For people in Gaza, death is a constant companion. That’s why they’re writing their wills | CBC News
Before the war in Gaza, the Nasser Medical Complex in Khan Younis was a regularly functioning hospital. Patients would come in and their ailments would be handled by health-care staff. But in the last year, death has become omnipresent there, and now, funeral prayers are held almost every day in the hospital courtyard.
There is likely no one among the more than two million residents of Gaza who hasn’t been touched by death in some way. Those on ground say they feel death has become a constant companion during their struggle to survive, a pervasive presence that has led some Palestinians to face their mortality by writing their wills.
These wills don’t always take the conventional form of a legal document meant to split assets. Some write their wills as poems while others write about their feelings toward death, about their hopes and dreams and offer advice to those who survive.
Yousef al-Qidra, a poet and academic researcher, told CBC News freelance videographer Mohamed El Saife that his will — a simple paragraph — was written in a moment of panic after a nearby airstrike put him face to face with the possibility of death.
After the explosion, as the dust gathered around him, al-Qidra was faced with the uncertainty of the moment and worried about whether he would live or die. It caused him to reach for his phone and frantically type out a text message.
“After survival, the responsibility lies in rebuilding what has been torn down. To create new lives lit by the smiles of children, surrounded by the lights of love and mercy,” he wrote.
“In this vision, I see myself shining as a child clinging to life for eternity.”
The phenomenon of war-time wills has become so widespread in Gaza that it caught the attention of Hani Al Telfah, a publisher currently in Turkey.
He and Reem Ghanayem, an editor based in northern Israel, compiled 18 last wills and testaments in a book published in Beirut under the Dar Al Maaref imprint. It is currently being translated into English and is set to be published in 2026 under Akoya, a U.K.-based publishing house.
“This book isn’t just for reading, it’s a book for history,” said Al Telfah. “It’s important for the words in this book to stay alive.”
Three of the contributors to the book and the family of one who died in December 2023 spoke to CBC freelance videographer Mohamed El Saife about the moments that triggered them to write their wills, as well as their thoughts on death, how they’ve faced it and survived during the last year of war.
A moment of fear — Yousef al-Qidra
Sitting in his tent in Khan Younis, al-Qidra recalls the moment of fear that inspired him to write his will. A building about 50 metres away from him had just been bombed and he says he and death were living a moment “together.”
“Either he (death) takes you, or you delay it,” he told CBC News. “That’s it, nothing more.”
After survival, the responsibility lies in rebuilding what has been torn down. To create new lives lit by the smiles of children, surrounded by the lights of love and mercy … In this vision, I see myself shining as a child clinging to life for eternity.– The will of Yousef al-Qidra
As the dust billowed around him, invading his throat and lungs, al-Qidra says he reached for his phone and began to write his will.
He says that while death was present in that moment, so too was his instinct for survival. Al-Qidra describes himself as someone who is “attached to life.” He says his constant attempts to survive through many airstrikes and displacements, as well as his desire to write, are proof of that.
He says he feels some form of redemption at outrunning death for this long.
“As long as you are breathing, as long as you still exist on this earth, this is some form of victory,” al-Qidra said.
In his will, the 41-year-old wrote that the strip was filled with “last moments that constantly surround us everywhere, under the skies of Gaza.” In those moments, he says, life’s lessons become clear and the shortness of life’s journey is understood.
Yousef al-Qidra, a poet and academic researcher in Gaza, says he frantically wrote his will on his phone after a nearby airstrike put him face to face with the possibility of death. In it, he asks that his organs be donated if they are needed — all except his ‘tiring-tired heart, which longs for rest.’
Al-Qidra’s will spoke to his legacy, suggesting his writings be given to the public. He also asked that his memory be met with a prayer that would bring him “serenity.”
Finally, he asked for his organs to be donated if they were needed — all except his “tiring-tired heart, which longs for rest.”
Mother and daughter — Ni’ma and Mayar Hassan
Ni’ma Hassan says writing her will a few months after war broke out in Gaza was a way to “prove our presence.”
At the time, the 44-year-old mother of seven said she thought the war might end quickly, so her words were still hopeful. But looking back on the last year, she says that even if the bombs stopped today, much of that hope has been destroyed, along with her reality in Gaza.
She says her outlook on death changed — death became a presence, looming over her. Other writers also said they began to think of death as an ominous presence rather than a distant thought.
“You deal with it as if it’s a real person in front of you, face-to-face,” Hassan said. “You look death in the eyes.”
Despite this, Hassan admits she’s scared to die. The former Rafah resident says she’s been displaced five times, going between displacement centres, tents and sometimes the street in an effort to evade death.
“We’re scared of death and we run away from it,” she said.
Hassan is currently sheltering near the Nasser Medical Complex, where she says “death became my companion on my route,” as family and friends mourn their loved ones in the courtyard of the hospital where she often walks.
Hassan says writing her will was a way “to face death” that has surrounded her every day. In it, she speaks of Gaza and the death it has faced.
“Gaza is sold in a box buried under the rubble,” she wrote, referencing dowry boxes given to a bride on her wedding day. “The bride, still in her white robes, has lost her voice.”
Hassan writes that she feels death looking at her “as if waiting for me to open up so it can strike.”
I advise you to live the life we will no longer have.– The will of Ni’ma Hassan
“Gaza has turned into a death snake,” she writes, and eventually, it will be her turn to face it.
During the early days of the war, parents were writing their children’s names on their arms and legs so their limbs would be more easily identifiable if they were hit by an airstrike. Hassan makes note of the practice in her will and pleads with death to spare her children’s limbs.
And she expresses frustration that she’s unable to find a safe place that would protect her children from “imminent death.”
Finally, she leaves her readers with a piece of advice: “I advise you to live the life we will no longer have.”
When her 12-year-old daughter, Mayar, showed an interest in writing, Hassan encouraged her to write her own will.
Mayar says it was her way to feel “strong” in the face of death, and that in the last year, she has grown wiser and older than her true age. But in her will, her hopes and dreams are still that of a young girl.
So, if our house is bombed, I do not want anyone looking for me when my siblings and my mother die. I want to stay with them in life and in death.– The will of Mayar Hassan
“I am telling [death] to take care of me, my parents and all my loved ones,” she said.
Mayar’s childhood fears can still be felt in her words — she’s scared of being alone, both in life and in death.
“So, if our house is bombed, I do not want anyone looking for me when my siblings and my mother die,” she wrote. “I want to stay with them in life and in death.”
In her will, Mayar also makes note of children forced to undergo amputations in Gaza.
In the event she suffers the same fate, she says she will look for her limb and keep it with her so she remains whole, even in death, “and no part of me is left to grieve.”
The viral poet — Refaat Alareer
The Palestinian poet and scholar Refaat Alareer died in December 2023 with his siblings and their children after an Israeli airstrike hit the home where they were sheltering.
News of his death went viral as friends, family and colleagues paid their respects by sharing his will online.
Alareer had posted the 20-line poem If I Must Die on his Instagram on Oct. 13, 2023. In it, he encourages readers to use his death to “bring back love” to Gaza.
His mother, Imm Hani, says Alareer never told her about what he wrote before his sudden death.
“I saw it online,” she said. “Even in Western countries, they talk about him and his will.”
When presented with a copy of her late son’s poem, Imm Hani fought back tears as she read the lines about a child in Gaza whose father left without bidding him farewell.
Refaat Alareer, a poet from Gaza, was killed alongside members of his family in December 2023 by an Israeli airstrike that hit the home where they were sheltering. Alareer had posted a 20-line poem titled If I Must Die on his Instagram two months prior.
Through her sobs, she remembered the day she found out he had died along with his siblings, nieces and nephews.
“Sometimes I forget the martyrs … I hold my phone for a moment, just a few seconds,” she said. “I want to call him, but then I remember.”
Meanwhile, on the south side of the Nasser Medical Complex in Khan Younis, the cemetery has been expanded.
Before Oct. 7, Ahmed Abu Hata, the undertaker who cares for the dead here, says his busiest day would have seen him bury just three or four people. Now, he says he buries close to 15 or 20 people a day.
Tired, he sits on the edge of yet another grave he’s prepared, using scraps of metal and rubble from destroyed buildings, as the death toll continues to climb ever higher.
