Heba Abu Nada, an acclaimed Palestinian poet and novelist, was killed by an Israeli airstrike on her home in Khan Yunis, Gaza, on October 20, 2023. She was thirty-two years old.
One year on from Heba’s death, Somaia Abu Nada pays tribute to the life and work of her beloved sister.
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Dear Heba,
Do you know how difficult it is for an ordinary person like me to describe a distinguished writer like you? My English vocabulary feels too limited to capture your essence. Yet I know how much you cherish these scattered letters when they come together to create something meaningful.
It feels almost unfair for me to have grown up admiring your every step, holding your hand, and always dreaming of getting closer to your level of perfection. As your younger and only sister, your courage to speak out about yourself and our people has inspired me to become who I am today. You were the first person to teach me who we are as Palestinians, and why it is so important to write about our lives. I still remember you were the first hand that held mine on my way to kindergarten. I remember how you used to save part of our pocket money so we could buy sweets after school.
It’s been a year since I last talked to you. I find myself asking how I can reach out to you. When I look to the sky, I think about sending my voice to you. Sometimes, I try to speak to you when I’m alone or even in the middle of a crowd. I whisper, “How are you today?” “Are you happy?” “Have you found your everlasting paradise?”
I try to talk to you whenever I see a butterfly, a flower, a sunset, a sunrise, a beautiful baby, or a cute kitten; whenever I feel a cool breeze or warm sunshine; when I come across a lovely notebook, an elegant pen, an interesting recipe; when I smell an enchanting perfume, hear a silly joke, discover a new song, or stumble upon a classic place, or simply when I gaze at the night sky. Everything genuine reminds me of you, Heba.
I feel delighted when you visit me in my dreams. But there isn’t enough time in a dream to fill you in on all the details of a year packed with life.
It’s been a year! 365 days without your smile, without your boundless kindness, without our sisterly bond. I might be getting better; recently, I found myself able to cry over you. I want to cry every second. Life has become endless shades of black and white without you.
Her Childhood
Heba was born in June of 1991, at the dawn of summer. She was always enchanted by the season—the warmth, the endless blue sky, and the gentle embrace of the sea. Heba was the eldest child, my mother’s firstborn. She came into this world in Saudi Arabia, where my parents lived at the time due to my father’s job as a nurse.
My mother, far from her own family and with my father working long shifts at the hospital, devoted all her time to Heba. Heba was nurtured with love, wisdom, and learning from a young age. My mother taught her English, verses of the Qur’an, Arabic literature, religion, and science. By the age of six, Heba surpassed her classmates, excelling in every subject.
As Heba grew, she became a caretaker to her siblings. My earliest memories are of her guiding me and our younger brother to kindergarten, holding our hands. She was a steady presence in our lives, always leading us forward.
Growing up in a family with working parents only strengthened the bond between us as siblings. Heba was both mother and father to all of us. She invented wonderful games and always ensured the house was tidy before our parents came home. Even as a child, Heba was our protector, shielding us from anyone who might cause harm.
Heba had a vivid and unique imagination. I remember the fantastical stories she would weave of kingdoms in space inhabited by fairies striving to save the universe. Every day after school, she would gather my brothers and me together and spin new episodes filled with wonder. Her storytelling was rich with vivid imagery, compelling characters, intricate plots, and thoughtful endings. Each day, I would eagerly await the next installment of her tale.
Heba’s creativity extended beyond storytelling. She would bring her characters to life with beautifully illustrated drawings. Her art was a mirror to her vibrant imagination, capturing the essence of the worlds she dreamt up.
Her Education and Accomplishments
Heba’s love for books and poetry began at a very young age. By the time she was ten, she had already written her first metrical poem. Her shelves were always brimming with books and papers—the words that shaped her world.
In 2008, our uncle was killed by the Israeli occupation. Heba loved him deeply, and his loss devastated her. She channeled all her grief into writing, transforming her pain into poetry. This tragic event marked a change in Heba’s personality, and a turning point in her journey as a writer. From that moment, her creative output grew, ranging from metrical poems to free verse, stories, songs, and prose.
Over the years, Heba’s writing abilities developed significantly. She wrote lyrical plays about Palestine and co-authored three poetry collections: Abjadiet Alqied Al-Akheer, Gaza Poet, and Al-Asef Al-Ma’koul. Her work earned her numerous local awards, so many that we dedicated an entire shelf in our home to her prizes.
Alongside her passion for writing, Heba pursued her academic journey with equal determination. She earned her BA in Biochemistry in 2013, followed by a Higher Diploma in Education Methodologies in 2015. In 2016, she completed one semester in Interior Design Engineering. By 2018, she began her master’s degree in Clinical Nutrition. Before October, Heba was preparing to defend her thesis; it was titled: The Effectiveness of Total Energy and Protein Intake on Lean Mass Among Cancer Patients Receiving Chemotherapy in Gaza Strip, Palestine.
Heba’s literary talent was recognized far and wide. She won first place in the “We Will Return to It” writing competition and, in 2017, secured second place in the Al-Shariqa Novel Award. She also earned fourth place in the “Gaza Poet” competition.
Despite her many achievements, Heba always dreamed of seeing the the world beyond Gaza’s walls. Unfortunately, due to the ongoing siege and the many obstacles Gazans face when attempting to travel (such as obtaining permits from neighboring countries and exit approvals from the occupying forces), Heba was unable to fulfill that dream.
Her Last Days
“I am satisfied. I am calm. There is nothing I am afraid of. You don’t have to worry.” Heba repeated these phrases often in her final days.
When we received the news that we had to evacuate our homes and move to what was called a “safe zone,” I had a heated argument with my family, insisting we should leave the North. But Heba was resolute—she wanted to stay in our home. After much debate, we all agreed to evacuate. Heba, however, was the last to leave the house. I waited for her, watching as the massive crowds rushed to escape. In the chaos, I lost sight of her. I kept moving, looking back constantly, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
Eventually, I saw her. Heba was carrying her belongings and walking slowly, as if savoring each step. I imagined her quietly saying goodbye to every corner of our home, bidding farewell to the trees, the rooms, the memories, the laughter, and the celebrations. Heba sat beside me on the car ride south. She rested her head on my shoulder, we held hands, and she cried. Leaving our home was heartbreaking for Heba, but witnessing the displacement of her people weighed on her even more.
When we arrived at our aunt’s house, Heba made it her mission to spread calm and to ease our fears. Every time I flinched at the sound of bombings, she held my hand tightly, reassuring me. She went out of her way to help all of us, telling us that we would be okay and that all of this would end soon. I can still see her smile; it never left her face. That smile was like a balm, soothing our hearts and letting us know that everything would be alright.
There was a swing at my aunt’s house, and Heba loved sitting on it, quietly enjoying the moment. On her last day, Heba took a nap in the afternoon. When she woke up, she saw me sitting with my cousins. She smiled and waved at me without saying a word. Her face seemed to glow with a peaceful brightness. She walked lightly, almost as if she were floating, humming a sweet melody. She looked like she had woken up from a beautiful dream.
Maybe she knew it would be her last day on earth. She didn’t speak much to any of us that day; her mind seemed far away, lost in thought. She just hummed and smiled. That’s how she went, with a smile, leaving us to wonder what dream she’d had that afternoon, a dream that carried her so gently into the quiet.
Days after Heba was killed, I found myself remembering her absence at my thesis defense. She had spent countless days helping me prepare, so filled with excitement and joy for me. She wanted everything to be perfect. When the supervisors were about to announce the approval of my thesis, I looked around the room, searching for her. But Heba wasn’t there. A few moments later, she appeared. I asked, “Where have you been?” She smiled and replied, “I thought you might not have enough flowers, so I went to bring you a bouquet.”
Though it has been a year, I still find myself waiting for you, Heba, to show up again, holding another bouquet for me, ready to share a new story spun from your wild imagination.