Since the beginning of this genocide in Gaza, I have dedicated my time to telling the world, especially the Western media, about what we face on a daily basis. I write about my friends who have been killed or whose homes were leveled to the ground. I write about the long, dehumanizing queues we must stand in to get water, bread and all other basic necessities. Yet no matter what I say, they ask the same question each time: But do you condemn Hamas?

I was interviewed recently for a well-known podcast when I was forced to evacuate my home because a building in the same neighborhood was  targeted. The interviewer could hear the children screaming and the women running in the streets not knowing where to go. She was kind, and asked me what was going on, but it didn’t take her more than a few minutes to ask: But do you condemn… ?

It was at that moment I realized that Palestinians are looked at as lesser people. It is demoralizing and discouraging, but I continue to do what I do best: telling stories.

The straw that broke the camel’s back

Despite the horror and exhaustion of the first 10 days of the assault, I managed to stay stable. I felt a little hopeful when I saw the magnitude of support and sympathy for Gaza. But that changed on the 17th of October, when Israel targeted Baptist Hospital, killing 500 and injuring dozens of others.

I thought the world would respond with outrage. But guess what?  All the world said was: We condemn. Israel got away with it and even doubled down. It began another chapter of mass killing of Palestinians, in the absence of any deterrence or liability.

It was at that moment that I lost my hope, shifting from being a storyteller to a silent witness. This essay is the first time I have written since then.

Non-stop threats of invading Rafah

On my way to the central market in Rafah, I walk by streets that I no longer recognize, though I have lived here my entire life. The scenes of displaced people living in tents, amidst total chaos, shock me every time. As I walk by, I hear people whispering: “When are they going to invade Rafah? Where are we going to go? Rafah was our last resort.”

We’ve reached the point that we envy our relatives and friends who died at the beginning of this genocide, because they are spared seeing their loved ones maimed or killed, feeling the sharp pangs of hunger and witnessing he destruction of everything they cared for. As the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish wrote, “All the people who died have miraculously survived living this life.” 

I feel that my chances of staying alive are diminishing. No matter how hard I try to avoid thinking of this question, it always finds its way into my mind: How will I die?

Is it going to be a random airstrike? Or will a soldier controlling a drone target me, press the button, shatter me to pieces, then celebrate his precision as if he is playing video games?

Maybe another soldier in an artillery tank will run over my body and smash me while I am crawling to survive? Does he seek nothing but to feed his barbaric whims?

Or will I die of starvation while struggling to get some flour to feed my family, along with hundreds of other Palestinians? Or while I am collecting firewood for my family? While walking? Sleeping? Breathing?

There must be an answer, but as Mr. Refaat Alareer, the Palestinian poet-teacher, said shortly before he was targeted and killed by Israeli forces in December, “If I must die, you must live to tell my story. If I must die, let it be a tale.”