I woke up early in the morning on Oct. 7 to get ready to go to government school, where I worked as an English teacher. It was a calm day, and my young son and daughter, along with my husband, were still asleep. Then, in what seemed like an instant, everything changed.

First, we heard bombing. But for Gazans, the sound of bombing was usual; for years now, we’d heard explosions every few days or so. Several hours later, though, we heard the shocking news that our resistance forces had invaded Israel and taken hostages. And that’s when I knew this war would be different.

My school is (was!) located on the border area in eastern Khan Younis, and my colleagues started to send WhatsApp messages in the staff group, saying the fighting was serious and they weren’t going to come to work until we knew more about what was going on. Fear started to thrum in my veins. I went back to the bedroom and found Mohammed, my husband, checking the news on his phone.

‘It’s just fireworks’

From that point on, events escalated — gradually at first. We turned on the TV and watched Al Jazeera. We didn’t know what would happen next, but none us ever imagined our reality today, 186 days later.

As a border area, eastern Khan Younis is always dangerous during any escalation with Israel, so we were among the first residents to evacuate our homes—just three days into the war. The first house we fled to was that of my sister-in-law, also in Khan Younis, but further from the border. The explosions never stopped during our first night there. I put my kids to bed very early, since nights are always the worst.

My mother was the source of my own strength; I remember her telling me during one of the past wars, “Don’t be afraid. I’m by your side. Your mother is here. I will never let anything hurt you.” My childish brain accepted that my mother could protect me from Israeli helicopters. But now, it’s my own kids I must protect, and I am terrified.

Since my little Orjwan, now 3, was born, there have been two other Israeli assaults. The first was in 2021. I worked hard to be to her what my mother was to me. I did my best then to make sure she didn’t notice there was anything unusual going on around her. And I succeeded. But that attack was not anything like this one.

I still remember the first night of this war and the red glare that preceded each explosion. I played recordings of the Quran on my phone, turning it up to the highest volume to make sure the kids wouldn’t hear the sound. But the next morning, we woke up to an explosion that shook the house, broke the windows and opened closed doors. We all ran to our children. I rushed to hug Orjwan and Nizar (2), Mohammed’s sister, Ameera, ran to hold her two little sons, and his other sister, Abeer, embraced her young son tightly. My mother-in-law shouted to us put on our hijabs quickly and go down into the stairs, since it’s believed the ground floor is the safest place during assaults. We expected another explosion around the area as this was the usual. There was nothing in the following hours.

I sat down with Orjwan and Nizar balanced on my legs, trying to cheer them up by telling jokes. I told Orjwan that there were some naughty people who were behaving badly and they should be punished. That satisfied her. Meanwhile, I asked Nizar what he wanted for breakfast.

What helped is that three days before the assault began, Abeer — Mohammed’s sister — had graduated from university and we celebrated with fireworks. It had been the first time my kids had seen and heard them. And although they had been afraid at first, their fear quickly transitioned into excitement. So, when Orjwan and Nizar heard the sound of explosions, they thought they were fireworks.

‘We’re running to someplace new and fun’ 

After about an hour and a half of sitting on the stairs with all the other people who lived in the building, we went back to our apartment. I asked Mohammed to think of another “safe” place, so he suggested we all go to his aunt, who lived alone with her husband even further away from the border. We stayed with her for a week. Hardship was now setting in. Since that area of Gaza relied on Israeli sources for water, it was now scarce, both for drinking and cleaning.

With water available only every two days for a few hours, we stored it in pails, pots, and even cups. Our household included eight adults and five children, so you can imagine the amount of water we needed. And it wasn’t clean, so we boiled the water for the kids. Orjwan, the oldest of the children, noticed the difference in taste and refused to drink it for a day, until Mohammed promised to try to buy the water “she loves.” He kept his promise. Mohammed found someone still selling water. He was able to buy a bottle later and she was happy.

Electricity, internet, phone service, and many kinds of food were hard to come by as well. Later, we learned to adapt, but at first, these hardships seemed very big.

One day, I called to Mohammed, who was out distributing food in the neighborhood, to come eat lunch. Suddenly, a heavy explosion shook the house and broke the windows. It was very close, and I embraced my kids fiercely, then shouted to my sisters-in-law to leave the house immediately. Ameera grabbed her two little sons and their bags. Abeer did the same with her baby. We all ran, leaving with only a glance back, some of us still barefoot. On the street, all the people in the neighborhood ran without direction. Every face I saw is still imprinted in my memory. The girl crying for her grandmother, dead in a house just targeted. A young woman who couldn’t seem to keep going and sat on the street crying, holding the hands of her two sons. The men who ran to help women carry their bags and kids, warning them to be quick, since there would likely be more than one target in the area.

I ran quickly, making sure that all my sisters-in-law and their kids stayed with us. I smiled at my kids, assuring them that we were hurrying because we were going to a new, fun destination before it closed. That made Orjwan happy, wondering about the possibilities of such a place. Could it be the mall, or the playground? Suddenly I looked around and didn’t see Mohammed. I started to turn back to the area where the explosion had occurred; the “target” had been the building of one of his relatives. The grandmother inside was among his extended family, and he had likely stayed behind to make sure no one was left under the rubble.

My mother-in-law shouted at me to stay, but I refused and told her to continue with the children. I returned for Mohammed and found him. He wanted to say a funeral prayer and bury the older woman. I was afraid for him, but I couldn’t say no. He told me to go with his mother and sisters to the nearest UNRWA school, the Malak Primary School for Girls. I went, and we told Orjwan we were visiting the school she would attend one day.

The hardest goodbye

What seemed like thousands of people were sheltering in the school. Ameera, who was still nursing her 7-month-old baby, decided to return to her family home in Deir Al Balah. We had become very close and I hated to say goodbye. Who knew when I would see her again?

We spent a month in that school, and I called her every time we could get a connection.

Meanwhile, my mother and two sisters, who lived in the northern part of Gaza, were forced by the Israeli army to evacuate. I secured a tent for them and set it up next to my own on the grounds of the school. We snuck back to my house for a few hours in the early morning to wash clothes, bathe the kids, etc.

Then, on the 12th of November, at 7 a.m., Mohammed got a phone call. “Yes, what’s wrong?…. No! Tell me you’re mistaken! No!” he said. It was Ameera’s husband; she had been killed. Their house was targeted an hour ago. She was the only one injured, and by the time she reached the hospital, she was dead.

The next few hours were a blur. I saw only shadows of people, coming and leaving, shouting and crying, hugging and patting. Mohammed went to Deir Al Balah with his father to bring Ameera’s body to the graveyard in eastern Khan Younis. I was afraid to see her body. It was my first time to lose a beloved one.

At first, I refused to see her. But Mohammed said that I would regret it later. I should say goodbye. I thought she would be bloody, and that the injury would be obvious. I was surprised that she was still very beautiful. Her face looked as if it was shining. I kissed her and she was still warm, as if she was only asleep. I begged them not to take her, that she would wake up. But she was gone.

An hour later, the family of Ameera’s husband came with her two little sons. The oldest, Hamza, is just 2 and a half years old. He used to play with Orjwan. Seeing that blood was still on his shirt, I quickly gave him a bath. He had been in the kitchen with his mother when she was killed. She had been preparing tea for his father and milk for him when an explosion broke the windows. Ameera fell to the ground. She shouted for her husband and when she heard he was alive, she asked him to take her sons. Then she blacked out.

I will always remember how Ameera and I dreamed together, talking about our kids and how we’d raise them. She was only 26 and had so many big plans. She was studying to apply for the government’s nursing employment exam.

But life didn’t give us time to mourn Ameera. That same afternoon, Mohammed’s aunt’s building was targeted. Eleven members of his family were killed.

Tent city

With no choice, we went back to struggling to secure food, water, and medicine. Fortunately, we were in better condition financially than most families. My father-in-law is an UNRWA teacher. My mother is an employee with the Palestinian Authority. Both have stable salaries that helped us purchase the necessities, although many items in Gaza are only available on the black market and are very expensive.

When a temporary ceasefire was declared on the 24^th of November, it was a huge relief. I was sure that it was the end of the war. We all thought that the negotiators would keep adding day after day until a permanent deal was hammered out. I never thought war would resume and be even worse. But it did and it was.

Mohammed awakened me one day to prepare to return to the UNRWA school, saying the ceasefire had ended. I thought he was joking. When he insisted, I checked my phone and read that a final agreement could not be reached, and Israel would continue to invade Khan Younis. It was only few minutes before I heard explosions again. I rushed to gather the kids’ clothes, some toys, and a few other things.

I was so sad to enter the school once again after seven days of ceasefire. I felt as if the whole world had let me down. Hadn’t there been enough days to expose what was going on in Gaza? The slaughtering of my people and the damage to my country were obvious. How could the world let Israel resume?

This time, the rubbish, pollution, and number of people crowded into the school seemed to have multiplied. Then, after just a week, the Israeli army warned us to evacuate Khan Younis and move to “safe areas” in Rafah and Al-Mawazi. In Rafah, only four areas were designated for us to stay in. Mohammed didn’t want to leave. He had concluded that no place was safe. He was tired and depressed. But my father-in-law and mother insisted we couldn’t stay, and Mohammed finally accepted it.

We reached an area in Rafah called Tal Al Sultan; it was bare land with nothing on it. Only a couple of other tents were there when we set up that cold and rainy night. It wasn’t long before we heard explosions and saw red lights in the direction of Khan Younis.

Mohammed’s cousins were still there, and one of them sent a text message, saying he was under rubble and he needed help! During the night Mohammed had lost 15 relatives! (Fortunately, the cousin buried in rubble lived.)

The next day, many other families started to arrive and erected their tents around us. Within a few hours, there was almost no place to walk. Thousands of people came escaping Khan Younis. Most of them had lost their houses and their beloved ones.

The struggle to find water, food, clothes, blankets, and other things escalated. Each group of people in a specific area of our tent encampment found a place from which to fetch water, such as a mosque or UNRWA building. Mohammed and I carried 10-15 liters of water every night for use during the day. For drinkable water, though, we had to be alert to catch the man who sold it. Life was made even more difficult by the high price of vegetables and fruit, and the lack of flour, baby’s milk, and diapers. My sister resorted to using scraps of clothing for diapers for her baby boy. Even when diapers could be found, one pack cost $30.

Meanwhile, I worked to shelter my kids without letting them know there was a genocide taking place. I never would have imagined in October that the war would still be raging in the spring.

Postscript: We recently saw a photo taken from the air of our neighborhood in Khan Younis, and I didn’t recognize it. Our home is destroyed. We lost everything.  So, when we learned I was pregnant, we escaped into Egypt. (Thanks to everyone who donated!) I cannot imagine delivering a baby with no clean water, no anesthesia and no place to live safely.

However, our hearts are heavy. Our families are still there, and our country continues to bleed. With the news that Israel plans an invasion of Rafah, we are glued to Al Jazeera.