Out of breath, I woke up on March 3, 2024, when a flying door decided to land on my mother, sister, cousin, and me.

It was the fourth morning of the Israeli invasion of Al-Shifa Hospital and its vicinity. I was dizzy and not aware of what happened. All I remember is bending to lift the door off while the blood rained out of my head. I was aware I was injured. I didn’t feel it the moment it happened, but I felt the pain and saw the blood while bending. I paid it no mind, for I was scared that my family members were injured and I had to rush to remove the door. What happens to one’s well-being if their loved ones are gone or even wounded?

With trembling hands and a racing heart, I mustered all my strength to lift up the weighty door. It had literally flown and landed on us due to an Israeli bombing of an apartment block on the opposite side of our street.

I couldn’t budge it an inch, though.

We had decided to sleep next door in my uncle’s corridor that night, because we thought it would be the safest place in our building, but clearly it wasn’t. Nowhere in Gaza is truly safe. The places you think are the safest are the places that get bombed.

In the days afterward, we talked about this incident to complete the missing pieces of the puzzle. I wondered how I managed to get out from under the heavy door. It turned out the superpower of moms did that. My 47-year-old mother single-handedly lifted the door and freed me from its weight — but her strength fell apart when it came to herself.

Yet, another piece of wood was destined for me alone. My mom brushed it off my head and thankfully didn’t notice I was injured. What I vividly remember is her question: “Why are you crying, ya Haneen? We are all good: don’t worry.” She had felt the blood that was dropping on her and thought it was tears.

Whispering, I replied, “I’m not crying, Mama; this is my blood.”

Fear consumed me as I heard my sister and cousin screaming. They were insanely terrified. It turned out later that they were afraid of my bloody look. A zombie I looked like, as they described. My hair was full of ashes and blood was everywhere, not to mention my stricken face and horror-filled eyes.

I could hardly speak a word.

My mom was shaking with fear when she noticed me in that condition and could barely breathe. She had no strength to dress my wound. I was lucky that my 39-year-old cousin, Nesma, had come to stay for two days and had been planning to leave in the morning. Nesma had dressed and bandaged the wounds of our family members before — her brother, sister-in-law, nephew, and cousin.

And here I was her fifth experience.

To be honest, I thought that perhaps the accident happened to me because I spent the night thinking of traveling outside Gaza, of tossing aside the pain and trauma we have endured and experiencing the very normal life people have, and that it was my punishment for betraying my homeland in my thoughts when it needed me the most. I likened my home to a loving mother punishing her naughty children to get them back in line.

Now, a month and a half since the bombing, every time I brush my hair, I feel the 3-centimeter scar marking the right side of my hairline and recall the scene of blood covering my hands and dripping on the ground, taking my soul slowly with it. I don’t want to recall it anymore as it makes my feelings boil and my heart burn, but I know for certain that this memory will live with me forever, stuck before my eyes as my ghost.

I crafted the following poem to reflect my feelings:

In Gaza’s heart, where a family resides,
In the corridor, where safety lies,
A door takes flight, a sudden shift, surprise,
Amidst the ruins, where walls weep eyes,
A mortal dread suffocates the site.
In the chaos, a warm voice arises,
“Don’t cry, my child, we’re still alive.”
Blood mingles with dust and cries,
As loved ones gaze with tear-streaked eyes.
In shattered dreams, a bond grows ever tight,
A sister’s touch, a cousin’s fright.
In Gaza’s heart, where people struggle to survive,
Amidst yet burning scars,
Hope whispers softly, deep inside.
For in every scar, a story takes flight,
Of hearts so bold, facing the dark.

Before that day, I never thought I’d live through such an incident. It made me realize that life is so meaningless. And because of this, I feel like I’m running out of feelings: “Everything is okay; Just let it be gone” has become my motto. After all, in Gaza, everything changes in a few seconds, so why care too much?