a delicate, small gazelle 🤲🏽

in loving memory of Mai Ubeid.

Yesterday, I received word that the state of Israel—aided and abetted by American weaponry, funding, and endorsement—murdered Mai Ubeid alongside her entire family. Mai was a member of Gaza Sky Geeks (GSG), the community center and tech hub where I worked for five years in Gaza. 

Mai was diagnosed with muscular dystrophy and lost her ability to walk at the age of 12, making her wheelchair bound for the rest of her life. She was a graduate of our Code Academy, an intensive, full-time, six-month web development bootcamp. Mai was the valedictorian of her university class, a curious learner who landed a Google-backed internship upon graduation. She dreamed to found a startup that would support others living with disabilities.

Mai was exceedingly kind, gracious, and driven. The GSG community—the people of Gaza—is what I adored most about my life and work in Palestine. I was among dreamers and builders; creators of a world that did not yet exist, a world that was withheld from them.

Two years ago, I collaborated with GSG staff and community members on a fundraiser for Mai to help her family afford an elevator installation that would enable her to be more mobile in her home. My friend and co-worker Asmaa, a gifted storyteller, championed the initiative and created photos and videos that captured Mai’s radiance. I wrote English copy to tell her story to an international audience. My friend and GSG community member Muhammed, a talented and clever graphic designer, created shareable cartoons to bring visibility to her fundraiser. We raised the money, hired contractors through a local NGO, and outfitted Mai’s home with an elevator, easing the burden on her and her family.

Rather than fulfilling her big-hearted entrepreneurial dreams, Mai has become shaheeda—a martyr. In Arabic, the word martyr shares an etymology with witness. As in, Mai’s body has become a witness to the crime of injustice.

With my shoddy Arabic, I assumed Mai’s name meant water. I heard that within hours of Israel announcing that they would entirely cut off Gaza’s water, food, fuel, and medication supply, a light rain drizzled upon Gaza. Tweets and Instagram posts from Gaza heralded the rainfall as a sign of God’s mercy.

In the wake of learning of Mai’s death, I messaged a Palestinian friend. 

The name Mai means water, right? 

No, it’s a different word, slightly different pronunciation. In Arabic, the name Mai means a delicate, small gazelle. Just like our Mai.

This summer, I began writing a book about my time in Gaza, a memoir that honors my Palestinian friends and celebrates their love for community, earth, and life. I wanted to humanize a place imprisoned by Israel and the cruelty of dirty politics. I wanted to tell stories that inspire a deep and radical love in the hearts of my readers, a love that gives way to compassion-fueled courage to stand in solidarity with Palestine.

I wanted to shed light on Gaza’s vulnerability—on the looming threat of its erasure. 

That project is paused. Instead, I am writing obituaries.

While dodging indiscriminate bombing, Gazans dig mass graves.

I get lost in thought contemplating how Israel murders Palestinians by the thousands. They drop bombs on homes, on whole neighborhoods, causing concrete walls to come crashing in on entire families. Take a moment to look at the walls that surround you, the walls you take for granted as your home—your shelter—your respite from the outside world. 

The literal and metaphysical weaponization of home—cruelty doesn’t feel like an adequate word for that kind of violence.

Mai is one of several thousands of Palestinian lives stolen—wasted—to the arrogance of Western imperialism. My heart shatters again and again at the thought of all the stories, nuances, quirks, and dreams that are buried beneath rubble. The lives that have been reduced to mere numbers on your phone screen.

The facade of Gaza Sky Geeks as of mid-October 2023.

I am exasperated. I don’t have the luxury to mourn these immeasurable losses because this moment direly demands advocacy, organizing, and action. It’s maddening to me that we live in a world where boldly and directly opposing a genocide is a radical act.

I fall back on the teachings of Toni Morrison—

This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.

So in the midst of my life’s most turbulent grief, I am here to say this:

Palestine does not need our pity; it needs our power.

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Internet and cellular connection in Gaza is virtually non-existent at the moment. I don’t know exactly when and which Israeli airstrike killed Mai, but I do know that two days ago, Facebook notified me of her birthday. This is the last message I sent to her:

I take solace in knowing that Mai’s soul finally knows the highest expression of peace and freedom, two privileges she was robbed of in her time on earth. I take solace in knowing that she is now liberated from a life immobilized by cruelty. That she is moving boundlessly—like a delicate, small gazelle.

Rest in power, Mai. I will miss you endlessly. I loved being part of your life.