2 March 2025
People Speak (part 2)
My son and his father’s arm
I remember when the tank ran over my husband and my children, and my little son Ibrahim was sleeping among them. He woke up covered in blood, and since then, I’ve known that the blood was his family’s blood, but he refused to talk about what he saw and acted as if he’s forgotten. A few days ago, for the first time, he spoke up and told the doctor that the blood was from his father’s severed hand, which was on top of him, trying to protect him. His hand was cut off and remained on top of Ibrahim, while my husband was thrown off to the side.
What should I do? How can my son forget all the tragedy he’s witnessed?
The Path of Suffering
Sunday, February 9, 2025, Morning. I listened to the news broadcasts confirming the withdrawal of the occupation army from the Netzarim checkpoint after completely dismantling its fortifications. I was convinced that moving from the south to the north had now become an easy task, but it slipped my mind that our ship is always met with headwinds!
I prayed Dhuhr, the noon time prayer, and left my home in Al-Bureij refugee camp to visit my family in the north. Had I known I was among those about to embark on a long journey, I would have prayed Asr, the afternoon prayer, in advance!
I reached the entrance of the camp and met three travellers who, like me, were heading north. We agreed with a taxi driver to take us to Al-Saraya roundabout in Gaza City, from where we would continue to Beit Lahia in the north.
At 1:00 PM, the car drove northward towards the Netzarim checkpoint via Salah Al-Din Street. We were still under the impression that we would continue without obstacles and reach Al-Saraya in less than fifteen minutes…. As soon as we had travelled about two hundred meters, the hope for an easy journey vanished. Hundreds of vehicles carrying displaced people and their belongings were lined up along the street, awaiting their turn to pass through the checkpoint.
We began to wonder: What is the reason for this massive line of vehicles in front of the checkpoint? Didn’t the media report that the occupation had dismantled its fortifications and withdrawn from the checkpoint? Aren’t we supposed to be moving without obstacle now?
Many questions arose, leaving us astonished. We had heard about the truce agreement, but we were unaware of many of its details, to the point where we felt like deaf attendees at a wedding procession.
We became convinced that night would fall before we could cross the checkpoint, and perhaps we would end up sleeping on the road, given the enormous number of vehicles lined up in front of us on Salah Al-Din Road. The driver suggested taking a detour to avoid the long wait in the open air, under the unpredictable cold of February. He was willing to make the effort, and everyone agreed.
The driver turned left towards the west. We passed by the electricity company, the outskirts of the new camp, and the bridge, then continued on the road leading to the village of Al-Mughraqa. Scenes of destruction covered the land as far as the eye could see. You would need a guide just to recognise the landmarks of an area you once knew by heart….
The military machinery had bulldozed the road in a frenzy of destruction, leaving behind massive potholes that made the car move sluggishly, rising and falling, occasionally slamming into the ground, throwing us off our seats, then jolting us back into place.
One of the passengers exclaimed, “We need a tank to get through.” Another added, “Our story is so tragic.”
The road was desolate, with no other means of transportation in sight. Our driver was inexperienced, and neither he nor we could make sense of anything amidst this devastation.
We traveled about three kilometres, and the driver asked in astonishment, “Does this road have no end?” Another passenger remarked, “Much has been lost, and little remains.” None of us knew how much of the road remained to reach the meeting point at the cursed Netzarim checkpoint!
Anger
There is no language in the world—no matter how vast its vocabulary or how eloquent—that can describe Gaza. Not even all the storytellers, painters, or photographers of the earth can convey to those who do not live in Gaza the true image of what Gaza has become after the inglorious catastrophe of October.
Two days ago, I returned from the outskirts of Khan Younis to where my home once stood, to where our lives once were—lives that had already been disrupted since the rule of Hamas over Gaza began eight years ago. But at least back then, it resembled something close to life. There were houses that Hamas did not build for us, but we built with the sweat of our brows. There were what resembled streets, and which at least bore names similar to those people talk about outside of Gaza. Most importantly, there was something we felt was ours, and we held onto hopes we never abandoned, even in the presence of the dream-crusher and the mistress of death, Hamas. At least we lived on the remnants of hope. But now, what remains?
I wandered through the streets of Jabalia and its camp. Rubble covers all signs of life. No houses, no streets, and raw sewage flows through the small alleys that were once called streets, opened during the truce.
There are no places to set up tents, and those are lucky who still have a part of their house left, even if it’s just a fragment of a room amidst the debris. They sneak into it like a rat, covering themselves under the remnants of its roof. There is no water, of course, and no electricity. In short, in one word: no life. Life has completely died… and it seems that this is the image of the Palestinian that our Arab brothers love—even our fellow Palestinians outside of Gaza. Dead, or half-dead amongst the rubble. This is how the Palestinians of Gaza must be, so they can remain heroes. But seeking life? That is the ultimate betrayal. The Palestinian has no right to seek it, or more specifically, the afflicted Gazan Palestinian. Even from their Palestinian brothers who fled for their lives to Belgium or Britain, the creators of Israel, wrapped in its civilisation, enjoying the beauty of its comforts. Even they watch our deaths on TV screens while sipping a glass of wine, before retreating to their comfort, after the news broadcast. Even they do not accept us unless we are dead, or rats building nests under the rubble. And woe to any of us who dares to seek life!
Then what?
Hamas speaks of its victory, and its pitiful satellite channel, Al Jazeera, fabricates false propaganda, portraying the slaughtered as victorious and the arrogant—who terrified the entire nation, if there was even a nation to begin with—as defeated.
Oh God, Lord of the Heavens, grant all those who dance on our blood a victory like ours, and grant us a defeat like Israel’s.
Curse be upon the enemies of life.
The war did not end
The war on Gaza has not stopped; only the intensity of the heavy aerial bombardment has paused. Displacement continues. Some have returned to tents or the rubble of their homes. Families cannot return to their homes, even if they are intact. The siege persists, and aid trucks enter at a trickle. No water except in drops. No schools. No electricity. Generators and solar panels are prohibited from entering. No fuel except in drops. No roads. No treatment; the wounded and sick die in silence. Crossings are closed. The barrier separating the north from the south remains. The spectre of forced displacement continues. Everything comes in drops. The killing continues. Yesterday, 1st March, 4 martyrs. 7 newborn babies died from the cold, they froze to death. No construction materials for repairs. No factories or work. No life.
Freed prisoner
The freed prisoner, Alaa Abu Zaid, was shocked after his release to find no one from his family there to welcome or embrace him. They told him that all the members of his family had been martyred and their names erased from the civil registry.
Barbershop 24
Inside a tent or between two tents, on the rubble of a bombed house or on the sidewalk, on a worn-out chair or a wooden crate. Children and men sit waiting for the barber’s hands. With tools less than what’s needed but more than what’s required. Scissors and a comb. Or battery-operated clippers. For a fee that’s almost nothing, but for those who have nothing, it’s a lot, the barber cuts the hair that has been piling up on people’s heads for many months. The barber searches for a simple livelihood, and the customers search for a small feeling that they are still alive, that they can still do something related to life, hoping to stay alive long enough to return to the barber once their hair grows back.
Home
As soon as I returned from the central Gaza Strip to the north, I realised that all the images I had received of our destroyed home did not convey the truth. The difference between the pictures and what your eyes see is vast. After asking many passersby how to reach our neighbourhood, I arrived at a pile of stones, and a feeling of humiliation and weakness overwhelmed me, as if someone had exposed our vulnerabilities. I couldn’t hold back two defiant tears that slipped from my eyes… the destruction of your home means the destruction of your social and psychological identity, the scattering of your family, the violation of your privacy, the crushing of your personal history, and the destruction of your small homeland.
Our home was not just walls; it was a warm homeland, a place of privacy and memories. It was our shelter, our sanctuary, and our private space. I grew up in it, my voice grew firm within it, and it held the details of our daily lives, both harsh and beautiful, over the past decades. In it, we cried, laughed, and chuckled. It held hopes and pains, successes and failures. It witnessed my many disappointments and small victories, my innocent and not-so-innocent battles, where I struck and was struck.
In it, I married Soha, and in it, she walked during her ninth month of pregnancy…
And in it, she kept her most precious possessions: the umbilical cord clamps that accompany the newborn at birth and the plastic bracelets bearing the baby’s name on their wrist so they wouldn’t get lost.
In our home, our children’s teeth grew, and we spent long nights monitoring their temperatures while they slept. We would feel their necks, bellies, and feet. In it echoed the screams, cries, laughter, smiles, coughs, and sneezes of our children… In our home was the familiar scent of a newborn, the smell of milk they spat up after feeding. And in it were the aromas of maqluba, fish, za’atar, Gazan salad, and coffee.
Our home was a school. In it, my mother told me about the history of the 1948 Nakba, about her life in the village of Al- Barriya and how she went from being honoured and respected to becoming a refugee. She told us about the farmers who resisted with a single-shot rifle, facing Israeli planes and tanks. And my father told us about his Egyptian supervisor, the martyr Mustafa Hafez.
In our home, my children learned to read, write, and take care of themselves and their personal hygiene, and how to cook quick meals. In it, my daughter Anat corrected her brothers’ Quran recitations, despite their grumbling. In it, my children copied their multiplication tables repeatedly, and I explained English tenses to them. In it, they competed to write the best essay about the “Mona Lisa” or “The Last Supper,” extracting information from the web. In it, they competed at chess, and at being the first to point to a specific country on the world map hanging on the wall next to a map of Palestine. In it, Karim began playing the oud, which now lies buried under the rubble.
Our home was a stage where my son Muhammad imitated his teachers and schoolmates. In it, we organised small celebrations for my children’s birthdays. In it, Leila danced in a pink dress given to her by my friend Cecilia. In it, we listened to Umm Kulthum’s song “Ya leilet El-Eid” on the eve of every Eid. In it, the girls danced to oriental music during henna nights and graduation celebrations, and the boys clumsily learned Dabke to the sound of the yarghoul and Shafiq Kabha.
In our home, my children trembled in fear at the sound of Israeli rocket explosions during previous wars on Gaza. And from it, my father’s funeral procession departed.
In our home were our clothes, notebooks, my children’s school bags and toys, and the travel suitcases I loved to look at. In it were souvenir gifts from every country I visited, and my small library with its collection of old magazines, most notably Al-Arabi, Palestine Al-Thawra, Al-Karmel, and Al-Bayader Al-Siyasi, amongst others.
In our home were pictures of my children—Karim, Anat, Muhammad, and Leila—on their birthdays, in their kindergartens and schools, and with their certificates of excellence. Every time I looked at a photo, I could hear their voices in it.
In our home, I felt serenity at dawn when my mother prayed Fajr, the dawn prayer, and I heard the whistling sounds of her recitation echoing in the living room. We had saved money to install tiles years after building the house, stone by stone, until it recently became four floors. In it were tiles over 35 years old, still strong and shiny, and newer tiles that cracked and became scarred and pitted after just three years.
In it, I fought with my brother Adel over socks without holes or new underwear. We slept together on its roof and got drenched by the rain together. In it, we slept on one bed and ate from the same plate. In it, we plotted secret plans to go to the sea. In it, we listened together to the voice of Palestine, “The Voice of the Palestine Liberation Organisation,” and “Monte Carlo Radio” during the December Intifada.
Our home is not just walls….
Problem
Our problem is that we write, while the people in the tents have no internet or time to read. Right now, they are busy tightening the tent poles because of the fierce winds and heavy rain….
Sleep
Tonight, I slept with my family in a tent in Al-Mawasi, near the seashore. The tents around us flew away and collapsed, and we waited inside for the same thing to happen. We looked at the tent ceiling swaying left and right. I was afraid the pole would fall on my mother and sister, so I stayed next to it, holding it tight. My father moved from one side to another, trying to seal the gaps to reduce the cold wind entering. My other brother had to leave his family’s tent to help our neighbour secure their tent, but it was futile. My younger brother stood holding a piece of tarp surrounding our tent to block the wind, but it also tore apart. We wished for rain to calm the wind, but then remembered the nylon sheets above our tent had flown away, and we would be drenched if it rained.
At that moment, I thought of my mother and father, their health deteriorating with age. I felt heartbroken and helpless, wishing the whole world would collapse with us if the tent fell, so I wouldn’t see them like this. In the morning, reporters asked us: “How are people coping in these conditions?”
Once again, I couldn’t tell them how those hours passed because no one would truly understand what we went through.
Survived
And you think you’ve survived only to discover the truth is the complete opposite. None of us returned as we were before. We’ve all changed and something inside us broke,
something that can’t be fixed or replaced.
Announcement:
Water Desalination Points for domestic use only, in the Southern Al-Rimal Neighbourhood:
1. Jawal Company – Abu Mazen Roundabout
2. Abu Al-Waleed Al-Shawa’s House – Tunisia Street, near Izbat Al-Hamamiya
3. Arahim Family – Near Al-Mustafa Mosque
4. Sakr and Burj Hadeel Families – Abu Dhabi Street
Thank you for your cooperation.”
Free:
I left prison only to find that my wife, my 3-year-old daughter, my brother’s wife, my brother, and my sister’s husband had all been killed. I longed to hug my wife. I had forgotten what my daughter looked like because of the intense torture. The house was bombed, collapsing on all of them.
Urgent Appeal
To the Gaza Municipality, civil society organisations, and international and UN organisations:
We urgently appeal for your immediate intervention to save the southern Al-Rimal neighbourhood, which has become a completely devastated area. There are no sources of energy, communications, or water. The streets are filled with rubble, and the neighbourhood is suffering from a catastrophic spread of pests and health hazards.
The humanitarian situation in the area is worsening day by day, necessitating swift action from the relevant authorities to aid the displaced and provide the minimum essentials for life. We urge you to take on your humanitarian responsibilities and act immediately to improve living conditions in the neighbourhood.
Signed: The residents of the southern Al-Rimal neighbourhood
Please actively share this post so that every free voice can be heard.
North Gaza
People in the streets are finding no means of survival—no water, nothing! #North_Gaza
Appeal to the Concerned Authorities
I am the journalist, Hazem bin Saeed, a resident of the Al-Mahatta area east of Deir al-Balah in the central Gaza Strip. I am directing this appeal to the authorities concerned and anyone who can intervene to assist us in these difficult circumstances we are enduring.
Our area has been subjected to destruction and ruin due to the recent war, and we are still living in a tragic situation. No one has provided us with any form of assistance so far, at a time when we are in desperate need of support and relief. It is important to note that the eastern areas, considered a food basket, were bulldozed by the occupation forces during their incursion into the region.
On October 19, 2023, I lost several members of my family when our home was targeted by warplanes, completely levelling it to the ground.
The area is entirely devoid of the basic necessities for life—no water, no services. We urge the municipalities and relevant authorities to quickly restore life to the area.
We also issue an urgent call to provide drinking water, which our area completely lacks. We desperately need these immediate interventions to alleviate our suffering and restore hope to the citizens enduring the horrors of this crisis.
We hope our appeal finds attentive ears and that the necessary measures are taken as soon as possible.
No comment
Tens of thousands who returned from the south to the north, as well as to Rafah in the south a few days ago, were forced to return once again to Al-Mawasi and the central area with their families after finding that life in northern Gaza and Rafah has become impossible.
There are no basic necessities or requirements for life there, and people are asking, “Should I return to my tent in the south, or stay on the street?” Therefore, I urge everyone to come together and work to provide the essentials for life in these cities and areas.