The Electronic Intifada 28 January 2025
In December, before there was any talk of a ceasefire, I bumped into a former science teacher of mine from school at the only vegetable grocer in Khan Younis still able to take payments from banks (rather than only cash).
Salwa Dahlan looked different. Her face was pale, and she had lost a lot of weight. Her blue eyes were drawn and troubled.
I was happy to see her, but anxious at her appearance.
“What’s wrong, teacher?” I ventured. “You look tired.”
“I have been through a lot, my little one,” she replied in a broken voice, every word carrying the weight of the world. “My daughter and her two children were martyred.”
She began to cry and I did not know what to say. Hoping to offer her some solace, I suggested we sit somewhere and talk.
Among the tents and amid the rubble on our way was a little cafe that had somehow escaped Israel’s destruction. It’s a place that is used by students taking tests and teachers giving lessons because it is one of the few places with internet access in the area.
As we sat down, a boy, no more than 10, probably trying to earn enough for a little bread for his family, came to take our order. We were told there was no sugar – Israel was preventing most foodstuffs from getting into Gaza – so rather than tea, we ordered coffee.
As we waited, Salwa told me what had happened.
How, on 12 October 2023, her daughter Balsam’s family and many relatives had been staying at Balsam’s husband’s house in Deir al-Balah.
How Balsam had called in the morning to say that Taher Azaizah, her husband, and Saeed, 10, her son, had gone out to buy some supplies for the children.
How Taher had called an hour later to tell her that an Israeli bomb had hit the house, that everyone had been killed, all 26 at the house, including Balsam, 30, and Saeed – who had returned to the house before his father with sweets – and Ward, 7.
How she had screamed.
How she had refused to believe it.
I see them everywhere
She told me this while crying. I cried too.
I cried for her.
I cried for myself. I remembered how our own house in Khan Younis had been destroyed. I remembered how we had come out from the rubble after a bomb struck our shelter in the Amal school in Khan Younis to search for each other.
I remembered all those I had lost.
Eventually I asked her where Balsam and her children were buried.
She said they had been buried in Deir al-Balah cemetery, but that so many had been killed, and the damage had been so comprehensive that they had buried all the body parts they could find together.
“The cemetery is full of martyrs,” she said.
The boy came with our coffee. It was expensive. Where before two cups of coffee would have cost less than $1, these cost us $5.
Next to us sat a young man in his 20s, one leg amputated.
In another corner sat a university lecturer, trying to give a lesson to a small crowd gathered round.
I saw a friend of my sister’s there too, her face disfigured from a white phosphorus attack. She had also lost a hand and her sister was helping her take a test on a computer.
Everyone shivered. It was cold and there was no heat.
Salwa looked at me.
“It’s been over a year,” she said. “I still see them everywhere.”
Lubna Ahmad Abu Sitta is a teacher and content writer from Gaza.