The moment the seven-day truce ended Dec. 1, the U.S.-backed Israeli airstrikes became continuous. Many buildings around our house in Khan Younis were targeted. Whoever was inside was a target.
From my location far away in the United Kingdom, I knew that Gaza lacked safe spaces. But I had deceived myself into believing that since my brothers lived in the southern part, at least they would be safe. I’d held onto this notion despite the many times they’d sent me videos and photos of bombing and shelling. It broke my heart reaching out to them a few days ago when all they could say was, “We don’t know where to go. We don’t know what to do. We have no idea whether to stay or to leave. If we leave, where to?”
We were able to talk only once more after they were forced to evacuate our house, via a video call on the unstable pay-as-you-go internet access from the street. They had only a few blankets with them, some water, and a little canned food. One brother had left on a bicycle. He couldn’t find a car or any other transportation to take him anywhere. The other had to sit in the open trunk of a car that belonged to other people, none of whom knew where they were heading. All anyone knew was that they wanted to save their lives.
They left us shattered. Israel shattered us.
On a previous video call, I’d naively tried to comfort my brothers by sharing details about the gifts I had for them. Their lack of interest was palpable. Although the resolution of the call was poor, I could see that instead of enthusiasm, fear filled their eyes, and their voices trembled with exhaustion. It was clear they didn’t crave gifts; what they longed for was the return of a normal life.
I perceived the sorrow in their eyes acknowledging that, even though I am stranded in the U.K., at least I experience the semblance of a regular life. Their expressions weigh heavily on me. I yearn for them to understand that given the opportunity, I would swiftly exchange places with them, ensuring their safety. It pains me to witness their fear while I’m at such a distance, unable to be by their side, to see them, to touch them. I long for the opportunity to express my deep love and care for them, conveying the profound sadness within me as they endure this genocide without me.
As I write this on my phone, I receive the news that the mosque, a mere minute from our home, has fallen victim to bombings. Uncertainty looms over our residence, and I’m unsure if our house has suffered the same fate.
My brothers have departed to whereabouts unknown. I am unable to reach them, but I convince myself that it is only because they do not have internet connection. Once they do, I tell myself, I’ll find them alive and healthy. I am trying to stay sane in the midst of madness. It is not working. My earnest prayers are devoted solely to their safety and well-being.
Something you need to know is that my family and my people did not leave their homes willingly. They were forced. They have held on for 57 days. They have resisted in every possible way. But Gaza has been left alone. A live, televised genocide has unfolded, and not a single person is stopping it. I share this, not for you to shed some tears or feel sad for my siblings or Gazans, because I know that they all are bright, intelligent, and full of life.
We don’t need your sympathy. At this juncture we need more than your humanitarian aid. Approaching the situation solely as a humanitarian crisis avoids tackling the underlying issues. Colonialism and ethnic cleansing of an indigenous population did not begin on October 7.
I am writing because I believe in the significance of narration, in the power of writing, in preserving an authentic account in the face of historical falsification. I am writing to document a silenced narrative, to defy the distortion of the struggle of the people of Gaza against impending death. I am trying to record their experience when they have been deprived of the chance to narrate it themselves, in a time when writing and documenting have become a privilege now denied them.
With all that is happening, I’m too anxious to rest, fearing I might miss updates. I know that staying awake won’t halt the bombings or shield me from distressing news. Yet I can’t find peace knowing that Gazans endure bombing and sleep in the cold in the open air, lacking all life’s essentials while life proceeds as normal for those of us outside Gaza.
