The Electronic Intifada 10 March 2025
The author’s home in al-Zawayda, central Gaza, was destroyed by an Israeli attack.
It was cold and raining on our walk home to al-Zawayda this past January, after the ceasefire had been announced. On either side of the road from Deir al-Balah were the ruins of buildings and homes, piles of cement rubble.
Al-Zawayda was once a quiet and peaceful place to live, so quiet that some of the people of Gaza did not even know where it was. Our residents were used to going to bed early and waking up early, unlike other cities where people stay up late. It was a simple agricultural town in central Gaza.
We had walked about 3 kilometers from Deir al-Balah, where we had been displaced, and my husband carried our youngest child on his back while I helped carry the bags. Every now and then we took a break to rest.
But the hardest part of the walk was what I saw along the way. My mind could not comprehend the sight of corpses and bones along the roadside.
A hand here.
A skull there.
Severed fingers strewn about.
I showed no emotion so as not to frighten my three young children, but inside I was devastated. What kind of brutality had been committed against our people, just because they refused to leave their homes?
It was no surprise then that our neighborhood was similarly in ruins. We found that the supermarket where my husband worked had been destroyed as well.
We were aware of the disastrous condition of our home, since we were able to visit the previous year. Still, it was a surprise to see it again, entirely collapsed into itself, the roof sunk and the walls missing.
We set up a tent next to the ruins and went to bed.
The first night back in al-Zawayda felt strangely familiar and safe. Many of our neighbors had returned after the ceasefire, so we were not alone. Only now, overhead, we heard the buzzing sounds of Israeli drones.
Paradise turned into hell
My garden had once been a paradise. We had planted olive, fig, orange and lemon trees. We had mint, basil and roses.
I loved sitting under the grape arbor and drinking my morning coffee. My children would play and help their father pick fruit from the trees. Every Friday we used to have lunch in the garden and sit on the ground next to the trees.
What I saw now was not the garden I had known. The trees were uprooted, the leaves were charred. The roses I had planted had shriveled up, and the soil had turned gray.
Bomb fragments and shrapnel were scattered everywhere. It was a barren scene, taken over by death.
I had tended to this garden daily, with great care, and the occupation had destroyed it.
We got to work in the coming days and began clearing the rubble, despite the dangers. My children insisted on helping, not really comprehending what had happened. But I wish I had stopped them because my youngest, Karam, tripped over a rock and got scratched up badly.
We spent five full days removing stones, uprooted trees and charred plants. To remove the shrapnel and traces of explosives, we sought help from the Palestinian Civil Defense.
After the cleanup, we found an area in the garden where we could plant seedlings. We only needed to wait for rain.
Life springs up again
Every morning, my children ran to the garden after waking up to observe the sprouting plants, eager to see results. After a week, a tiny tomato sprout emerged from the soil. When they saw it, they ran around excitedly.
I felt relieved, as if life was again possible
“Did you see?” I asked my husband. “I knew it would sprout.”
He joked, “It’s a mighty tomato, just like our people.”
We started work on our home next. My husband refused to remain powerless and was determined to restore what was left.
He removed old doors and wooden cabinets from our home that were still intact. Then, he used an acquaintance’s bulldozer to clear the site. With the help of his carpenter cousin, who brought additional wood, he began to build a temporary wooden room on the site of our old home, hoping to provide a better shelter than the tent.
Many others were like us, searching for metal panels (that we call zingo panels) and tarps to patch up areas of their homes. We were all refusing to surrender to destruction.
As we continued building and planting each day, my conviction grew stronger that our land would gradually return to life, despite the scars and wounds it bore.
We will not leave, and we will not abandon our land, no matter the challenges.
Our roots are firmly planted.
We will rebuild our homes, replant our gardens and not allow anyone to erase our identity. We will face hardships and grow again, just as the tomato seedling sprouted under the rain.
Sumaya Mohammed is a teacher and writer from Gaza.
