October 7 was blossoming into a beautiful morning until the unbelievable news on TV turned out not to be fiction, but our new reality.
At the first crack of dawn on a mild fall day, I woke up and made a cup of morning coffee, then lolled on a couch in my bedroom, full of excitement.
I sat up straight and crossed my feet at the ankles, sipping my coffee to set up my mood for the upcoming tasks of that day. The refreshing soft breeze through my window, the gentle chill stroking my soul, and the distinctive smell of the dewy trees and sand made a perfect harmony with the last remaining step of my success ladder. Milestones and life-changing challenges lined up, all crammed into the same day; if passed successfully, that would fill my lungs with the fragrance of being a productive figure in the community and for my family.
I felt very qualified to get through these challenges; however, wisps of nervousness stole into my mind, tainting my optimism. While my eyes were fixed on the white-flowered shrub on the windowsill, my thoughts were in turmoil. I was not oblivious to the negative impacts of overthinking about my ability to perform.
I dashed to the dining table where I had laid my schedule of tasks the night before. I re-read it to confirm my desire for success:
On Saturday, October 7, 2023:
At 11 a.m., my English Teaching Supervisor, Mr. Mustafa, will make a final evaluation of my teaching performance for 10th grade students.
At 2 p.m., I will take an English language training class before being officially employed at Al-Salaam Center.
At 5 p.m., I will complete the final five pages of my novella (The Vice of Silence)
I turned the sheet over to check if I had written something else there. Good Luck, Mr. Said. A broad smile of confidence spread across my face.
Murmurs from Ali and Heba, my night-owl siblings, came from Ali’s room, where they were discussing medicine. Ali, 24 years old, was a fourth-year medicine student, and Heba, three years younger, was a junior nursing student. I sometimes relish learning from their usual course of debate, which was often about hormones, body organs, and their functions.
I hurried towards their voices to tame my rampaging thoughts. I knocked on the door before opening it.
“Good morning, Said,” both Ali and Heba welcomed me.
“Good morning, night owls. How was your meal of rats last night?” I sarcastically replied. We laughed out loud. I tried to be funny, although it has never felt easy for me.
I smiled and headed toward the living room. I lay on the sofa and placed the cup of coffee on a stool, again happily contemplating the coming hours. Ali came along with Heba and noticed my anxious posture. “Said, there are cigarette ashes on your shoulders,” Ali said. I obediently flicked at my shoulders; however, I was not a smoker. My docile self appeared to be a clear reflection of my busy mind.
“You always fall for Ali’s pranks, Said,” Heba said jokingly.
We smiled together. We shared the same blossoming feeling of love.
My fears inflated beyond the bounds of endurance
All of a sudden, and while I was exchanging fun-talk with my siblings, a thunderous surge of hundreds of whizzing rockets, launched eastward, broke the peace in the air. We bristled and shuddered with horror. Heba asked all the “wh-” questions about what was happening, but silence prevailed. “Who could possibly dare to disturb a murderous monster in his sleep?” I muttered.
“If it is officially adopted by any Palestinian faction, we will probably be in another Nakba soon,” Ali responded. We wished from the bottom of our hearts this deed was unintentional rather than deliberate; the cost in lives would be so steep.
We became transfixed when Heba turned on the Aljazeera news channel:
Breaking News: The head of Hamas took responsibility for the October 7 attacks: ‘It was a symptom of the occupation’s frequent oppression against Palestinians in Gaza and the West Bank,’ he concluded his speech.
My coffee slipped from my hand, my unbelieving eyes transfixed on the TV. “God, please let this be fiction!”
Ali, Heba, and I exchanged confused looks, not daring to think of the consequences. “What would be the cost, Ali?” Heba asked.
“Maybe the lives of two million Gazans,” Ali murmured.
“Let it not move beyond the ‘maybe’ category, for God’s sake,” I begged.
Since then, the Saturday morning of October 7 became historically recorded as the day Hamas attacked Israel, killing around 1,200 and capturing almost 300 people. Israel rallied a huge international backing and declared its inhumane genocidal war against Palestinians in Gaza.
The whole world poured massive attention into condemning what Hamas did and turned a blind eye on the occupier’s years of daily assaults against Palestinians. Let me spoil it for you: Israel made us civilians forget about demanding our rights to travel, to learn, or to eat; our only wish was just to die a normal death.
Before the warplanes get missile-loaded and soldiers armed
Within the first two weeks of war, Gaza’s stores of food ran out: It had nothing to feed its inhabitants nor were there any resources for public services. A complete devastating military siege was imposed on its people in a form of collective punishment that was and is a blatant violation of human rights. No food for infants, no electricity for hospitals, no internet for journalism, no clean drinking water. Every source of life was bombarded; Gaza became a desolate desert where life is impossible to carry on.
All these forms of inevitable slow death were meant to be inflicted on Hamas fighters, but civilians were the visible victims. Israel made life in Gaza unbearable, and created a perfect breeding ground for diseases. Gaza became an unlivable spot on the map, exactly like there could be no fish in the Dead Sea: the Dead Gaza. That was even before the intense airstrikes and the ground incursions took place.
The tanks began to move and my dreams burned into ashes
The horror we lived through was like beholding a ghost of the devil at midnight approaching to kill you. The whooshing sound of the falling missile made our heartbeat quicken with crazy thumps. Not only because of the thunderous sound, but also the earthquake it would cause afterwards. Even if it was not a direct hit, it would damage your house.
During the first two months of the war, six neighborhood houses were completely destroyed. My 14-year-old sister, Rola, was badly injured. My mother and I were wounded; 30 percent of our house was damaged. Approximately 60 neighbors were killed under the rubble of their houses. I helped in the rescuing effort until I became psychologically ill due to the scattered body parts. Seeing children beheaded or with their arm missing was really devastating; however, I didn’t curb my human instinct to answer the yelling of someone asking for help. The words of Rahaf, the ten-year-old girl, “Please, help me! I am here!” still echo in my ears as I am writing this.
The sky was tainted to smoky white most days; we would rarely see a bright blue sky due to the never-ending bombardment of houses. Thousands of buildings were leveled to the ground, along with the defenseless bodies of their residents. The whizzing sound of the scouting planes became as natural as breathing — it never stopped at all.
The Al-Salaam English Training Center where I was eager to work got bombed. All the universities in Gaza, including the one where I studied, and a large number of schools, were reduced to rubble. Education in Gaza has ended for years to come, as have healthcare, industry, and agriculture.
Since there has been no lasting ceasefire for more than eight months, will there be any sweet memories of blossoming life in Gaza one day to re-experience? Or we will die first and our memories be buried inside our bodies in mass graves? Will it end here, more than 45,000 people killed or missing, or has the plot of this tragic story not yet concluded?
We died several times and in various forms. Ali, Heba, and I could imagine what would happen, but we were unable to stop it. I lost my job and Ali and Heba their education, although we are lucky to still be alive. Bombs and tanks are nearby; however, we are still breathing and still feeling our desire to rebuild up from the dust of our houses and the ashes of our bodies.
I whisper to you, dear reader: “Do you share with us the same spooky feeling of our imminent deaths?” If you share this story, you could be a voice on behalf of innocent dead Palestinians in Gaza and those of us who are not yet dead.
