They called her voice bold, her dreams vast, and her compassion boundless. Nour Qandil, a 27-year-old Palestinian journalist from Gaza, had once written, “If I’m killed, don’t reduce me to a number. Tell my story.” Just days later, she, her husband Khaled Abu Shanab — also a journalist — and their baby girl Ayloul were killed in an Israeli airstrike. Their names joined the long, ever-growing list of Palestinians erased, not only from life, but from entire family trees.

Nour’s world had always been about stories — stories she wrote, filmed, or lived. A graduate of Al-Aqsa University, she had worked with various media outlets and trained tirelessly to grow in a field she loved deeply. But dreams are fragile in Gaza. Her pursuit of further studies abroad was crushed by borders, blockades, and finally, by bombs.

She was more than a journalist. Nour was an artisan, a mentor, a mother. She wove beauty into Gaza’s ruins through her handmade crafts and volunteered tirelessly to help others survive the hardships of life under siege. Even in displacement, after their home in Deir al-Balah was damaged, she and Khaled shielded their daughter with love — love that endured even as death crept closer.

On the night of May 18, Israeli warplanes struck again, killing five journalists. Among them were Nour and Khaled. And with them, baby Ayloul — a child who had not yet seen her first birthday — was buried beneath the rubble.

These are not nameless casualties. They were voices of Gaza, now silenced. But as long as memory resists, and stories are told, Nour’s words will echo — not as a statistic, but as a reminder that behind every life lost is a world that once dreamed.