My Sister’s Death Still Echoes Inside Me
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Current Issue
A Day for Gaza
/ February 3, 2026
My Sister’s Death Still Echoes Inside Me
Rewaa was killed by an Israeli bomb. Her absence has broken me in ways I still cannot describe.
Asmaa Dwaima
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Gaza City, December 8, 2025.
(Abdalhkem Abu Riash / Anadolu via Getty Images)
This piece is part of A Day for Gaza, an initiative in which The Nation has turned over its website exclusively to voices from the Gaza Strip. You can find all of the work in the series here.
Ioften think of my sister Rewaa as the “bride of heaven.” She moved through our lives with a calm, light spirit—someone whose presence made everything around her feel warmer and brighter. I still remember her dimples, her soft smile, my Shelter of Arms, and her generous nature, always giving more than she had.
Translated from Arabic by A. Khalil.
My longing for her stumbles at the shroud that veiled her face, and at the soil that hid her fragile body—the grave. That moment forms a permanent barrier in my life: the line between the years we lived together and everything after. She was not only a sister to me. She was my closest companion, the person who shared every stage of my life—from childhood laughter to adult burdens.
She disappeared from us on the night of July 25, 2025. At around 10:30 pm, I was sitting with my mother, eating grapes. Suddenly, my sisters Aya and Shaima burst in crying. They told us that a bombing had struck the building where Riwaa and her children were staying. My brothers rushed to Al Ahli Baptist Hospital, and we waited desperately for news. When we heard she was injured and unconscious but receiving blood units, we still clung to hope.
Minutes later, everything shattered.
A Day for Gaza
A Ceasefire in Name Only
Mohammed R. Mhawish
The Gaza Street That Refuses to Die
Ali Skaik
A Catalog of Gaza’s Loss
Deema Hattab
My Sister’s Death Still Echoes Inside Me
Asmaa Dwaima
What Gaza’s Photographers Have Seen
Huda Skaik
How to Survive in a House Without Walls
Rasha Abou Jalal
What Edward Said Teaches Us About Gaza
Alaa Alqaisi
What Happens to the Educators When the Schools Have Been Destroyed?
Ismail Nofal
At the Doorstep of Tomorrow
Engy Abdelal
“We Have Covered Events No Human Can Bear”
Ola Al Asi
They told us, “Rewaa is dead.”
That sentence still echoes inside me. My mother collapsed in grief. My sisters screamed. Our house shook with pain.
We didn’t sleep that night. At dawn, we went to Al-Ahli Hospital. Behind a red curtain lay my sister’s body, wrapped in white. Next to her was Fadi, her youngest, his small body still and swollen. He had followed his mother even into death.
I lifted the shroud from …
This affects the entire country.
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Current Issue
A Day for Gaza
/ February 3, 2026
My Sister’s Death Still Echoes Inside Me
Rewaa was killed by an Israeli bomb. Her absence has broken me in ways I still cannot describe.
Asmaa Dwaima
Share
Copy Link
X (Twitter)
Bluesky Pocket
Ad Policy
Gaza City, December 8, 2025.
(Abdalhkem Abu Riash / Anadolu via Getty Images)
This piece is part of A Day for Gaza, an initiative in which The Nation has turned over its website exclusively to voices from the Gaza Strip. You can find all of the work in the series here.
Ioften think of my sister Rewaa as the “bride of heaven.” She moved through our lives with a calm, light spirit—someone whose presence made everything around her feel warmer and brighter. I still remember her dimples, her soft smile, my Shelter of Arms, and her generous nature, always giving more than she had.
Translated from Arabic by A. Khalil.
My longing for her stumbles at the shroud that veiled her face, and at the soil that hid her fragile body—the grave. That moment forms a permanent barrier in my life: the line between the years we lived together and everything after. She was not only a sister to me. She was my closest companion, the person who shared every stage of my life—from childhood laughter to adult burdens.
She disappeared from us on the night of July 25, 2025. At around 10:30 pm, I was sitting with my mother, eating grapes. Suddenly, my sisters Aya and Shaima burst in crying. They told us that a bombing had struck the building where Riwaa and her children were staying. My brothers rushed to Al Ahli Baptist Hospital, and we waited desperately for news. When we heard she was injured and unconscious but receiving blood units, we still clung to hope.
Minutes later, everything shattered.
A Day for Gaza
A Ceasefire in Name Only
Mohammed R. Mhawish
The Gaza Street That Refuses to Die
Ali Skaik
A Catalog of Gaza’s Loss
Deema Hattab
My Sister’s Death Still Echoes Inside Me
Asmaa Dwaima
What Gaza’s Photographers Have Seen
Huda Skaik
How to Survive in a House Without Walls
Rasha Abou Jalal
What Edward Said Teaches Us About Gaza
Alaa Alqaisi
What Happens to the Educators When the Schools Have Been Destroyed?
Ismail Nofal
At the Doorstep of Tomorrow
Engy Abdelal
“We Have Covered Events No Human Can Bear”
Ola Al Asi
They told us, “Rewaa is dead.”
That sentence still echoes inside me. My mother collapsed in grief. My sisters screamed. Our house shook with pain.
We didn’t sleep that night. At dawn, we went to Al-Ahli Hospital. Behind a red curtain lay my sister’s body, wrapped in white. Next to her was Fadi, her youngest, his small body still and swollen. He had followed his mother even into death.
I lifted the shroud from …
My Sister’s Death Still Echoes Inside Me
This affects the entire country.
Log In
Email *
Password *
Remember Me
Forgot Your Password?
Log In
New to The Nation? Subscribe
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My Sister’s Death Still Echoes Inside Me
Magazine
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Log In
Search
Subscribe
Donate
Magazine
Latest
Archive
Podcasts
Newsletters
Sections
Politics
World
Economy
Culture
Books & the Arts
The Nation
About
Events
Contact Us
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Current Issue
A Day for Gaza
/ February 3, 2026
My Sister’s Death Still Echoes Inside Me
Rewaa was killed by an Israeli bomb. Her absence has broken me in ways I still cannot describe.
Asmaa Dwaima
Share
Copy Link
Facebook
X (Twitter)
Bluesky Pocket
Email
Ad Policy
Gaza City, December 8, 2025.
(Abdalhkem Abu Riash / Anadolu via Getty Images)
This piece is part of A Day for Gaza, an initiative in which The Nation has turned over its website exclusively to voices from the Gaza Strip. You can find all of the work in the series here.
Ioften think of my sister Rewaa as the “bride of heaven.” She moved through our lives with a calm, light spirit—someone whose presence made everything around her feel warmer and brighter. I still remember her dimples, her soft smile, my Shelter of Arms, and her generous nature, always giving more than she had.
Translated from Arabic by A. Khalil.
My longing for her stumbles at the shroud that veiled her face, and at the soil that hid her fragile body—the grave. That moment forms a permanent barrier in my life: the line between the years we lived together and everything after. She was not only a sister to me. She was my closest companion, the person who shared every stage of my life—from childhood laughter to adult burdens.
She disappeared from us on the night of July 25, 2025. At around 10:30 pm, I was sitting with my mother, eating grapes. Suddenly, my sisters Aya and Shaima burst in crying. They told us that a bombing had struck the building where Riwaa and her children were staying. My brothers rushed to Al Ahli Baptist Hospital, and we waited desperately for news. When we heard she was injured and unconscious but receiving blood units, we still clung to hope.
Minutes later, everything shattered.
A Day for Gaza
A Ceasefire in Name Only
Mohammed R. Mhawish
The Gaza Street That Refuses to Die
Ali Skaik
A Catalog of Gaza’s Loss
Deema Hattab
My Sister’s Death Still Echoes Inside Me
Asmaa Dwaima
What Gaza’s Photographers Have Seen
Huda Skaik
How to Survive in a House Without Walls
Rasha Abou Jalal
What Edward Said Teaches Us About Gaza
Alaa Alqaisi
What Happens to the Educators When the Schools Have Been Destroyed?
Ismail Nofal
At the Doorstep of Tomorrow
Engy Abdelal
“We Have Covered Events No Human Can Bear”
Ola Al Asi
They told us, “Rewaa is dead.”
That sentence still echoes inside me. My mother collapsed in grief. My sisters screamed. Our house shook with pain.
We didn’t sleep that night. At dawn, we went to Al-Ahli Hospital. Behind a red curtain lay my sister’s body, wrapped in white. Next to her was Fadi, her youngest, his small body still and swollen. He had followed his mother even into death.
I lifted the shroud from …
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