His first birthday in memory: Honouring my father, my friend

Remembering my father, Najy Ajour, through the words he shared on his birthday last year, 3rd November 2024, from his displacement in Al-Mawasi, Khan Younis, a heartfelt message of gratitude, faith, and love amidst the suffering of displacement. His voice still carries the quiet strength of hope and patience.

His words in Arabic

“From the place of displacement (Al-Mawasi, Khan Younis): I thank everyone who congratulated me on my birthday, my beloved friends and dear ones.
I pray to God that next year you will congratulate me again, and that you will all be in good health and peace of mind. May God protect you and protect all the people of Gaza, and may He lift this suffering from us so that we can see each other again in better times.
And I hope that we all live our lives with piety and conscience. May God have mercy on our righteous martyrs and heal our wounded”.

Reflecting on the stark contrast between his life in displacement in 2024 and his earlier celebration in 2020

This year, November 2025 feels different. It carries the ache of my father’s absence and the lingering warmth of his love. Today, the 3rd of November, is my father’s birthday, the first since he passed away. For the first time, I cannot speak to him or send him a message and wait for his reply.

Last year on this day, I sent my father a birthday message filled with longing for the day we could finally meet after years of forced separation. We had been torn apart by genocide and blockade. My father was trapped in Gaza with one sister while my mother and two sisters had already been evacuated to Egypt. He waited at the Rafah crossing hoping it would open so he could travel. I was in the UK and had not seen him since 2014 when the blockade cut every connection between us. Even before I moved to London, while living in Ramallah in the West Bank, I could not see my family because of this inhumane siege.

When the Rafah crossing closed, he was left behind, unable to leave Gaza to join the rest of the family in Egypt. He survived the destruction of our home, multiple displacements, and starvation, yet his suffering continued. A few days before he passed, an airstrike hit the building next door, killing members of a neighbouring family. It affected him deeply. His health declined rapidly. He could not access medical care or the medicine he needed, and the weight of despair broke his heart.

After my family endured a dehumanising journey of displacement, I held on to hope that my father would soon join my mother and sisters in Egypt and that we would finally reunite. But he passed away during the genocide on April 9th without ever seeing us again. Twelve long years of forced separation ended without even a chance to say goodbye.

Even after his death, burying him was a struggle. We wanted to lay him to rest in Gaza city where he was born and where his parents were buried, but moving his body between the north and south was almost impossible. We took the risk because we knew how much it would mean to him to rest there. We were lucky to find a resting place amid the devastation, in the middle of a genocide where thousands were being killed and families struggled even to bury their loved ones.

Before he passed, he lived through the hardest time of his life. I wanted so much to support him even from afar. Despite the distance and hardship, I tried to make his day on 3rd November 2024 special by sending him birthday wishes. I sent him an old photo of us hugging and smiling, unaware of how precious that moment would become.

I wrote this message to him:

“Happy birthday, my love ♥️♥️. Wishing you health, wellness, and peace of mind. God willing we will celebrate together soon. I hope for a family reunion so we can all gather again. The best days are yet to come and God willing you will remain my most wonderful father and friend. What I love most about our relationship is that you are my friend. I am proud that my dad is Najy Ajour ♥️♥️. One day we will build a football playground in your name after rebuilding Gaza 😀🥰.”

I wrote this message to express my love, longing, and hope to reunite with my father. I felt heartbroken that he was left alone, enduring displacement and starvation. I wanted to bring him a moment of joy. When I said “One day we will build you a football playground” I was referring to my time in the Netherlands. I had opened the video camera to show him the Johan Cruyff Arena in Amsterdam named after the famous Dutch player. Before showing him, I recorded a short video saying “One day we will do something like this to honour you.”

My father lived a life full of love and legacy. He was loved by everyone. A charismatic and respected figure in Gaza, he was a legendary Palestinian footballer and a national celebrity. People admired him not only for his talent on the field but also for the warmth, kindness, and light he shared with others. After his death, many tributes were written by friends and figures in the sports community celebrating his remarkable life and personality. Al-Quds newspaper included headlines such as: “The Miracle of Palestinian Football Has Passed Away”; “Funeral of the Superstar of the Golden Era, Najy Ajour”; “The Legend Najy Ajour Has Passed Away”; Al-Ayyam newspaper read: “Sadness Looms Over the Nation’s Athletes After the Death of Najy Ajour, the Legend of Palestinian Football”; “The Martyr of Displacement”.

A commemorative football match was held in his honour. In one survey, he was voted the best football player in Palestine over the past fifty years. He proudly shared every article with me, speaking often about his achievements and inspiring me to pursue my own passions with the same dedication and love he carried throughout his life.

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My father was very happy when I sent him the video in front of the Cruyff Arena, though I felt a quiet sadness knowing I could travel while he was trapped in Gaza under genocide. Still, he always enjoyed seeing me happy and loved hearing about football. I often asked him about his achievements, and he loved sharing those stories. Whenever something was written about him, he made sure I saw it. People saw him as a star, and I will always write about him, honour his memory, and preserve his legacy.

After sending him that message on his last birthday, he replied: 

“May you and your husband and children be in good health and happiness from God. God willing, we will all meet soon, gather together, and live the most beautiful moments of joy.”

Reading his words now feels like a blessing, a final promise of reunion that never came, yet the love and hope in them remain.

My father dreamed of travelling and seeing us again. Just hours before his death, he sent my sister a message full of optimism: “There might be good news” he said. A ceasefire deal was being discussed. He had already packed three kilos of Arabic coffee for my mother and sisters and a tracksuit for the journey. Most of his clothes had already been sent ahead to Egypt. That same coffee was later used at his funeral by those who came to pay their respects. The gifts I brought him from my travels never reached him.

Last month, in October 2025, on the day of the ceasefire, I missed my father deeply. I longed to say: “Thank God for your safety”. During the temporary ceasefire in January 2015, I told him: “Thank God you are safe, the nightmare is over.” He replied: “People are happy despite the wounds.”

I sent him a broken heart, and he had earlier sent me pictures of our house reduced to rubble, leaving a wound in his heart that could never heal. Then the war returned. It did not stop at destroying our homes; it took the lives of our loved ones and with it the taste and meaning of life. My father dreamed of crossing through Rafah to reach us and embrace his children after many long years. That dream remained unfulfilled.

Today, I remember my father with love and pain. This year, I bought fresh flowers, choosing red roses like the ones he once sent us in a farewell message. To my surprise, my daughter had already brought red and white roses, sensing I would need them. Later, a kind friend surprised me with more red roses and sweets, saying: “I know it’s a special day for you, Ashjan”. It was a touching gesture that honoured his memory in such a gentle and loving way.

On this day, I lit a candle and cooked his favourite dishes. I read one of the many articles celebrating his life and his legacy as a beloved figure in Palestinian football. Each birthday from now on, I will continue to celebrate him and preserve all the tributes and memories written about him. 

The love between my father and me was unique. He was not just a parent but my closest friend. Our connection was so deep that I could talk to him about anything without hesitation, knowing he respected me and my ideas. Even my siblings often wondered how brave I was with him, as they could not speak to him the same way. He would joke, saying: “You give me a headache you talk so much.”

I had always hoped to reunite with my father after years of longing and separation. Losing him feels like he was stolen from me, just as so much has been stolen from us as Palestinians: our lands and our loved ones. Yet I am grateful that in my messages and our relationship, I could tell him how much I loved him. In my last birthday message, I shared that what I cherished most about our relationship was that we were friends. I am thankful he knew how deeply I loved him and how much I valued our bond. My parents raised me to be a friend to them, not just a daughter. Even through war, fear, and distance, our connection never broke.

Although we never reunited after our last separation, I carry his spirit in everything I do, in every act of love, in every prayer for peace, and in every memory that will never fade. Each birthday, I will celebrate him, his legacy, and the joy he brought to the world and to Palestinian football.

Today, I honour him not only with candles and flowers but with remembrance, with the light of his words, the warmth of his voice, and the hope he always inspired.

Happy birthday, Baba. You will always be my love, my strength, and my guiding star.

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