The Electronic Intifada 4 January 2024
Residents inspect a neighborhood in Rafah after Israeli airstrikes, 3 January. The sign on the couch reads “For Sale” in Arabic. (Bashar Taleb / APA Images)
I’ve grown afraid of looking out the window.
Out your window, you might see a beautiful clear sky, a sunrise or a sunset.
It’s different in Gaza. Here, looking through the window is risky.
A quick peek out the window to look at the sky can be interrupted by an Israeli bombardment.
I’ve come to know some gorgeous views in Gaza, of the ocean or the skyline. But with each Israeli aggression we lose more beauty.
We will rebuild again, I am certain. Giving up is not an option in the face of genocide.
It is hard to see that far into the future though, to a time of rebuilding. This time, during this aggression, the whole of Gaza City is dead.
Our memories are being erased. Buildings and streets have collapsed under Israeli bombs.
Life is dwindling.
My love for the city and a sense of belonging is fading. The city is a stranger to me.
Morning ritual
I will tell you what it is like to live in Gaza during Israel’s genocidal attacks.
One of the first questions we ask people after an explosion: “Is your house OK?”
The answer might be, “Yes, but the windows broke,” or “Our house has been destroyed.”
From there, we might say, “It’s OK that the house is gone – we’re not the only ones to suffer such loss.”
Even losing a house is coming to seem like a minor thing here. Can you imagine living among such daily catastrophes?
I miss my home, where every morning I would have a cup of tea and a feta sandwich while listening to Fairouz. It would prepare me for the day.
I’d sit by the window and watch the sunrise.
I thought I was safe
For a while, after we were forcibly displaced from Gaza City, I would sit by the window at a relative’s home in the southern city of Khan Younis.
I would sit by those windows and discover the streets of Khan Younis. Despite all the pain in my heart, I liked watching the streets.
These were small moments of joy for me.
This joy died when Israel bombed the home that we had evacuated to. It blew out all the windows.
We left the next day for Rafah, Gaza’s southernmost city. I tried to prepare for this next trip but how does one prepare for such a miserable journey?
It was exhausting and painful.
Now we sleep in a small tent, my seven family members and myself. There are no windows, just nylon and wood.
No more tea in the morning either, just crying.
We are obliged to be strong, but it is hard to be strong all the time. While in Khan Younis, I had dropped my guard.
I thought I was momentarily safe.
In the seconds before the explosion, I had been playing a game of cards. I had been acting like everything was fine.
I know now that fear is a loyal friend. It will never leave us.
Nowar Nabil Diab is a writer in Gaza.
