The Electronic Intifada 5 April 2024
Celebrating Ramadan during genocide in a camp for displaced people in Deir al-Balah on 10 March 2024.
APA imagesI am writing today after nearly half a year of devastation in Gaza, amid ongoing violations against the people remaining here, mass displacement and the inability to communicate due to deliberate actions by the occupation to keep us confined in a small space under Israel’s arrogant control.
During these difficult days, we have witnessed numerous heartbreaking scenes of hunger, thirst and humiliation.
The number of our martyrs so far amounts to over 33,000, including nearly 14,000 children and over 9,000 women, not to mention the civil defense members, ambulance personnel, aid workers, UN staff and older people.
Each of them is a heroic story in their own right, representing families that once lived in peace and hope. After 7 October, the occupation executed its threat, wiping out happiness, aspirations and dreams.
I remember my dear neighbor Ibrahim al-Madhoon, 90, who used to drink a cup of tea on his doorstep every morning, prepared for him by his wife Nisreen. I used to watch them, and their moments of happiness in their lives, and I would instinctively smile at the sight of them.
Their house was bombed and both were killed. The tea cup was shattered, and the laughter that used to fill the neighborhood disappeared.
I remember my friend Hazem, who used to feed the poor. He was very generous.
After 7 October, I found Hazem broken and miserable, sick due to the scarcity of food in Gaza and from drinking contaminated water, which now tastes like sewage. He was standing in line for humanitarian aid, a meal not big enough for one person, provided every three days for the entire family.
I remember when I was displaced from my house, which I now recall as palatial, on 13 October and went to Khan Younis in the south. The decision was forced on me by the Israeli forces of occupation, which said the south was a humanitarian zone where there would be no bombing.
From house to tent
On 26 October, however, my understanding of this new reality was clarified. I was in the street to buy some bread, when a whole square in the neighborhood I had fled to was bombed.
I almost became a casualty statistic. The explosion was so close and loud, I lost my hearing and speech for 20 minutes trying to comprehend what was happening.
I saw the residents of the neighborhood running and shouting words I could barely comprehend – “martyr,” “get the survivors out from under the rubble” – and then I ran as fast as I could, not knowing where to go, with just a few words running through my mind: There is no safe place.
Then I opened my news and social media platforms and found that many governments around the world are against this small territory full of stories, dreams and happiness in all its streets. I lost hope that this genocide would end soon and realized that this would become our lives – careening between anxiety and fear.
We were moved further south. The genocidal military forced us to the outskirts of Khan Younis, again describing it as a safe humanitarian area.
We had no choice but to follow the army’s instructions, hoping this would save us from death, but knowing full well there is nowhere safe in Gaza.
Here we transitioned from house to tent. Our new and current conditions do not provide the slightest protection, whether from the cold and rain or the rockets and shells.
The people of Gaza have become tent dwellers without privacy or security.
Ramadan questions
The month of Ramadan came with many questions.
Ramadan in a tent?
Ramadan in war?
Where will we find food?
How will we break our fast with something that compensates for fasting?
All these questions buzz in the minds of people who are hungry, sick, displaced and homeless.
I don’t hear laughter anywhere; I only hear crying for the martyrs and for Gaza City.
I see children crying in pain because of hunger, and women lining up for medicine and treatment for sick children with skin diseases, gastrointestinal infections and hepatitis. I saw a child in pain and his family unable to act due to the lack of any medicine or medical staff to treat the boy.
In Gaza, if you get sick, you either wait for God’s mercy or wait for your death. There is little to nothing by way of treatment.
If every Palestinian in Gaza spoke about their loss and suffering, the sea would run dry before these stories could end. We have lost our cities and towns with their memories, streets, schools, mosques and churches.
Both Gaza’s history and present are being wiped out.
In the heart of every challenge lies the seed of hope, and amid every tragedy, the strength of resilience and willpower shines through. Despite the many wounds, Gaza’s story remains full of tenderness, strength and hope.
Gaza has faced the harshest conditions, yet it has not surrendered or stopped dreaming of a better tomorrow. In each of its people lies the courage of struggle and a desire to build a future that restores Gaza’s charm and peace.
Resilience and determination to live with dignity burns within us. And with each passing day, hope is somehow maintained and the will to move forward grows despite all the hardships.
Mohammed Abu Shamala grew up in Khan Younis refugee camp, Gaza. His family is from Beit Daras, where villagers were forcibly displaced by Zionist militias in 1948.
