In the last twenty-four hours alone
15.09.2025
Did you know that one of the things the people of Gaza long for most is sleep?
Everyone in Gaza wishes they could sleep for just a few continuous hours.
Sleep in Gaza is forbidden.
How can anyone in Gaza sleep?
It’s not just the sound of shelling and bombing and shooting, the shaking of walls, windows, doors, and the ground.
There are so many reasons not to sleep.
Ahmed is preparing to evacuate from Gaza City. He walks through every room in the house, gathering what he can carry. He reaches his young daughter Laila’s room and starts packing some of her clothes. She screams and cries:
“Don’t take my clothes. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to be displaced. I don’t want to live in a tent.”
He tries to calm her down, but in vain. He is forced to leave her crying and continues to gather only what can be carried. Not everything. Not everything they might need. Just what they can carry to walk over 7 kilometres to the central area, outside the borders of Gaza City.
Saeed is sitting beside the mattress where his elderly, sick father is lying. He’s trying to convince him to leave the house. Most of the neighbouring houses have been bombed. Shrapnel has entered their home multiple times. His wife and son were injured.
The father refuses to evacuate:
“I will die here. Leave me and go, all of you. I won’t leave my home.”
Saeed sits in silence. All his attempts to convince his father have failed. He gives up and sits next to him, saying: “Let God’s will be done.”
Samira (Umm Khaled) carries her two-year-old son, Ali, and on her back hangs something like a bag with as many clothes as she could pack. She walks barefoot, her seven-year-old daughter by her side, along the dusty, rubble-filled path near the coast heading to the central area. Just a few days earlier, her husband was killed by a bullet to the head while trying to get a food parcel from the American Humanitarian Foundation in Gaza.
Mohammed, a young man not yet twenty, left his sick father and younger brother in Gaza City four days ago. He went to the central area and Khan Younis to search for a place where they could stay. For four days, he searched everywhere: Nuseirat, then Sawarha, then Zawaida, then Deir al-Balah, then Hikr, then Khan Younis, then Al-Mawasi, then Hamad City, then Al-Maghazi, then Al-Masdar, then Al-Bureij. Four days, and he couldn’t find even two square meters of land to pitch a tent and bring his father and brother. Four days, mostly without food or water. Four days, collapsing from exhaustion in any space between tents or in hospital yards. Four days, and no place to settle.
These locations make up less than 20% of the Gaza Strip. Most people have crowded into them. There is no place for an exhausted body. Not even a place to put your foot.
Noor: “I’m not okay. But I’m ready for the meeting.” That was my colleague, Noor, from Gaza, during a work meeting yesterday. That’s how she answered when I asked her how she was. “We had to evacuate after midnight when the house next to ours was bombed. I left my family in the street to attend the meeting. Martyrs and injured people filled the streets. Ambulances couldn’t reach the area because of the continuous bombing. We survived… but I wish we hadn’t.
A quick death has become a wish — a reward only the lucky get. And they are not few. Between 80 to 100 ‘lucky ones’ are killed daily by shelling, bombing, and gunfire. Our turn hasn’t come yet. Maybe next time we’ll be lucky. But for now, I’m here, ready for the meeting. Don’t worry.”
“Good day, Mr. Hossam. After exhausting all my options looking for places to evacuate with my children, my husband refuses to leave Gaza. But my children are terrified. We live in a tent, and the bombing is everywhere. I’m in desperate need, if there’s any possibility that my children and I can seek refuge at the community centre, just us… please let me know. If there are any restrictions or if it would be inappropriate, I hope you’ll tell me. I don’t want to submit a formal request and have it rejected. Please advise me. I await your reply, dear sir. Thank you — may you always be a support to us.”
“My dear brother Hossam, as you know, my son Mohammed had surgery after losing a large part of his thigh. They did two grafts from the other thigh. I want to thank you for the medical dressings your friend sent. The wound is still open and needs daily cleaning and dressing. His leg is still in a plaster cast, as are his two broken arms. Thankfully, the wound where he lost three fingers has started to heal. After we were forced to leave our home in the Al-Saftawi area during the shelling, we took refuge in my wife’s sister’s apartment, sixth floor, near the city centre. But with the ongoing destruction of high-rise buildings, her husband decided we must evacuate to the south. I will go with them. But I need a wheelchair to transport Mohammed. I asked my nephew Sami for the wheelchair my late mother used, but he refused. He says he needs it to carry their remaining clothes and essentials when they move to the south. Is this fair? Are belongings more important than my wounded son? Please, my brother, talk to him — or if you can help me find another wheelchair. There’s no time, and the bombing hasn’t stopped. Carrying Mohammed isn’t an option. Even if we could, he would be severely hurt. Please don’t delay in replying.”
“Where are you, my friend? Why haven’t we heard from you? Why don’t you call or check in?”
“I don’t know how to answer you, my friend. I feel helpless and ashamed to ask if you’re okay, knowing full well that you’re not okay at all. And there’s nothing I can do. This feeling of helplessness keeps me from reaching out. I’m here, far from Gaza, where there’s no bombing and no killing. Forgive me.”
“My friend, there’s no need to apologise or feel ashamed. We know very well there’s nothing you can do. But believe me, hearing from you, just knowing someone is thinking about us means the world. It reminds us that we’re not alone. That’s enough. Please, stay in touch, even if just with a word.”
“I will not leave this place. I will not move from the rubble of the house until they retrieve my son’s body from under the debris.”
“Please, mother. I beg you. I kiss your hands and feet. We must go. Don’t you hear the sound of military vehicles? They’ll be here in minutes, and they will execute us. Please, move. Haitham is now in God’s hands. There’s nothing more we can do. He’s gone. Consider the rubble his grave. I beg you.”
The mother screams with all the pain inside her. A scream that would have awakened the dead if she were a goddess. But she is not a goddess.
She is simply a mother from Gaza.