On April 7, everything changed.

The sky over the south was heavy with smoke, while the ground trembled beneath bombardment that left no time for footsteps to turn back.

Sheikh Ali carried on with his mission, as his comrades did, calm despite the noise of danger. He carried with him nothing more than what a man heading to fulfil his duty would need: an unwavering certainty, the distant memory of a Bahraini village that would continue to await his return, and a prayer whose final words had remained unspoken.

Then the news stopped.

It was said that the bombardment had intensified, and that the area had become sealed off by fire, making it impossible for anyone to reach.

His name remained suspended between hope and certainty, like a door that had not yet been opened.

In Bahrain, eyes searched through every report, while mothers raised their hands to the sky.

Those who had known him would say:

“He will return… even if it takes time.”

But some of those who go missing do not return in the way we expect.

After a long time, medical teams found the body. The route was not safe, and the fighting had not subsided enough for it to be transported elsewhere.

Sheikh Ali was therefore buried temporarily, entrusted to the earth of one of the southern villages bordering the place where he was killed, as though the land itself were saying to his family: Do not worry. I will not leave him alone.