Two men walking north; a bus is in front of them. Photo: Mutie Maher AboJabel

I stand on the edge of a crumbling sidewalk, eyes scanning the empty road. The sun is high and time is slow, heavy and uncertain. I’ve been waiting for more than two hours, just to get a bus to the other side of Gaza City. It’s not far, maybe 30 minutes via Salah Al-Din Road on a normal day.

But here in Gaza, nothing is normal anymore. Salah al-Din has become known as “the road of death,” and moving from one neighborhood to another is like crossing a battlefield.

There are no schedules. No guarantees. Just waiting and hoping.

I hear a loud rumble far away, but it’s not my bus. A drone, maybe, or a warplane. You don’t know anymore. There is a constant background noise, like the hum of an old refrigerator. Except this hum kills people. I glance up instinctively, the way we all do now, searching the sky.

Still, I wait. All this, to bring my cousin some of my mother’s delicious za’atar with thyme. The whole family loves it mixed with olive oil and spread on bread for breakfast.

A bus finally pulls up, if you can call it that. It’s more like a metal box on wheels, held together by wire, rust, and stubbornness. People are already hanging off the sides. One man clutches the mirror while his feet barely touch the small ledge below. A boy rides on the roof, crouched low and gripping a rope tied to the luggage rack. Another young man stands in the open doorway, one hand on the bar, one foot inside, the other foot dangling over the street.

The driver slows down just enough for me to jump in. “Come!” someone yells, “Room for one more!” But I hesitate. It’s not just crowded, it’s dangerous. If the driver turns too quickly, brakes too suddenly, or the bus swerves to avoid a crater or debris, people will fall.

And worse: what if someone on the bus is a military target?

Since I have hesitated, the bus drives off and I’m left behind. I don’t blame the driver. We are all just trying to survive.

A donkey cart passes by — one of the old wooden ones with rubber tires and a ragged tarp draped over the top. The man driving it gestures for me to hop on. I shake my head. It’s too slow. Even if I leave now, it will take hours, and I need to get to my cousin’s house before nightfall. That’s when the drones buzz louder and people avoid the roads altogether.

Still, I consider it. I look around: shattered windows, collapsed buildings, a street that used to be a marketplace now littered with broken concrete and burnt wires. There are not a lot of choices. Cars are few and far between, either destroyed in airstrikes or left idle because there is barely any fuel. The ones that do run are patched-up old vans or buses carrying five times their capacity. The donkey cart might be slow, but at least it’s moving.

My phone buzzes with a message from my cousin: “Hurry! They’re saying the army might target the north road again. Be careful!” These days, my own two feet are often the fastest, safest option. On my feet, I am agile. I can run, react, and dive for cover in a split second. None of that is possible in a cart.

I decide to walk.

Since the war began, even the smallest decision involves danger. I start along the sidewalk, keeping my eyes on the buildings and the sky. The road ahead is quiet, too quiet. I pass a collapsed home. Now it is nothing but dust and rebar.

Halfway through the walk, I hear a deep, cracking boom that shakes the air. My chest tightens. It’s not near me, but also not far. In war, you learn to judge distance by sound, smoke, and smell.  I crouch behind a wall and wait, just in case. People around me do the same. 

After a few minutes of quiet, I keep moving. My legs ache. My throat is dry. I haven’t eaten since morning, and I haven’t seen a working store all day.

Eventually, I reach another intersection and in a stroke of good luck, another bus approaches. This one has room. The driver opens the door and I step on and grab the overhead bar, standing among strangers who are just like me: tired, silent, holding on. I struggle to pay the driver’s son without losing my balance.

A public bus in Gaza used to transport people and goods. Photo: Mutie Maher AboJabel

As we roll down the road, the bus rocks from side to side with every bump, every hole in the road left by a missile. We pass another convoy of donkey carts, filled with people carrying children, mattresses, buckets, food… their entire lives reduced to what can fit in a cart pulled by an animal.

I look around and realize that we are all displaced, even if we haven’t left our homes. We are displaced in our own lives.

By the time I reach my cousin’s street, the sun is dipping low and the sky is turning pink, a strange kind of beauty that feels incongruous in a place filled with so much pain. I jump off the bus while it’s still moving, like everyone else. This time, I made it.