Author: admin

Fear, loneliness

Since the start of this brutal massacre and killing of the Gazan people, I was always afraid. The kind of fear that you think you control by caring for your family, by keeping busy, securing their needs, by following up on the work of my colleagues, the counsellors and social workers at the shelters, by writing my diaries and sharing them with friends around the world. The kind of fear that you keep in and ignore, although all reasons for fear and panic are there – the random bombing, shelling, shooting, destruction, the number of people killed and injured reaching more than 27,000 killed and more than 54,000 injured. Yet I keep it deep inside.

Since yesterday my feelings are different. My fear is different. Since the Israeli army ordered people in Bureij Camp and part of Nuseirat Camp, where I am displaced, to leave, I don’t feel the same. I could have been killed before, at any minute, by any of these bombardments, yet now I feel it coming towards me and my family.

There are only three of my friends from Gaza City displaced to Bureij and Nuseirat. Th three of them are in the areas ordered to evacuate and leave. Yesterday I tried to reach them by mobile. Did not work. I walked to one of them. He was not there. It was too late to walk to the others – one in Bureij and the other in Nuseirat near Bureij, the Salahaldeen Road separating them. Bureij, east of Salahaldeen, borders Israel, and Nuseirat is west of it.

Today I went to Al Awda Hospital. The first message was from my friend and colleague, Mohammed:

Dear Hossam, 

I am preparing to leave with my family for Rafah. I am now busy searching for materials to build a tent there in Rafah. I don’t know when we will communicate or meet again. I hope soon.

Stay safe until then,

Mohammed.

I don’t know why after reading this message, the feeling of fear came up to the surface and overrode my ability to tolerate it. 

I could not stay. I thought about going to Bureij to check on my friend Eyad. Bombing and heavy targeting started last night. I rejected the idea, I felt like a coward.

Then I thought about Maher. He is in Nuseirat. I will go. I walked 2km, arrived to find there are no cars in front of his home. It’s a building of 3 floors. Up to yesterday it was hosting more than 80 people. Maher’s brother, the home owner, was there, taking things from the house and loading them into a mini-bus. Mattresses, blankets, bead flour, suitcases, bags…

• What’s up? I said
• We’re leaving.
• Where’s Maher?
• He left yesterday with his family, they all left, myself and my wife are the last.
• Where to?
• Rafah. We’ve a brother living there, Maher and his family went there Myself and my wife will go to my daughter’s home in Zawayda.

There was nothing to be said. The man was busy and rushing to load his stuff.

I said: ‘Goodbye, be safe.’

Walking back to Al Awda Hospital, holding my mobile the whole way and trying to call Eyad. I tried more than 50 times and all the calls failed.

Suddenly I stopped. I feel something is wrong. I feel dizzy, unable to walk properly. The fear invades me from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. I don’t feel well. I continue walking. Arrived at the hospital, went to the office. I started to collect my stuff; the laptop, the mobile charger, the small battery that I use to light some led lights. I finished and got ready to leave. Then I sat down again. I don’t want to go home with these feelings, in this condition. I must control myself.

Arriving home, talking to Abeer about what we shall do.

She has a sister in Rafah, a widow with 5 girls living not far from Alnajjar Hospital, living in a very small house of two rooms with a small living room. Shall we go there? Shall we send some of us so if something happens here we can move more easily and lighter? We are around 22 people. Maybe her mother and sister and her sister’s family can go tomorrow and then we can figure out what to do next.

We do not decide yet. We are still discussing the options when her brother, his wife and 3 children arrive with their luggage. They were in Nuseirat, not far form the area ordered to evacuate. So he is seeking refuge at his father’s home. Fair enough.

What next? We finished our talk without deciding anything. No safe place in Gaza Strip. People moving from place to place seeking non-existent safety. I am one of them. There is a storm outside, the wind is screaming, heavy rain and the cold is reaching my bones while the bombing is continuing and this time not far at all.

I am afraid. I feel so lonely.

 

Fuel, bread and fear

Yesterday I decided to drive my car, despite the fact that there is no fuel to replace what I use.

I made sure I had enough fuel left for 68km of driving, according to the fuel gauge.

But yesterday was special. Finally I got some cooking gas, half a cylinder with 6kg of gas, enough for 2 weeks. It will spare my wife Abeer and her father and sisters from using fire for cooking and for other daily needs, especially as it’s winter and some days are rainy, making building a fire impossible. Another thing, it’s my father-in-law’s turn to receive bread flour from UNWRA – 2 bags of 25kg – also enough for 2 weeks. 

But wait, I think I need to elaborate a little bit about Number 6 Block, Nuseirat Camp and bread flour distribution.

UNRWA started this distribution of bread flour in late October for all families of the Gaza Strip. But as there is not enough and food aid is entering Gaza in limited quantities, UNRWA decided to prioritise. So, in late October they announced that they would distribute to families of 11 members and above. After 2 weeks, they start to distribute to families of 8-10 members. After 3 weeks they distributed to families of 7 members.

And here, we are only talking about one of the items distributed to all the people in this system.

A few days ago they started to distribute to families of 6 members. And here comes my father-in-law’s turn; his family are 6. My own family is 3 members; myself, my wife Abeer and my daughter Salma. I don’t know when I will receive bread flour, which will only be a bag of 25kg.

It’s a good plan to prioritise, but those under 10 members, under 7, under 6, under 4, how will they manage to live, to eat, until they receive this treasure? While all types of work are completely frozen, zero work, zero jobs, zero income, as life has stopped and nothing is happening but the war and the long search for daily meals, I mean something, anything to eat daily.

Anyway, Abeer was waiting at Al Awda Hospital finishing her work, I bought some food for tomorrow and went to get Abeer and go home. 

Starting the car!!! Doesn’t work. 

Try again and again until Abeer asks me to stop otherwise I’ll damage something. All I know about cars is how to drive. But, I know that those working as drivers know everything about cars so I approached one of the Al Awda Hospital ambulance drivers and asked for help.

In less than a minute he said: ‘No fuel.’

What? No fuel?!! But I’d kept some in the car.

He asked: ‘What type of fuel does your car take?’

I said: ‘Benzene’

‘When did you last drive your car?’

‘Almost 2 monks ago’

‘You know that benzene evaporates? Slowly evaporates.’

Oh my God. How had I not considered this simple, physical fact? What is the solution? There is no fuel left at all in the market.

Abeer said: ‘Why don’t you ask Dr Rafaat, the director of Al Awda Hospital? They should have some.’

I was so shy, embarrassed, but I did. Dr Rafaat as usual was more than helpful. He provided me with 1 litre which was all I needed to drive the 3km back home and park my car for good.

The second day, arriving at the hospital at 8am as usual, I felt something was wrong. People moving fast, many speaking about areas ordered to evacuate, talking about a map and SMSs.

Went to Dr Rafat’s office. Many people. One of the staff connected his laptop to the big TV screen.  There was a map of blocks on the screen. Within a few minutes I understood the situation. The Israeli army dropped letters of warning on Bureij Camp and part of Nuseirat Camp and sent messages randomly to many people in these areas asking everyone to leave, completely, and to go to Deir Al Balah. The hospital staff were trying to understand whether the hospital falls within the threatened area or not.

Where will people go? Deir Al Balah is completely full. The houses, the school, the public institutions, the mosques. Tents in the streets everywhere. The area to be evacuated marked out on the map is hosting at least 150,000 people. Where will they go?

And do you realise what it means to evacuate an area and call it a war zone? The Israelis will start making a so called fire belt. You remember what a fire belt is? It is striking, bombing and destroying entire areas, many buildings, completely clearing entire neighbourhoods, flattening them to the ground, above the heads of people who have nowhere to go.

Dr Rafaat said sharply: ‘Even if we fall within this area the hospital will not close. We stay. We are here to help the sick and injured and this is what we will continue doing.’

Note 1: The main branch of Al Awda Hospital in the north of Gaza was attacked, invaded, destroyed and 3 doctors were killed. Many other people were killed there. The hospital was their cemetery.

Note 2: I am still in Nuseirat Camp. My father-in-law’s home is out of the threatened area but it soon won’t be, and truly, I won’t know what to do then, with 2 bedridden old women, another 22 people; children, women, men and my wife, Abeer.

Note 3: I am truly afraid.

Mother Courage (not Bertolt Brecht)

By the wall of the school, the shelter, many sellers lay out their small amount of merchandise on a small, old, wooden table, or a cardboard box, or even on a plastic sheet on the ground. Small quantities of cans of meat, cans of tuna, cans of beans, cigarettes, sugar, rice. Some have  quantities worth $200 and others, all their merchandise is worth no more than $30. Trying to make enough profit to feed themselves for a day or two.

Among them a lady, a middle-aged woman with a veil completely covering most of her hair, is busy cooking bread in an oven made of mud. A line of people standing to buy a piece of bread or two or whatever. Calling to her 7 or 8 year old son from time to time to feed the fire under the oven with some bits of wood – a normal scene in Gaza, mainly around the shelter-schools. 

I took my place in the line to buy some bread, when a journalist approached the lady asking her for an interview. Without looking at him she said, “You can see that I’m busy.” The journalist was  patient and polite. He asked if he could film her as a part of the market and life in the shelters. She shrugged with a sense of not caring if he did or he didn’t. The reporter made a gesture to the cameraman to start filming.

The journalist:   

 Have you been doing this for a long time?

The woman: 

Cooking bread? One month.

Journalist:          

You built the mud oven?

The woman:        

No, I bought it from someone who built it but could not work on it. He was too old for this work.

Journalist:            

Are you from here? I mean Nuseirat Camp?

The woman: 

(whilst working, putting a piece of dough in the oven, turning it over from time to time using a wooden stick): 

No. Not from here.

 

(talking to a customer) 

I haven’t change for a hundred shekels. Find some change and come back.

Jounalist: 

Where did you come from?

The woman:

From many places since the 12th of October.

Journalist:

Like where?

The woman:

From Beit Hanoun. When they started bombing, my eldest son and father-in-law were killed. The bombing was targeting a neighbours’s home. They were all killed. 

She stopped talking and continued her work. The journalist did not rush her. She raised her head again, looked at the journalist for a second, then turned back to the oven and continued talking.

The woman:

We moved to my family home in Shati Camp, ‘Beach Camp’, I was at the market with this little son, when we heard a huge explosion from an air strike. I went home with some vegetables. They bombed a nearby home and my parents and my husband were killed. They were all under the rubble. I recognised my husband from his feet that appeared out of the rubble. He was missing a toe, he lost it in a work accident in Israel two years ago. He used to work in construction. When the accident happened his boss did not do anything for him, he sent him home and never allowed him to work again. Of course, no compensation. In Israel they don’t register Palestinian workers as a legal workforce, so no one can claim any compensation. They just use us as cheap labour, that’s all. My poor husband did not rest until he died.

(to her little son):

Enough wood, we’re almost finished.

(to a customer):

This will cost you 4 Shekels.

She looked at the journalist. He was still there holding the mic towards her, the cameraman was focused on her.

The woman:

So, we moved to Zahra City, to my sister who is married and lives there. They followed us with the bombing. My daughter and my mother in-law were killed. We came here; myself and this little boy, my sister’s son and my injured sister. We are at this school. (She pointed at the school behind her).

Journalist:

How do you manage? Does UNRWA distribute food at the school?

The woman:

Yes. They come every few days, give each family some cans of food, some biscuits, some soap, food barely enough for one day. Anyway we are still alive,

Journalist:

What about water? Hygiene? Toilet?

The woman:

This is another story.  I wake up at 4 in the morning to join the queue for the toilet. At this time there will be a line of 7-15 people. If I’m late, I’ll find a line of 50 or 60. I take my injured sister, her daughter, and my little son. We do our business there and go back to sleep again. They distribute mineral water bottles. I don’t use them. I sell them to get some money. Here we are surviving.

Journalist:

What do other women do?

The woman:

Other women? Yes, there was a pregnant woman, we helped her to give birth inside the classroom. She was lucky, her delivery went smoothly, she did not need a hospital. We care for each other in our classroom. Not like in other classes, all day you hear screaming, shouting, cursing, disputes. We are lucky. They look after my sister and her 2 year old daughter when I’m out.

Journalist:

How do you get the wood for your oven?

The woman:

It was easy in the beginning, I collected bits of wood from the streets, from the nearby olive orchards. Then I started to buy it from wood sellers. It was 1.2 shekels/kilo to begin with and then the price rose, like all prices, now it is 3 shekels/kilo. Everyone is using fire now as there is no cooking gas or fuel. Scarcity in everything.

The woman started to clear up, put out the fire, collect the bits of wood which were not burnt yet, and covered the oven with a piece of material.  She carried her son and went towards the school. The camera man followed her with his camera lens until she disappeared inside the school.

Schindler’s list

Is there any Schindler for the Palestinians of Gaza?

Pause

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Pause

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No. There is no Schindler for the Palestinians of Gaza.

Back from market

My sister in Deir Al Balah called me last night begging for some blankets. She has only one for her and her mother-in-law. She sleeps in a classroom of one of the schools nearby the sea, her three sons sleeping in a plastic tent in the front yard of the school also have only one blanket between the three of them. I don’t have much either. Luckily I bought 2 good, heavy blankets two months ago in preparation for the cold days of winter. Abeer told me that there are 3 extra blankets her family do not use and can give out. Old, not heavy, but we can give them out.

In the morning we went out. Abeer to Al Awda Hospital and I to Al Aqsa Hospital in Deir Al Balah. I messaged my sister to meet me there so I can also see my brother and his family who took refuge in the empty hospital courtyard like thousands of other people.

I arrived there around 9.20, walking halfway, a ride on a donkey cart for 1km and finally a taxi for the rest of the distance.

The tent of my brother and his family is 2m square. No mattresses, some cheap blankets, some pieces or cardboard below the blankets. The 2m space includes all their belongings beside the 2 sleeping spaces. They are 5 people. The sleeping space is divided between them by time. 2 people sleep at a time and then they change over. No mattress, a blanket on the floor and a  blanket on their bodies. This is all that they have. Helplessness is a deathly feeling. My sister had not yet arrived. I could not stay. I told them to take one of the three blankets and to give two to my sister and left. Left fast, feeling ashamed that I do have a good blanket, that I have a roof over my head, I have a mattress below my body. No place for more people at my parents-in-law’s house, they host me, my mother, my wife, my wife’s sister and her husband and children, two of her female cousins and their children, and, of course, her family; her parents and her sisters.

No internet in Nuseriat for three days, difficult mobile communications, almost zero. There was not much to do at Al Awda Hospital, it was a short day of work.

We passed by the market, me and my wife, Abeer. We purchased some vegetables and some medicine for flu. It was a rainy day. It did not stop. Light rain and heavy rain. We could only find a ride with a donkey cart which has no roof, of course. The donkey’s speed is no faster than a man’s speed, pulling this heavy weight of passengers with their groceries, the distance of 2.5km from the market to home takes at least half an hour. After ten minutes of slow walking, it started raining, light at first, then heavy rain, very heavy, the raindrops hurt. Nothing we could do. We kept sitting on the cart, not talking, not a word, until we arrived, wet, completely wet to the bone. We went in, took off our clothes, dried our bodies and put on new, warm, clean clothes. We emptied our laptop bags. There was water in them. My laptop screen swallowed some water, I’m so worried that it will be corrupted. I hope not. 

I went to my mattress, pulled the heavy, soft blanket over my body and thought about my brother’s family, my sister’s family and the thousands of families who are there, outside, in plastic tents that don’t prevent water coming in, don’t prevent wind, don’t prevent cold. There are thousands of families who don’t even have such a tent in Deir Al Balah, in Khan Younis, in Rafah, in Gaza City, in Jabaliya, in Beit Lahia, in Zaytoun, in Shujaiya, in Mawasi. I don’t feel guilty but I feel very bad, very helpless, very weak. I feel I am nothing.

Bad son

Yes, my mother is angry at me, and she is right, she should be, I am a bad son.

I came back from work today and she was crying. Yes, my 83 year old, bed-ridden mother was crying. At first she refused to say why, she kept saying: ‘I want to go back home. Bring me back to my home.’

I explained to her many times that this had become impossible since we left our home in Gaza City on October 12th and came here to Nuseirat. I told her many times that the Israeli army isolated Gaza City and the north by cutting off the road at Netzarim Junction, the junction between North Gaza and the middle area of Gaza Strip.

She doesn’t believe me. She says Netzarim is in Jabaliya, it has nothing to do with Gaza City. Whatever I say makes her more angry and she does not believe me. She doesn’t know that maybe reaching the moon is easier than reaching Gaza City without being shot by a sniper or killed by shelling or a bomb strike.

I gave up trying to convince her. I sat on my mattress in front of her bed and listened to her complaints. 

“You are not the same son I used to have, since we came here you prevented me from seeing my daughters, sons and grandsons. At home they would pass by every day, I was able to see them every day. Now I see no one, I call no one. You deprived me of everything, you don’t bring me coffee or sweets, candies or even fruit, not any kind of fruit. You used to bring me bananas, peaches, dates, apples, strawberries, many fruits, now you bring me nothing. You claim it it the Israelis preventing it from reaching Gaza. How come? How do you want me to believe you? 

When Aroki comes I will tell him how you have changed. He used to bring me namoura (eastern sweets). How long has it been since you got me some? You know I like it. It’s your friend, Aroki, who remembers and when he visits, he always brings me 2kg not 1. Wait until he comes back. I will tell him how you changed. How you became bad. This can’t be. You are not the son you used to be.”

How can I blame my mother? I don’t. I understand that this can’t be easy to believe. How could any sane person believe that we can’t reach our home which is only 9km from here? How?

How could it be that I can’t find coffee in the market? How?

How could it be that there are no candies, sweets, fruits in the market? How?

I don’t blame my mother, I blame myself for being unable to fly and cross all the borders and get to a place where I can find fruit, chocolates, candies, coffee and all that my mother wishes for.

I blame myself for not having the ability to reach Khan Younis or Deir El Balah or Rafah to bring my brothers and sisters so my mother can see them.

I blame myself for not having a magic wand so I can fix the communication network with a magic touch.

Sorry, mother. Please forgive me for being a bad son. 

A young, political and military analyst

My wife, Abeer, is doing great work, managing, facilitating and supporting a big team of counsellors, social workers, nurses, physiotherapists, animators, occupational therapists and rehabilitation workers in the shelters of the middle area, through her work with Humanity and Inclusion. I also follow up and support a team of counsellors and social workers in the middle area and the south through my work at MAAN Development Centre.

Dr Raafat Alyadi, the director of Al Wafa Hospital in Nuseirat Camp is our host. He is a great man. You feel that he never sleeps, he’s moving all the time, managing a huge crew of doctors, nurses employees, securing everything the hospital needs as much as he can, contacting all the NGOs and donors every day, making sure to secure food and basic needs for all of his staff.

As there were no branches of our organisations in Nuseirat, he did not hesitate to offer us a place with power and internet to facilitate our work.

After a long day at Al Wafa Hospital, we walked to the market to buy whatever we could find for tomorrow’s lunch. As there is no electricity, no fridge, we can’t store any fresh vegetables, we have to buy what we need day by day. After a long day, it’s a 2.5km walk home. Sometimes we find a donkey pulling a wooden cart so we take a ride. Sometimes we don’t and we walk, carrying our bags with the laptops and whatever we have bought for the next day.

Lucky us, after 20 minutes walking we found a donkey going to the Sawarha Area where we live. The donkey pulling the cart was driven by 2 children. One around 13 years old and the other around 9 years old.

They said the fees were 3 shekels each. We agreed. After a few minutes we heard a huge explosion. It shook us. Abeer said : ‘It’s very nearby’

The young donkey rider who was very relaxed said: ‘No, it’s a least 1km to the South. It is far.’

Abeer said:   ‘How do you know?’

The boy:   ‘I know. You should know.’

Abeer:   ‘Why should we?’

The boy:   ‘Is this the first time you witness a war in Gaza? Are you not from here?’

Abeer:   ‘Yes, we are from here.’

The boy:  ‘Strange. You should be able to identify the sound of explosions and calculate where they could be. You should also be able to differentiate between rocket and shelling sounds.’

Abeer:   ‘What’s your name?’

The boy:   ‘Ahmad.’

Abeer:   ‘How old are you?’

Ahmad:   ‘9 years old.’ 

Abeer:    ‘Do you go to school?’

Ahmad:   ‘Not now, as they all became shelters, but sure, I am in 4th Primary Grade at school.’

Abeer:    ‘And now? What do you do?’

Ahmad:   ‘As you can see, helping my family to get an income after the death of my father.’

Abeer:    ‘When did he die?’

Ahmad:   ‘Two weeks ago, when they struck the supermarket at Nuseirat Market. He was passing by when it happened.’

Abeer:   ‘Do you have brothers?’

Ahmad:   ‘Yes, (pointing at the other boy). This is Hasan, my older brother, and two younger sisters at home and my mother.’

Abeer:   ‘What do you think will happen Ahmad?’

Ahmad:   ‘Well, the Israelis dream is to see Gaza empty by any means. They will keep striking, bombing, destroying, killing until they push us out or kill us all.’

Abeer:    ‘And what do you think we should do?’

Ahmad:   ‘Do what we do now. Stay and live.’