The writer carting water home to his family. Photo provided by Waseem Abd Al-Nabi

On the night of October 6, 2024, when the violence escalated in Gaza with the onset of a military operation targeting the northern regions, I was at home with my family in the Al-Tufah neighborhood near Jabalia, northern Gaza.

My father, mother, and two brothers, Sabhi and Salam, were trying to stay calm as Israeli airstrikes began to shake the very ground beneath us. The deafening sounds of explosions and the heavy barrage of artillery fire filled the air, making our ears ache. The force of the blasts was so intense that it tore our windows from their frames, sending them flying across the room.

At 11 a.m., as the airstrikes temporarily subsided, I was confronted by the harrowing sight of thousands of displaced people fleeing their homes, forced to evacuate by the Israeli military. They were ordered to move south through Salah Al-Din Street.

The scene was heart-wrenching — young and old families hastily grabbing what little they could carry. One elderly woman, exhausted and desperate, approached me asking for a chair to rest and some water. When I asked her where she planned to go, she said quietly, “I don’t know. We don’t have anyone to go to in Gaza City.” After a brief rest, she thanked me and continued her journey into the unknown.

While our area had not been included in the official evacuation zone, we were located just outside it. Despite this, it was considered unsafe due to the constant threat of stray bullets and flying shrapnel from the ongoing airstrikes. Many of our neighbors, along with relatives, abandoned their homes, fleeing southward in search of safety. But my family was left with no choice — we could not leave because we had no other place to go.

The atmosphere in our house was one of deep fear and confusion. We huddled together, avoiding the northern side of our house that faces Jabalia, as random gunfire and mortar shells tore through the area. Our home had been struck by several bullets, leaving holes in the walls and creating an ever-present sense of danger.

In addition to the physical dangers, we were faced with a severe shortage of food and medical supplies. The Israeli military had blocked the entry of humanitarian aid, leading to skyrocketing prices for basic necessities. We were forced to ration our meals, cutting down to just two a day in order to conserve what little food we had. My father, who suffers from gout, high blood pressure, and diabetes, had no access to the essential medications he needed. Without medical assistance, our family was left to struggle with the daily challenges of survival.

In the days following the initial airstrikes, some residents began returning to the northern parts of Gaza. Many rebuilt makeshift shelters on the rubble of their former homes, and the markets slowly started to show signs of life again. However, the situation remained dire. A relative who had recently fled the area shared his devastating perspective: “The north is no longer fit even for animals, let alone human beings.”

One of the most tragic moments etched into my memory was when my 12-year-old cousin Maher was struck by a drone-fired missile while playing outside his home, just a few meters away from where we were. We rushed him to the Baptist Hospital, but by the time we arrived, he was in a coma. Despite our efforts, he passed away after five agonizing hours. The hospital, overwhelmed by the sheer number of casualties, lacked the necessary medical staff and equipment to save his life.

There is another moment etched into my memory. It is that October 6 night when Israeli warplanes carried out an airstrike just 50 meters from our house, and the windows burst out of their frames and flew across the room. The glass shattered and our house filled dirt, dust, and gunpowder. We struggled to breathe and nearly suffocated in the aftermath of the blast.

As the days passed, I became increasingly aware of the contrast between our daily struggles and the world’s indifference. In those moments of silence, when the bombs ceased and the air grew thick with dust, I would look out over the destroyed landscape and wonder if anyone was listening. Was anyone paying attention to the innocent lives being lost, to the families ripped apart by violence?

Each passing hour felt like an eternity as we clung to each other for comfort and survival. My thoughts often drifted to the elderly woman I had helped earlier. She didn’t know where to go, and neither did we. It was as though the world had forgotten us. But we couldn’t forget ourselves. We couldn’t lose hope.

As I reflect on these experiences, I ask myself: Where is the world? Where are the human rights organizations? Where is the action to stop the massacres in Gaza?

I have one message to share with world: Save what remains of Gaza. We have lost too many lives, too many innocent souls. The suffering continues, and it is time for action. The people of Gaza, and my family in particular, are clinging to survival amidst the devastation. Enough is enough. The world must stand up for Gaza’s future.