Last week, an Israeli airstrike leveled a single-family home in Deir el-Balah, a central city in the Gaza Strip.

It belonged to the Mattars.

Al-Hassan Mattar, a 21-year-old English literature student, was killed along with his father, sister, grandmother and several relatives who sought shelter with them.

Video footage of the aftermath shows the house in ruins. In a widely shared 16-second clip, a young Palestinian man can be seen carrying a body wrapped in a red blanket from the rubble.

During the war the city was repeatedly attacked. It was hit again late Monday, causing injuries.

Israeli warplanes destroy a house belonging to the Mattar family in Deir el-Balah on the heads of its civilian residents.#StrikeForGaza pic.twitter.com/cShwG3vy7E

— Quds News Network (@QudsNen) December 11, 2023

Abubaker Abed, a friend of Al-Hassan, has written about his loss. Before the war, the two talked about football and obsessed over what seemed like big events at the time, like when Al-Hassan had laser eye surgery. After the latest episode of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict escalated, their conversations turned to their ambitions. Al-Hassan said he wanted to leave Gaza.

In his last post on X, published a few days before his murder, Al-Hassan said: “What is happening is not normal [bombardment is] very violently without stopping. God is enough, and yes, the agent.”

Here is Abed’s tribute to the one he affectionately called Habibi Al-Hassan.

Deir el-Balah, Gaza – The last time I saw Al-Hassan was on the fifth day of the temporary ceasefire. It was November 28th, a Tuesday.

We were at his house, we were in a good mood and felt comfortable compared to the weeks before.

His younger brother Kareem, a cheeky 19-year-old with blue eyes, brown hair and a round face, was there with Osama Abu-Omra, another friend. We roasted sweet potatoes and onions on a small fire and made tea.

His father Weam looked at us from the balcony and smiled. With a wink, he asked me: “How is Al-Hassan’s work with the coal fire today?”

“Al-Hassan is the best,” I replied.

Then his father left with a smile on his face.

Al-Hassan lived in a modest two-story villa. His grandmother lived downstairs. Outside, the yard was full of parsley and mint. Before the war, Al-Hassan and I would hang out on the balcony, watch SpongeBob, eat chips and popcorn, or study for our university exams.

After the sunset prayer, Al-Hassan brought me six eggs to cook for dinner. It was all that was left in his fridge. Back then, six eggs would have cost about a dollar. Today, as food shortages worsen, they would be around $4.

“Are you sure you can cook them properly?” Al-Hassan asked me jokingly.

“Just bring me butter, salt and pepper,” I said.

He nodded his head and hummed in disbelief. “We will see.”

We ate the eggs with some bread. Al-Hassan said it was delicious.

“God willing, this war will end very soon and we will experience times like this together again in peace and comfort,” he said.

At around 7pm we said goodbye and I left.

If I had known it would be the last time I would see him, I would have stayed there and died with him.

Would you believe this is just a rocket!!
Deir Albalah#Gaza_Genocide pic.twitter.com/Fp4o8SSWJh

— Alhassan WM Mattar 🇵🇸 (@Alhassan_Wm_Ma) November 9, 2023

(The X post above: On November 9, Al-Hassan Mattar shared his footage of an alleged Israeli attack in his hometown.)

We became good friends one February morning almost three years ago.

I had come to my first lecture in English language and literature at the Islamic University of Gaza, now in ruins after Israeli airstrikes.

I arrived late and sat in a front row seat. Al-Hassan was sitting in the back, but when he caught my eye, he gave me a knowing look. His expression was friendly. We recognized each other. We had attended a UNRWA school together.

After the lecture, he said it was a “nice coincidence” to study together. I said I feel like the lucky one. We exchanged ideas and remembered our childhoods.

He was both boisterous and polite. He was brilliant at mathematics. He loved reading books about animals in the school library during breaks.

A day later, Al-Hassan visited me at my house.

He asked me to take him for a spin around Deir el-Balah in his father’s car. I said no at first, I was shy. But Al-Hassan won me over with all his confidence and excited energy.

We discussed our university life and our plans. After completing his studies, he wanted to study business administration and eventually work in Oman.

He was his father’s soulmate. He loved telling stories about his family. He woke up early and enjoyed watching movies, especially documentaries about astronomy. He was a big fan of Liverpool FC and in particular [the player] Sadio Mane.

We were opposites. He’s an extrovert, I’m an introvert. I used to get up late and stay up late, studying and improving my English skills.

But football brought us together. Like him, I am an avid Premier League fan and love Liverpool and Chelsea.

He was killed shortly before noon on Monday. He was 21. His father Weam, sister Tala and grandmother were also killed.

It took me more than a day to determine whether he had died or not. The chaos of war is such that finding out if a loved one has died becomes a mission in itself.

A day before, he tried to call me several times. But the telecommunications systems here have been hit by bombs and most calls are not getting through.

I logged into Twitter and saw that he had sent me a message.

“I really tried to call you. If you really have a drop of blood, you should have called me.” Al-Hassan always loved to make me feel guilty.

On that fateful day, I woke up early with a worried feeling in my chest. Maybe it was a sign.

I made my breakfast – a slice of bread with a tomato and some canned beef, the kind of meat we gave to cats and dogs before the war started.

Around 11:30 a.m. I heard an explosion. A few minutes later, my friend Abdul-Rahman wrote me a message. “The latest airstrike occurred against the Mattar family home on Al-Beeah Street.”

I jumped up from my seat and told my family. I tried calling Al-Hassan. There was no answer.

I ran like crazy to Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital and started asking random people, “Where is the Mattar family?”

“We don’t know, but someone named Kareem is in the ICU,” someone said. I don’t remember much about them.

They were referring to Al-Hassan’s brother, who fortunately was not seriously injured.

I continued to ask about Al-Hassan.

I saw injured people lying on the floor, crying faces in the hallways, blood spraying into the rooms where patients were being treated.

I rushed to the emergency tent.

“I am Al-Hassan’s friend. Where is he?” I kept saying it.

There was no sign of my friend. I went home in tears.

The next morning I went back to the hospital. My body felt weak and my heart was racing. I prayed with all my might that he wasn’t among those killed.

I asked a hospital official about him. He politely asked me to wait, but I couldn’t so I rushed to the emergency tent again but didn’t get a clear answer.

I went to the refrigerators where bodies are stored.

My nerves were frayed, but I looked at one and then another and didn’t see his name written on the shrouds. My hands were shaking. I took a deep breath and crawled to the last body. Here, too, his name was not noted.

I felt overwhelmed by what I had seen. I also hoped that there was still a chance that my friend was alive.

I went back to the hospital official and asked for confirmation that Al-Hassan was okay. He told me he was killed. I looked up at the sky and asked him again.

“Wait a few seconds,” he said. Every second felt like a year.

His next sentence pierced my heart.

“Yes, Al-Hassan Weam Mostafa Mattar was martyred yesterday.”

I collapsed in a corner of the hospital.

A week before he was killed. Al-Hassan called me. He told me that if he survived the war he would try to realize his dream of leaving Gaza for Oman.

I can’t believe he’s gone. I no longer recognize myself.