“Israeli forces kill U.S.-Turkish activist at West Bank protest”; “26-year-old American activist Ayşenur Ezgi Eygi tragically lost her life” … As my alarm faded into the noise of my racing thoughts, I frantically compared the images I was seeing to the pictures I have of her, trying to convince myself it couldn’t be her, but deep down, I knew that smile. Still, I hoped that I was asleep, this had to be a nightmare, maybe they just have an uncanny resemblance, they published the wrong name, surely, she will text us saying it was a terrible mix-up. I zoomed into every picture and reread every article, dissecting all the facts, comparing what was being said to our last conversations. It wasn’t until I mustered the courage to check her Instagram that reality hit: Ayşenur was murdered by the Israeli regime and U.S. complicity. One of the last things she posted was a picture she took in Ramallah, Palestine, the same city my family is from, of a poster showing a Native American man with his fist held high, with her caption reading, “Long live international solidarity.” As the tears streamed down my face, I became overwhelmed with emotions I didn’t even have names for. I thought of how scared she must have been. I thought about the last time I hugged her.
I met Ayşenur a few years ago through mutual friends at a Nakba rally. She had an infectious smile and a captivating presence. There was a warmth about her that felt inspiring. After the rally, a group of us got lunch, giggling as we ordered the same vegan noodle dish, and despite being strangers just a few hours earlier, my normally socially anxious self felt relaxed; it felt like catching up with an old friend. She is, without a doubt, one of the most impressive people I have ever met, living such a full and accomplished life so young, but still, she always kept a silliness about her. Even when complaining, she had a lighthearted demeanor, making it feel like she was simply telling you a joke. She’d laugh, “Who needs sleep anyway?” fighting heavy eyes while preparing for finals, organizing the UW encampments, and contributing to all the other projects she was involved in, as if it were nothing. The day after the news of her death, a small group of us convened to reminisce and process our grief. As we sat watching her life in a series of pictures through endless tears and sharing our cherished memories, it became painfully clear that the loss extended far beyond our individual friendships. The movement was in mourning. Even the sun hid away behind the clouds, as if to express the loss of light that was Ayşenur.
Being Palestinian, I am no stranger to loss. I am no stranger to the risks that come with speaking for any oppressed people. But Ayşenur never let fear stop her. She was determined and impulsive when it came to helping others, tirelessly working for the greater good. She has a long history of activism that would put most to shame. She genuinely believed a better world was within reach. And with everyone’s acknowledgment of her pure heart came my guilt. As I listened to how she touched the lives of everyone around her, I came to my breaking point. I couldn’t help but feel responsible. How could I not convince my friend to stay? I know what life is like in Palestine. How could I as an American allow my government to take part in this genocide that stole her from us? I should be doing more. How could I as a Palestinian allow her to sacrifice herself for my cause? What I wouldn’t give to trade places.
This has been one of the hardest years of my life, but Ayşenur was always there. In October, my friend Islam was abducted by the Israeli military, and even now, like many Palestinian prisoners, I have no idea where or how he is. For months, I lost all sense of self and functionality. All I could do was cry and scream that it wasn’t fair. I was awful to be around, but even through all my explosive anger and depression, Ayşenur was there. “Alyson, I’m so sorry. I pray that Islam and all the innocent people return home safely and soon.” She was one of the first people to reach out to me and validate all my feelings. I never questioned how deeply she grieved for us. She pushed to get closer to me when most pulled away. “My heart is with you and all of Palestine. If there’s anything I can do at all, let me know, I’m here for you. It was lovely seeing you today, let’s get coffee again soon, maybe Thursday?” The past two days, I’ve read our conversations repeatedly, wondering if she knew how much I loved her. I wonder if I told her enough how much her support meant to me. I hope she knows her death will not be in vain; we will never forgive, and we will never forget. Palestine has a history of plastering images of our martyrs everywhere; she would honestly be so embarrassed by the publicity, but she would love the olive tree planted in Ramallah in her honor.
Ayşenur was so many things, but no words carry enough weight to describe the experience of knowing her. I feel sorry for not only her family and friends but also for those who did not get the opportunity to meet her. It was clear to me she surrounded herself with people who she felt exhibited the same qualities that we so deeply loved about her. It’s rare to meet people with an innate ability to bring others together the way she did, especially under such circumstances. The community is grieving the tragic loss of a beautiful soul, but there is comfort in knowing her legacy lives on in each of us. Now is the time for us to come together and continue her work toward a better world with a free Palestine. We must take the lessons we learned from our dear friend and fight for each other the way she did for all of us. Ayşenur, our hearts are forever changed. It has been a privilege to call you my friend. Long live international solidarity.
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Alyson Mogannam-Martin is a Palestinian American and local Seattleite with a passion for her community and social justice around the world. When not protesting, you can find her cooking or watching movies with her two dogs and cat.
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