“He would have turned 21 in two months,” Fatima Mashlab tells Al-Akhbar, her voice filled with sorrow, yet an unwavering pride for her brother Ahmad.
Ahmad left his home in October 2024. He told his family it was for “training.” It was common – almost routine – for young men his age to answer the Resistance’s call, as Israel’s attacks on Lebanese territory were intensifying and the war was looming.
“We never knew his whereabouts, he never disclosed his location,” Fatima recalls. “But we assumed he was in a relatively safe place.”
And then, there was silence, a deafening silence. All communication abruptly ceased before the unilateral ceasefire took effect. No calls. No messages. Nothing.
Assuming communication channels were cut, Ahmad’s father began searching for his son. He later learned he had been stationed in Houla. At that time, anyone who stayed in Houla was either declared missing or martyred. “We were told by the only survivor that Ahmad was last spotted in a house with a group of fighters,” Fatima recounts. “My brother had left briefly with the group to retrieve supplies, when an Israeli airstrike targeted them.” Ahmad’s family, however, remained hopeful. “We thought he might have sought refuge in a nearby facility,” the sister says.
Ahmad left his home in October 2024. He told his family it was for “training.” It was common – almost routine – for young men his age to answer the Resistance’s call, as Israel’s attacks on Lebanese territory were intensifying and the war was looming.
Ninety-eight days passed and Houla was still besieged. “Israelis had set up a checkpoint,” Fatima bitterly recounts. “Anyone who tried to reach the town was shot. They killed an 18-year-old girl and did not even allow us to retrieve her body.” As days mercilessly dragged on, reality came crashing down just a day before Houla’s liberation: “We were told that there was no one in the facility.” No sign of life. Only dismembered limbs and unidentifiable remains were found. And, while Fatima recalls every second of the long days leading up to this moment, the series of events that followed seemed more blurry in her memory.
But, clinging to the last few threads of hope, she waited for the DNA results before announcing Ahmad’s martyrdom. What she still remembers vividly though, is going back to the site with her father, looking for more remains, for twenty slow days, and later her father’s voice over the phone when the results came out. A father having to tell his daughter that some of the limbs that were retrieved were in fact her brother’s.
Nearly 100 days of excruciating uncertainty ended, only to be replaced by grief and gratitude as the family received Ahmad’s remains piece by piece. “Still, I am grateful we could give him the burial he deserved. I would have even taken a strand of his hair. Anything. He is my only brother,” she whispers.
In Ahmad’s world, faith, community, and duty were inseparable. He was a cub master in the Scouts, mentoring children aged between 7 and 11, and a computer science student. He passed with distinction, he was about to graduate with his peers: “he was still missing at the time.”
Fatima stood tall in Ahmad’s funeral. “I cried, alone. I cried a lot,” she admits softly. “Of course I miss him. I miss him terribly, but I am extremely proud of him and his devotion.”
And on the eve of the 10th of Muharram, one of the most sacred nights, Ahmad’s head was returned – “a poignant echo of Imam Hussein’s (a.s.) martyrdom. I keep thinking to myself how lucky he is to rise on a night like this,” she adds with comfort.
In Ahmad’s world, faith, community, and duty were inseparable. He was a cub master in the Scouts, mentoring children aged between 7 and 11, and a computer science student. He passed with distinction, he was about to graduate with his peers: “he was still missing at the time.” Ahmad was a devoted reciter of Latmiyat, moving from one majlis to the next, then to scouts, then back to his studies. “That was his life,” Fatima confirms. Ahmad was a frequent visitor of holy sites in Syria, in Iraq, in Lebanon. He would selflessly recite there too, without expecting compensation. “He never cared about money, he just loved to recite and serve.” The proud sister smiles as she revisits the times he would ask her to film him reciting at home, a shared moment that now brings her solace. “I feel that, in small ways, I got to be part of his incredible work. It gives me relief.”
To Ahmad, the cubs were more than a responsibility, they were his companions – his untouchable sanctuary. He spent most of his time with them, teaching them Latmiyat and chanting together. The children adored him too. The same cubs he once guided stood in line during his funeral, with steady voices, reciting the Latmiyat he had taught them as a final farewell, as a pledge to continue his legacy.
Reflecting on one of the few phone calls they had with Ahmad, Fatima remembers her mother asking him if he was getting sick. “He told her he had the flu for some time and he was receiving treatment at the Islamic Health Organization, but that now he was fine.” At the time, this raised the sister’s suspicions: “Ahmad would never go to a healthcare clinic for the flu. And even if he had to, he would never mention it, especially to our mom.” It was not until much later that the family learned that Ahmad had been wounded and rushed to the clinic . “He did not want to lie to [our mom], but he could not bear to let her worry either. We later learned that he also refused to leave when he was given the choice following his injury. This would not be the first time he chose the Resistance, particularly since he was initially spared as an only child.
So, in many ways, Ahmad’s legacy is his selflessness – quietly bearing the weight of pain and duty so others could be spared. His voice reciting still echoes around Houla, as a reminder of all the sacrifices made daily.
“Chapters in Resistance” is a series of portraits dedicated to those being murdered every day by the Israeli killing machine, and a reminder of our collective responsibility to commemorate martyrs, and to tell their stories in the words of those who knew them.
source Al Akhbar