My Father in Gaza Was Yearning for Our Reunion. When That Hope Died, So Did He.

Part of the Series

Struggle and Solidarity: Writing Toward Palestinian Liberation

My father, Najy Ajour, was supposed to leave Gaza for Egypt to reunite with my mother, two sisters and their children. I had convinced them to leave for their safety after our family home and second flat in Tal al-Hawa were destroyed. They had already endured a dehumanizing displacement journey that left trauma and deep scars. With the support of friends, I was able to arrange their departure through the Rafah crossing while it was briefly open.

The plan was to evacuate my father shortly after, along with another sister who remained in Gaza. But just days later, on May 7, 2024, the Rafah crossing closed, leaving him behind alone. What followed was the hardest year of his 74-year life. Still, he held on to hope, waiting for the border to open and the promise of reunion to be fulfilled.

Just hours before his death, he messaged my sister with a glimmer of optimism: There might be good news, he said. A ceasefire deal is being negotiated. He had already packed his bag, including three kilos of Arabic coffee for my mother and sisters. He had set aside a tracksuit for the journey and had sent most of his clothes ahead with my sisters to lighten his luggage.

My sisters still remember the way he cried when he took them to the Rafah crossing. His tears were deep and heavy. They thought he would follow shortly after. They didn’t realize that goodbye would be final. That it was the last time they would see him.

In his final year, he lived in forced solitude, first displaced from the al-Mawasi area, then moving to my sister’s partially damaged apartment in Khan Younis. Despite the trauma and devastation, he continued to dream. Just a day before he died, he told my sister he had dreamt his name was on the travel list — a list published on the Rafah border authority’s page, naming those permitted to cross. But instead of traveling to Egypt, he travelled to God.

Two days before he passed, an airstrike hit the building next to my sister’s home, killing several members of her husband’s family. This affected my father deeply and his health declined rapidly. Without access to lifesaving medication or food, he died in hunger and despair, still holding on to hope that the crossing would open.

Before his displacement to the south, he used to visit his best friend, my aunt Nada, daily. But after the temporary ceasefire, he didn’t go north to see her, his brothers or the rubble of our home. He wanted to stay near Rafah in case he could leave quickly. Tragically, his siblings only saw him again to say goodbye to his lifeless body.

My grief is shaped by siege and the cruelty of enforced separation. I was denied the chance to see my father in life and in death. The blockade kept us apart for decades. I left Gaza in 1993 for the West Bank, and though I visited occasionally when rare permits were granted by Israeli government, I had not seen him in person since 2014. That year, he came to Jerusalem for surgery. Since then, we stayed in touch through calls and video chats, always hoping for reunion. On his last birthday in November 2024, I sent him an old photo of us and wrote: “We’ll take new ones soon.” He replied, “Inshallah. We will share the best moments together.” That day never came.

My father was a charismatic and beloved figure in Gaza, a legendary Palestinian footballer and national celebrity. He was admired not only for his talent on the field but for the warmth, joy and light he brought into people’s lives. I was deeply moved by the number of articles and tributes written by friends and figures from the sports community all celebrating his remarkable life, captivating personality, smile and unparalleled talent. In Al-Quds newspaper the headlines included “The Miracle of Palestinian Football Has Passed Away” and “Funeral of the Superstar of the Golden Era, Najy Ajour.” A column article paid tribute with the title “The Legend, Najy Ajour, Has Passed Away.” In Al-Ayyam newspaper, one headline read “Sadness looms over the nation’s athletes after the death of Najy Ajour, the legend of Palestinian football.” Another article in the same paper was titled “The Martyr of Displacement.” There was also a headline: “A commemorative football match held in honour of Najy Ajour’s spirit.” In one survey, he was voted the best football player in Palestine over the past 50 years. He proudly shared every article written about him and often spoke to me about his achievements, inspiring me to pursue my own with the same passion.

He survived multiple bombings, the destruction of our home and repeated displacement. But it wasn’t an airstrike that took him; it was the quiet violence of despair.

He was always proud of me just as I am proud of him. He expressed his love and pride by telling me, “I am the father of Dr. Ashjan Najy Ajour,” placing his name between my first and last name. It was his way of saying, “I love you and I’m proud of you.” Despite the distance, the borders and the blockade, our bond only deepened. We were more than father and daughter; we were close friends. My siblings often wondered how I could be so open with him, sharing things they wouldn’t dare to. He even appreciated the way I challenged him, which shaped my strength. He always gave me courage. We often argued playfully. He used to joke, “You give me a headache,” and I’d reply, “I’ll bring you Acamol!”

He was full of life, with a youthful spirit. He loved sports, dancing, vibrant colors, flowers and lights. Even in his final messages, he sent me photos of himself with red roses and a cup of coffee, captioned “Sabah Al Ward” (the morning of flowers). He reacted to my reply with a heart emoji. That was the last thing I received from him: his heart, the most beautiful one. I now realize I inherited his love for color, for flowers and for life itself. In my home, I’ve created a small corner in his honor, framing his photos and surrounding them with the flowers he adored. And every morning, I greet him with “Sabah Al Ward.”

A man who once celebrated life with such vitality was in his final years reduced to surviving on canned food, weakened by malnutrition and deprived of the medical care he desperately needed. He was displaced and the destruction of our family home broke his heart, becoming weaker each day. His heart began to fail but there was no doctor to see him, no hospital equipped to help him. No time. No space. No safety. The war didn’t strike him directly. But it killed him.

My father didn’t die a natural death. He wasn’t killed by a missile, but he was killed nonetheless by despair, forced separation, the slow violence of siege, starvation and heartbreak. In Gaza, there is no peaceful death. When you live under constant airstrikes, famine and destruction, even dying becomes another form of violence. His body failed because the world failed him first.

What shattered me most was that I wasn’t there when he died. I couldn’t whisper goodbye. I grieved behind a screen separated by distance and blockade. None of his children were with him except one of my sisters who couldn’t even attend his burial. His body had to be transported through dangerous roads from Khan Younis to the north. Even in death, he wasn’t free. We feared his coffin might be bombed en route. In Gaza, funeral processions are targets, graves are desecrated and mourning is a luxury few can afford.

I watched videos of his coffin from afar, grieving in isolation. I couldn’t see him — not in life, not in death. I saw images of his body arriving at the ruins of our home. My aunts and uncles gathered, crying out: “Habibi, we miss you!” A cousin whispered, “Ashjan sends her love.” I had asked them to kiss him for me, but the camera failed. I heard mourning but I couldn’t see it. This is how we grieve under occupation: digitally, remotely, alone. Our mourning, like our lives, is fragmented.

Despite the danger, many gathered at the rubble of our old neighborhood to honor him. The Palestinian sports movement in Gaza paid tribute to the man who brought joy and pride to generations. In Egypt, where many of his friends had been evacuated, another funeral was held. I saw photos of my nephew Najy, who was named after my father, serving guests as prominent sports figures gathered to pay tribute and honor his memory. Watching those photos from a distance, I felt gratitude and heartbreak: Gratitude that he was honored.

Even amid genocide and trauma, I never let myself imagine his death. It felt sudden, but in truth, it was the slow culmination of prolonged suffering. He survived multiple bombings, the destruction of our home and repeated displacement. But it wasn’t an airstrike that took him; it was the quiet violence of despair.

He died after watching the Royal Madrid football match, the one thing he loved most in life. For two days, he had been unwell and needed to see a heart doctor, but how could we find one amid the destruction of Gaza’s health care system? How could his heart bear so much? After surviving so many attacks, so much fear, so much loss, how did it hold on? It wasn’t just sickness that took him, it was despair. Despair is a quiet lethal form of violence. He died from kahar, a word in Arabic that means “dying from sorrow too great to bear.” It’s a death born from loss, grief and a broken spirit. He died because our family was scattered across borders: his wife and two daughters in Egypt, me in the U.K., my brother in the West Bank and only one daughter still with him in Gaza. He hadn’t seen some of us in years. I hadn’t embraced him in over a decade. And yet, he held on to hope that one day, he would be reunited with us. That hope kept him alive. And when that hope disappeared, so did he.

My father’s death was the result of intentional colonial cruelty and injustice. He was denied the right to live, to move freely and to access care. And now, I am denied the right to mourn him properly. His passing reflects not only a personal loss, but the collective Palestinian suffering shaped by siege, displacement and decades of colonial violence. He died alone waiting: to reunite with family, to escape Gaza’s war brutality, to live in peace.

He had hoped to grow old surrounded by his wife, children and grandchildren. He told my sister he would rent a better flat in Egypt. He had dreams. He had plans. He held on to life and I held on to hope. But I now wonder: Why was I so hopeful? Was hope just a shield, a way to survive the unthinkable? Because of it, I delayed asking my father things I always meant to. I never recorded his memories.

I thought we had more time. I had hoped to gather all the articles and writings about him and create a special collection as a surprise for his birthday. I wanted to give him something that would preserve his legacy, especially since everything he had documented over the years had been destroyed when our home was bombed. They didn’t just destroy the walls. We lost the memories, the archives, the pieces of history we wanted to hold onto. Another dream I held close was to sit down and interview him, to hear all his stories in his own voice, his achievements, his memories, his journey. I wanted to write about him in both Arabic and English, to honor him not only as a father but also as the legend he truly was. I wanted to make him proud, to celebrate his legacy while he was still with us.

This grief is not just mine — it’s Palestinian grief: displacement, family fragmentation and disrupted mourning. Friends said, “At least his body wasn’t torn apart.” I know they meant well, but it shows how dehumanized we’ve become, grateful just to bury our dead whole. The sorrow is not only in his absence, but in what he missed. He never met me again since 2014, never sat at my table, never hugged me. He was 74. I thought we had a decade more. Instead, he died waiting to see his children together.

Yet he lives on. In memory, in tribute, in newspaper headlines that called him “The Miracle and Legend of Palestinian Football” and “The Martyr of Displacement.”

My father’s death was not only the end of a chapter, it was the theft of everything we had hoped would follow. And yet, I will remember. I will write. I will honor him not only through mourning, but through love and life, through the ongoing resistance and celebration of Palestinian existence. He was stolen from me, but his story and our memory will not be erased. I will be my father’s daughter. I will carry the heart he gave me. I will carry his name. He is not absent, he is present in everything, in my heartbeat, in my spirit. He will live on through me and in my children. I will continue to love flowers, colors, the pursuit of dreams and life itself. Just as he scored goals on the football field, I will score in my field. I will always be Dr. Ashjan Najy Ajour, the daughter he was proud of.