Voices from Gaza

Then the doctors came and said ‘Omar, my brother Yusef’s son, was alive. I went to see him immediately. He was asleep and I hugged and kissed him. He asked me where his twin brother Hamzah was. I told him, “He was martyred.” Then he asked, “And what about Mom and Dad?” I told him what happened and he said, “I want to go to sleep and not wake up.” I took ‘Omar from the hospital to the school I was sheltering in with my family.

All my dreams are gone. My sisters were killed, my home was bombed. The wedding dresses and my gold jewelry are under the rubble. The Israeli army left me with nothing. No hope for happiness. It took away every sweet thing in my life. Our lives are terrible now. I cry all the time over my sisters, over the situation, over the hopelessness of it all.

On 17 November, we set out on foot at 7:30 A.M. and started walking. At 8:30, we reached the Netzarim checkpoint. The soldiers ordered us to raise our IDs in the air and walk slowly, without turning our heads left or right. There were crowds of people, so I tied my children’s hands to mine with a kaffiyeh so they wouldn’t get lost. The conduct at the checkpoint was degrading. The soldiers forced us to stand for hours, without moving or sitting down. Only at 1:30 P.M. did they allow us to move on and cross the electronic gate at the entrance to the checkpoint.

We could barely contact my mother and brother, who stayed behind in a-Shati, because the communication networks weren’t functioning. It was very, very stressful for me. I managed to get them on the phone just once, after dozens of attempts, and spoke with both of them. I heard bombings in the background. I asked them to leave the camp so they wouldn't be killed, but my mother said she couldn't walk and that “Our fate is in God's hands.” 

I was detained like that for 23 days. Those were the worst days of my life, especially at Ofer Prison. I endured humiliation, beatings, shouting, cursing, scolding, hunger, thirst and lack of sleep. I was scared all the time. I was afraid for myself and also for my wife and our children and for my brothers and their families, in Gaza, especially after the interrogator told me my family had been bombed. I thought they were all dead. It was constant uncertainty, and it was very difficult.  

I’m a general practitioner at the Indonesian Hospital in the northern Gaza Strip. On Sunday morning, 15 Oct. 2023, an ambulance came to take me to the hospital because it was too dangerous to get there any other way. Before I left, I went into the room where the kids were sleeping and looked at them, without waking them. It was the last time I saw my nine-year-old son Fadel alive.

I immediately called my brother-in-law Ahmad, who’d gone to buy a portable charger, and he said the strike was very close, but he didn't know exactly where because everything was full of dust and smoke. A few minutes later, we realized the building we were sheltering in was the one bombed. We ran there and found it almost completely destroyed. I was in shock. The sight was horrifying. There were a lot of people there. We tried to move the rubble to look for people buried underneath.

Now we’re at a-Shifaa Hospital. A few days ago, the Israeli military shelled the courtyard and people were killed and injured. Then they hit the hospital’s solar panels and the surgical ward. There was massive gunfire around the hospital, and people sheltering here were hit. After that, some of the people who were sheltering here left. The dead bodies stayed in the courtyard and it’s too dangerous to go get them in order to bury them.

Three days ago, we decided to move to Salah al-Din School in a-Rimal. It was very crowded, so we just sat on the floor. We slept sitting up and stood in line for everything -– to go to the bathroom, fill up water, get food. On 10 Nov., the school came under fire so we moved to the YMCA building. With us here are about 200 other people. There are long lines to use the toilet and shower, and not enough food and water.

A Mitsubishi jeep driving about 100 meters ahead of me was hit by a shell and veered right. I pulled over behind it and saw a man get out. I got out of my car and ran over to them. Inside the car, I saw some injured people and a man and a woman who were dead. [...] I drove them to Shuhadaa al-Aqsa Hospital [...] On the way, the woman and the girl blacked out...

Children here are getting sick because it’s impossible to maintain hygiene, and maybe because of the poor quality of the water we buy. A lot of people are suffering from stomach aches and diarrhea.

We brought with us four iron rods, which we stuck in the ground and attached blankets to. There are seven of us in a 3 sqm tent. We didn't have anything to lay on the ground, so I went to the market and managed, with difficulty, to buy some blankets for us to sleep on.

There are about 40,000 people here now. There is no corner without someone in it. Some are in warehouses and others in tents put up in the yard. My family and I made a tent out of blankets, but the sides are open and there is no privacy.

We were given food and water for the first time after about three days. We stand in long lines every day to get two small pitas, half a tin of canned meat and some water for the day. The queues are rough and exhausting. I could barely get us blankets.

In the morning, in Rafah, I went from bakery to bakery until I found the shortest line. I stood there from 10:00 A.M. to 3:00 P.M. and managed to buy a bag of 30-40 small pitas. I came back exhausted after five hours of standing in line, terrified, hearing bombings all around.

I sleep in the yard and my wife and daughters sleep in a room. Some have mattresses and others only blankets on the floor. There are a lot of people in the yard, because there isn’t enough space inside. If it becomes cold and rainy, I don't know where we’ll go.

I’ve already lost more than 16 relatives in this war - uncles and cousins.  I’m in shock and can’t even cry. I feel emotionally disconnected. I try to put on a brave front for the family, but it’s very difficult. We have no idea how this will end and what will happen to us. These could be our final days.

I went back to the neighborhood the next day to check on our house. It was hard to reach because of the wreckage. The roads were cut off and the entrance to the building was blocked by rubble. I went into the apartment and found a lot of damage. I stood there for a moment and mourned the home we had, but I couldn't linger because I was afraid there would be another strike. I ran in to my neighbors, who were also there checking on their homes. They were all shocked and mourning their ruined apartments. We stood on the street, among the debris, and could smell the smoke from the bombs.