The Electronic Intifada 16 August 2024
The view from my tent in al-Mawasi, Gaza.
The Electronic IntifadaA plan B is a must. That is the lesson this war has taught us. Keep a tent with you, even if you’re staying in heaven. You never know when you will be forced to evacuate.
Saturday, 11 May, 8 am
Why does it have to be in the morning, while I’m trying to catch up on sleep?
I woke up to my mom telling me that we had to leave our small apartment in Rafah. She was just saying it in a normal tone, not screaming or scared. I thought maybe I was dreaming.
I got up and started to pack. I found my earrings and my green necklace that I made, and a book, The Complete Works of Ghassan Kanafani. How do I even begin to describe the suffering of packing?
But we worked together and then we had coffee, as if we were packing for a trip.
Before we left the Rafah apartment, I said goodbye to the precious bathroom. I don’t know when we’ll see a real bathroom again.
It took more than two hours to find a van. Others around us were doing the same as we were, packing up and moving on, disassembling their tents to take with them.
I felt little emotion during all of this. In what world is it normal for a human to feel bored and sleepy when the threat of death is imminent? I never thought that feeling sad or like a human would be a privilege.
Saturday, 11 May, 11 pm
We put our tent near the beach in al-Mawasi, the middle area between Khan Younis and Rafah in southern Gaza.
Al-Mawasi is where Rafah ends and Khan Younis starts. Before October, al-Mawasi was not a place where people lived. There are, in my estimate, a mere two buildings in al-Mawasi.
But now the area is packed full of people and their tents, thousands of them.
We had no energy but we had to unpack. Somehow, we managed it, like we always do. I sat on the beach and felt the peace and freedom of the sea, but behind me, the confinement of the tent. I guess that’s why Gaza is called an “open-air” prison.
I took a piece of bread to eat and there was some sand in it. Somehow, it tasted familiar and not disgusting.
Safety is so precious that, to be safe from Israeli bombs, we have to be homeless and miserable. Death might feel more peaceful than “safety.” I don’t feel safe in a bare tent around strangers. The best shelter in Gaza is the hospital.
After all the annoying flies left the tent, it was time to sleep. I tried to wipe the sand off my mattress and then I listened to some music to remember that I’m a human with emotions.
Inspiration was kind enough to visit, so I started to write this piece.
June and July 2024
My life now is an actual prison.
Although the occupation has been ongoing for more than 75 years, this is the first time I’ve seen the occupation in such clear terms. The gunboats in the sea, the planes above, the tanks on the streets.
And the borders are closed. So, even if you have the $5,000 to get to Egypt, it’s the same if you don’t.
August 2024
I’m writing this piece from our tent in al-Mawasi, but I can hear the bombardment of Rafah, daily. As in, there is no particular day that Israel is bombing Rafah, because Israel bombs Rafah every day.
The sky is full of gray smoke and warplanes, and the kids still fly kites.
I was more afraid that I wouldn’t be able to write than I was of the drone above me. This is not resistance and strength, it’s a kind of trauma that has given birth to carelessness.
How many lives do we have left?
We’ve started a new “life” each time we’ve evacuated. You flee somewhere unknown and then you establish a little life that could end at any second.
You buy a water tank, you build a bathroom, you buy a mattress, you try to find food and any place that gives out coupons. You will eventually leave this life behind and start a new one.
But our real life is the one that ended over 300 days ago.
Was that life perfect? Not one bit.
I wish this war was a TV series or a book and that I could look up spoilers for the ending, but each day is a cliff-hanger, and we do not know if death will visit.
When I take a moment and become aware of my surroundings, I realize that life looks unfamiliar. The tent that I sleep in, the mattress, the streets, even the clothes I’m wearing. All of these are not mine. They don’t have my smell and they hold no meaning or memory.
This morning I woke up early because of the heat inside the tent. I might’ve slept for five hours. My mom went to work (she is a journalist), and my siblings were still sleeping thanks to the fan.
I looked around and understood that everything that was happening was sad and true.
Nowar Nabil Diab is a writer and photographer in Gaza.
