For two consecutive Thanksgivings, I have mourned the deaths of my brothers, both killed by the Israeli military in Gaza. Last year, my brother Majed and his family were killed in their sleep by an Israeli air strike. This past November 30, my brother chef Mahmoud Almadhoun was targeted by an Israeli drone just 30 yards from the shelter in northern Gaza where his seven children waited for him.

Mahmoud’s killing wasn’t just an attack on my family; it was a message. He wasn’t a fighter—he was a father, a humanitarian, and a man devoted to his community. His only “crime” was slowing the ethnic cleansing of northern Gaza through tireless efforts to organize aid, deliver meals, and sustain those around him.

I believe his killing was not an accident; it was meant to silence the helpers—the humanitarians who stand in the way of Gaza’s complete erasure. When the Israeli military ordered Palestinians in northern Gaza to flee south last October, our family chose to stay. They knew the history and the trauma of the Nakba too well and refused to be forcibly displaced again. Israel’s siege and emptying of the north left the people isolated, cut off from aid, and enduring deliberate starvation under a relentless siege designed to force people out. Survival depends on ingenuity.

As Mahmoud’s older brother, I knew he wanted to impress me, but I was always proud of him. Together, we cofounded the Gaza Soup Kitchen. I told stories, fundraised from Virginia and across the US, pouring my heart into every plea to keep hope alive; he made the magic happen on the ground. Mahmoud worked tirelessly to make life a little more bearable for everyone around him when so many would have given up.

In early 2024, Mahmoud called me excitedly about a vendor he found that was still selling cooked rice. We arranged to distribute meals twice, but the vendor soon went out of business. A week later, Mahmoud called again: “I’ll just cook myself.” I wasn’t surprised—he had always insisted on preparing our family’s big Friday meals. “Go for it,” I told him.

Mahmoud started small, renting space at a relative’s house and cooking over an open fire. On his first day, he fed 120 families. At his peak, he served 700 families daily. His makeshift soup kitchen became both a symbol of hope and desperation.

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Determined to meet the growing demand, Mahmoud expanded his team to 16 workers using 10 large pots. He documented his efforts, always ending with gratitude: “I send this video with love and thanks to my friends in the United States.”

Mahmoud’s efforts didn’t stop at food. By late summer, he used the funds we raised to open a medical clinic treating up to 75 patients daily, and distributing essentials like baby formula and diapers. By fall, he started a small school serving 560 students. This school, too, was bombed by Israel and damaged despite a large sign in Hebrew and an unmistakably large American flag. His vision wasn’t just about survival; it was about preserving dignity and humanity.

Mahmoud wasn’t the only high-profile victim in northern Gaza last week. His friend the head of the ICU at Kamal Adwan Hospital was killed by the Israeli military a day earlier. Their deaths sent a chilling message: No one is safe, not even humanitarians.

After Israel’s October attack on Kamal Adwan Hospital—where tents and ambulances were destroyed, and dozens of medical staff and other civilians were taken captive—Mahmoud transformed the old souk into a vital hub for first responders and journalists. Even when our soup kitchen had to temporarily close, Mahmoud kept going. He cooked for the hospital staff, delivered filtered water to the dialysis unit, and transferred enough of his supplies to sustain the hospital for six to 10 weeks. He even managed to deliver fresh produce to the hospital, a feat that drew media attention and, tragically, the scrutiny of the Israeli army. A few days later, he was gone.

Informing Mahmoud’s eldest son, who was still recovering from critical injuries sustained in an Israeli attack, about his father’s death, broke me. Mahmoud leaves behind seven children, including a baby girl just ten days old—a daughter he never had the chance to name.

I promised Mahmoud a vacation when the war ended. Instead, I could not even bury him. But I will honor his legacy and care for his children. Mahmoud’s soup kitchens continue to operate, and the aid networks he built still help families. The truth he worked so hard to document remains a testament to the perseverance of our people.

Mahmoud’s life reminds us that even in the darkest moments, some rise to serve others. His murder will not diminish his impact, nor will it silence me or the people of Gaza. Instead, it strengthens our resolve to continue his mission: to support our families, to preserve our humanity, and to remind the world that Gaza will not be erased.

President Biden still holds the power to stop this genocide he’s complicit in. I hope he and others remember my brother’s name, Mahmoud Almadhoun, the man who fed north Gaza even as Israel, aided by the US government, determined to starve them. If President Biden continues to enable and normalize Israeli war crimes, undermining international humanitarian law and the international legal order, then it is not just Palestinians in Gaza who will lose. It is all of us.