Editor’s note: This piece is an excerpt from “Legacies in Blood,” a book by Omar and Hala Saleh, Palestinian brother and sister living in Gaza. Their book, written as the genocide takes place in Gaza, aims at immortalizing the stories of the people, places, and things that the occupation has taken away. Through this book, Omar and Hala want to “convince even the devil that angels will prevail.”
Years before the genocide, before the world I knew collapsed, I drew a sketch. It captured the essence of something deeply personal, a feeling that had taken hold of me—a love for Sese. A love that would never fade. My writings were filled with mentions of her, as if my words could hold the bond we shared.
Sese consumed my thoughts. I’d think about moving her sleeping spot nearer to my bed, so she’d be cozier. She’d get sad if I forgot to open the door for her or if I went to bed without her by my side. It took us just a week after adopting that tiny one-month-old kitten to discover she was deaf. My parents suggested we return her. But I refused, knowing from that very first moment that she was meant to be with me. She wasn’t just a pet—she was my whole world.
But now Sese is gone. Now I live in a world without her, and it’s a world I can’t seem to recognize. This land, this life, none of it feels like mine anymore. These aren’t my people. This isn’t my home. There’s a void inside me, one that only her presence could ever fill. Where do I belong in this broken place?
Before the horror, before the genocide that shattered everything, I survived seven genocides, and now I am enduring the eighth—the hardest and most devastating. None of the previous horrors had forced us from our homes until 13 October, 2023. On this date, the Israeli occupation army proclaimed Gaza City was a battlefield, urging residents to evacuate their homes immediately and head south to the Gaza Valley.
The thought of leaving our homes was inconceivable. How could I abandon my home, my memories, my loved ones, my Sese, with no hope of returning? My heart ached at the thought of leaving behind my entire life, my sanctuary. But the hardest part was leaving Sese, the solitary cat who only found solace with me.
How could I subject her to the chaos, the unfamiliar faces, the uncertainty? We all thought this displacement wouldn’t last long, so despite my lingering unease, I left her with five kilos of food, hoping this ordeal would end within a week or ten days, and I could return home to her soon.
I could not have imagined being displaced for nine long months, heartbroken and empty. In Deir al-Balah, the first two weeks were unbearable—I cried every night for Sese, hoping, praying this nightmare would end soon. But in the agonizing months living under constant threat, fear gnawed at me day and night. I feared she would run out of food, that she would wonder why I hadn’t come back. The thought of her alone in that empty house haunted me. I imagined her pacing restlessly from room to room, waiting by the door, eyes wide, confused, wondering why everything had changed so suddenly—why I wasn’t there to feed her, hold her, and make her feel safe.
I clung to a fragile hope, even as despair crept in, I imagined she was waiting for me, curled up in her favorite spot, trusting I would come back, just like I always had. I dreamed of going home and finding her alive. But deep down, I knew—the ceasefire felt like a distant fantasy. And so did the chance of seeing her again.
With each passing day, the weight of her loneliness pressed heavier on my heart. I could feel her fear, her confusion—how abandoned she must have felt. I wanted to believe she would be OK. I needed to believe that.
After six months, my father’s friend checked on our home. He found Sese murdered on the balcony, a victim of the Israeli invasion. Hearing the news, I felt like the world collapsed around me. My heart stopped. My whole body went numb. Sese, my precious Sese, had been shot—killed by a cold, heartless bullet during the invasion when they entered our home. My mind raced, imagining her final moments—alone, scared, searching for me in a house that had once been her sanctuary but had become her prison. The thought of her dying alone, without me there to comfort her, crushed me.
Every memory, every corner, every photograph turned into a nightmare. My soul was consumed by sorrow, knowing I would never see her again. Sese’s killers robbed me of my innocent companion, my best friend. She was gone, taken by too cruel a world. Seven years of love and warmth, shattered by a merciless bullet, an evil enemy.
I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably, consumed by guilt and grief. I had left her behind, believing I would return before anything could happen. But I was wrong. I failed her. The thought that she had been scared, waiting for me to come back, not understanding why I wasn’t there—it’s a guilt I’ll carry forever.
In that moment, it felt like I had lost the best part of myself. My heart, my soul—they were buried with Sese. Nothing in this life would ever feel the same again.
Days passed, but I clung to the hope that I would see Sese’s body and hold her before laying her to rest with my own hands. I pleaded with my father not to let anyone bury her without me. I needed to see her, to smell her, one last time!
But he told me people searching for food had buried Sese.
I was left with the agony of losing her without saying goodbye to the most beautiful and gentle cat in the world. My wounds will never heal; Sese will live in my heart until my dying day.
Hala Salah
- Hala Salah
