الانفصال أثناء الإبادة : فقدان ولم شمل العائلة وسط القصف

The evacuation scenario is a hellish nightmare for me. Every time, we are forced to leave our home and venture into the unknown. Since the beginning of the Israeli military operations in the northern part of the Strip, I have been displaced three times. Each evacuation leaves an incurable scar on my heart and mind. We are compelled to run under the heavy bombardment of Israeli tanks and aircraft, traversing over blood and dead bodies. Our last displacement occurred on July 8, 2024.

That morning, while preparing breakfast for my family, I received a prerecorded call from the Israeli Occupation. They informed us that a massive military operation would soon commence in our area and urged us to leave for the Western regions. This news shattered me both mentally and physically. We had nowhere to go, as the Occupation had bombed all the schools and hospitals that had served as shelters during previous invasions.

We hastily packed our bags and embarked on a journey of death. As in previous evacuations, the Israelis did not give us enough time to leave. Artillery shells and live bullets rained down on the area. Thousands of families poured into the streets in a state of panic, running without any clear destination. We were among them. The cries of children and women echoed through the chaos, as they struggled to endure the difficulty of running long distances under fire.

Amid the turmoil, my father decided to leave me and my sister with his friend who was living in a nearby school. I asked him about his plans and the whereabouts of my brothers. He remained silent for a while before saying, "I don't know. Don't worry about us; we will manage." I refused his departure, insisting that we stay together. My father, however, rejected my plea, left us with his friend, and ran away. It was the first time I had been separated from him, and I burst into tears.

I spent the entire night worrying about their situation, haunted by memories of my mother’s death. The thought of losing another family member was unbearable. I tried calling them several times, but there was no response. My anxiety grew until my brother, Yassen, finally answered.

"Where are you? Are you okay?" I asked frantically.

"We're fine. We're in a half-destroyed classroom at Al-Zaytoon School," he replied. Tears streamed down my face as he spoke. They had no pillows or blankets, having left them with us. My father took the phone and assured me they would spend only one night there and find a place to take us the next day. That hope encouraged me to endure the difficulty of their absence.

By dawn, Israeli aircrafts had carried out vicious airstrikes in what was deemed a safe area, followed by heavy gunfire and explosions. We had no idea what was happening until someone ran from outside, panic-stricken. He cried out, "The Israeli forces are in the University street! The tanks have besieged thousands of people in the schools. Run before it is too late!"

In that moment, self-preservation vanished. I collapsed to the ground, a scream of pure anguish escaping my lips. My brothers. My father. They were in this perilous area. My sister took the phone from my trembling hand and called them. My father's voice, steady yet urgent, replied, "We are okay. We escaped before the tanks surrounded the area. We survived death by a miracle. You must leave the area now. The tanks are advancing. I am waiting for you at the Al-Ababedi roundabout. You still have time to evacuate. Move with the people. I will guide you."

"I am scared. It is dark. I do not know the way. I cannot do it alone. Why did you not take us with you?" I pleaded. He responded, "You are strong. We have faced situations more difficult than this. Trust me, I am with you." His words infused me with a fragile strength. Clutching my sister's hand tightly, we joined the exodus of thousands.

The distant rumble of tanks cast a shadow of impending doom over the area. Fear and disorientation clouded my mind. We passed through Al-Nasar Street, once a vibrant and beautiful avenue, now transformed into a ghostly landscape of destruction. Buildings lay in ruins, their charred remains a stark testament to the ravages of war. Its former beauty was but a distant memory.

Finally, we reached the meeting place. With trembling hands, I called my father. "Dad, I made it. Where are you? Come and take us." His voice, filled with relief, came through, "We will shout our names so we can find each other." Following his instructions, I shouted with all the strength I could muster, "Dad! Dad!" Suddenly, I felt a warm embrace from behind. Turning around, I saw my father and my brothers. Relief washed over me like a cool breeze on a scorching summer day. Words cannot capture the profound happiness of that moment.

In chaos and fear, the reunion with my family was a beacon of hope and resilience. This experience, though terrifying, reinforced the strength and unity that bind us together. We survived, and in that survival, we found a renewed sense of purpose and determination to face whatever comes next.