I met Fadi as one of the participants in a training session I had given earlier to a group of poultry and livestock farmers in the southern Gaza Strip on “Disaster Risk Reduction (DRR)” and dealing with difficult circumstances in Gaza.

This is what Fadi shared with me in Rafah…

Fadi was returning from dawn prayers on a day that he thought would be a normal, routine day in the midst of war—a frightening, sad, and long day, just like all the other impossible days. He approached his house and stood among the scattered small trees surrounding his home, talking to his wife who was standing at the window, watching her beloved husband. Little did she know that his life would change forever in the blink of an eye. They were having a conversation, each drawing the other into the talk, and the terrifying calm surrounded them, except for the sound of that despicable machine we had come to call the “Zanana” in Gaza. It was an American-Israeli drone, often used for surveillance and reconnaissance, and if it spotted a target or something suspicious, it would turn into a vicious beast, launching deadly rockets, all controlled remotely by a vile or despicable person sitting comfortably sipping a cup of cappuccino, watching as our children were torn to pieces.

The day began to break, and Fadi and his wife were still talking. Suddenly, without any warning, Fadi said: “I saw a steel object fiercely and eagerly cutting its way in front of me, falling from the sky, devouring the space towards me, swallowing the air around me until it landed with hellfire between my feet.” Yes, he saw it before him, its color, its details, and the writing on it—some letters and numbers. The rocket was screaming with rage, surrounded by hatred, trailing a boiling flame and light that illuminated everything for a fraction of a second, then darkness followed, and all his senses vanished. The rocket disappeared, and with it, awareness took over. He didn’t know what had happened, and after what felt like an eternity, he began to hear screams all around him. His wife, mother, father, and brothers were crying and shouting, “Fadi is martyred, Fadi is martyred.” Fadi couldn’t move any part of his body, especially his lower body. He opened his eyes with great effort and saw his brother crying and shouting as he gathered Fadi’s shattered body parts, trying to put his organs and intestines back in place. Fadi couldn’t see his legs at that moment and felt no sensation in any of his limbs.

Then, he lost consciousness, whether in a coma or deep sleep or perhaps the beginning of death. After some time, he was aware that they were carrying him and saying, “They’re taking the martyrs to Nasser Hospital’s cold storage.” At that moment, Fadi didn’t understand whether he was dead or alive. He felt his surroundings and could hear faintly but couldn’t make sense of his own state. Was he dead? Had they made a mistake? Could he still live?

The ambulance drove him along with other bodies, and Fadi was among them, yet he wasn’t dead. With all the strength he could muster, he used his last ounce of energy to make a final attempt. As the ambulance drove on, the medic’s leg hit Fadi’s head, and with a last, desperate effort, Fadi sent a message—one that no one before him had ever sent and no one would ever send again. He collided his head with the medic’s leg, and the medic realized that Fadi was still alive, shouting, “This one is alive!”

At that moment, Fadi felt as though he was being born again. He had been given a second chance. He later woke up months later in the ICU, having undergone numerous surgeries, and he saw himself as a completely different person—no legs, many parts of his body missing, but he was alive. He couldn’t recognize the person he had become, nor could he recognize the people around him, whose faces were filled with sorrow and pain, yet full of love.

Fadi’s life was changed completely after that. He now sits in a wheelchair but manages to live his life to the fullest. He is a successful poultry farm manager in Rafah. I admire Fadi for his resilience and strength, as he gave parts of his body in sacrifice for his country. He is a confident, composed, calm, and cultured man, fully accepting of God’s will.

May God help all those with disabilities, and may we be spared their pain.

Following the 2014 war, more than 2,000 people in Gaza became disabled, not including the martyrs and those suffering from psychological trauma.

All my love to you, Fadi, and to all my dear friends. I send you my deepest respect…

My dear brother Fadi Al-Arja, I salute you.