as they settled in various countries. He died alone, without anyone by his side.
These are not just personal losses. These lives and deaths represent the story of Gaza today: People seeking safety, healing and dignity, only to be met with violence and indifference.
Despite everything, we try to hold on to hope. We support one another, we remember our loved ones and we continue to speak — because silence would be another kind of death.
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