A Plate of Shawarma, and Then the Sky Fell

By Malak Radwan

The table was set. The bread still soft. The meat still steaming. But Ashraf never came home.

On the morning of August 13, 2024, Ashraf sat in a small café in Deir al-Balah, sipping his coffee, perhaps thinking of his upcoming engineering exams at Al-Azhar University.

He was in his third year, counting the days until graduation, dreaming of the moment he would finally make his mother proud. But in an instant, an Israeli airstrike turned his dreams to dust.

‏Ashraf was only 21years old, but he had already carried the weight of a lifetime. The oldest of four brothers, he became the family’s pillar after his father and younger brother, Mo’ad, were martyred in January 2024. Overnight, he went from being a student to a father figure, especially to his youngest brother, Yamen, just nine years old. Ashraf would promise him for a better future—one that would never come.

‏Now, Yamen has lost his father twice.

‏Hours before the skies rained fire upon Deir al-Balah, Ashraf, my cousin, walked through the market, his mind drifting between equations from his engineering lectures and the comforting thought of his mother’s cooking. He had asked her—no, pleaded with her—to prepare his favorite dish: shawarma.

‏”Yumma, please, make it just like you used to,” he had said, his voice light for once.

‏She had smiled, despite the ache in her chest. How could she refuse? After losing her husband and her son Mo’ad,Ashraf had become her rock, her firstborn carrying the world on his shoulders. If shawarma could bring him a moment of joy, she would prepare it with all the love left in her wounded heart.

‏She seasoned the meat, sliced the tomatoes, warmed the bread. The scent of garlic and cumin filled the house. Yamen, ” Ashraf’s youngest brother” ever the eager helper, set the table, stealing bites when he thought no one was looking.

‏But Ashraf never made it home.

‏The airstrike came without warning. A phone call. A scream. Then silence.

‏The shawarma remained on the table, uneaten.

‏On earth, his mother’s hands trembled as she covered the plate, as if he might still walk through the door, grinning, hungry. But in Paradise, Ashraf was no longer waiting.

‏There, beneath the shade of eternal gardens, he sat at a table far grander than any in Gaza. His father, whole and smiling, embraced him. Mo’ad, forever young, laughed as he piled Ashraf’s plate high.

‏And Ashraf—no longer an orphan, no longer a caretaker, no longer a student with exams to pass—ate the most delicious shawarma of his existence. Not a dish made under siege, not a meal stolen between bombings, but a feast prepared by the hands of the divine.

‏Back in Deir al-Balah, his mother stared at the untouched plate, her tears salting the meat he would never taste.

‏This is the arithmetic of occupation:

‏A son asks for a meal.
A mother gives her love in the form of spices and bread.
A missile subtracts both.

‏And the world moves on.

‏But in Paradise, Ashraf dines with his loved ones, free at last.

‏And in Gaza, his empty chair is a monument.

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