My name is Sara Sbaih, a Palestinian from the besieged city of Gaza, which is currently enduring the bombardment and massacres by the Israeli occupation.
As I pen these words, my eyes well up with tears. My heart quivers with fear and worry for my family, friends, and loved ones in Gaza, and for Gaza itself, which I hold dear. I currently reside in Lebanon’s capital, Beirut, while my family is in Gaza. This is my first experience of being away from my family during a war waged on our homeland. It’s the first war that I’m not experiencing alongside my people.
I’m at a loss for where to begin: Is it when I lost contact with my family? Or when I anxiously awaited news from a friend trapped under the rubble of a collapsed building? Or when I heard about Gaza being deprived of water, food, and medical supplies? Or when I learned that classmates, friends, and relatives had been martyred? Or when I realized that another Nakba was being prepared by the Occupation? Or when I discovered that my family had fled our home, suddenly displaced, desperately seeking the safety they had lost? Or perhaps other moments of suffocation and guilt for being far away from our beloved Gaza.
The war on Gaza commenced on Oct. 7. From the moment the first airstrike targeted us, I felt a sense of betrayal towards my country due to my absence. However, I managed to rationalize the situation and convinced myself that all I could do was follow the news and share updates about the country that I’ve always dreamed would one day know peace without the sound of bombings or fighter jets overhead.
I maintained constant online contact with my family until 15:30 p.m. on Wednesday, Oct. 11, when their internet connection was cut off. Since then, I haven’t heard any of their voices. This was the first time internet access is cut off in Gaza during a war. At that moment, I feared that an Israeli strike had targeted the building my family resides in and they had all been martyred. After several failed attempts to reach them through various means, my sister, who is in Germany, managed to call them from Germany and reassured me that they were alive and that internet indeed had been cut off and communication systems are weak. But that was the last time we heard from them.
Since then, I’ve been a dead woman walking. After barely two hours of fitful sleep, I wake up to go to work and immediately check my phone for any news related to my family. The scale of death has led me to believe that I might lose them in this war. And so, I wait for the news of their death. I think this because I have already lost many colleagues, friends, and relatives. On my way to work, I listen to the news and try to distract myself once I reach the office. But the sounds of the news segments continue to echo in my ears.
I’ve begun to despise eating. Each time I see food, I reproach myself. How can I eat when I’m uncertain if my family has food? Drinking water feels like a transgression. How can I drink when my family is in search of clean water? I loathe myself for living a life that, while far from normal, is still more comfortable than what my family in Gaza is experiencing. They can’t even open a window to breathe air that’s now thick with dust from destroyed buildings, smoke from the missiles that caused the destruction, and the stench of blood and death.
My responses about my family have changed too. When friends in Lebanon ask about them, I used to answer with a smile, “They’re fine.” Now, I no longer smile; “We are still alive, thank God” is all I can say. It’s the only response anyone in Gaza can give right now: “I’m still alive.” All we can do is pray for our loved ones’ survival and close our eyes, hoping that when we wake up after an hour or two, our loved ones will still be with us.
I recall the day after my family’s internet was cut off. Israel launched a violent strike near my house. I tried various ways to check on my family. My sister in Germany also tried to contact them, but the communication lines in Gaza weren’t working. After nearly half an hour of excruciating pain and anxiety, my sister received news about my mother, father, sister, and little brother. But even my mother didn’t know if my older brother and his family were okay.
He wasn’t at home when the strike hit. He was with his wife, offering condolences to relatives over the martyrdom of a family member. The explosion was closer to where they were than our home. My mother didn’t know whether her son and his wife had been martyred or injured in this attack, especially since there was no way of contacting them.
After about an hour, I learned that my brother was alive. I truly felt that I was letting my brother — his soul — down; the person who had never let me down. I hated myself because I was not by his side. I began to wish that I would die rather than anything bad happening to him.
I never thought that one day I would be waiting for news of a family member’s death. This is where I find myself now; waiting for news of their martyrdom. I swear to all that is dear to me that waiting for death is worse than death itself.
