To Escape from Death and Face it Again, Conversations with My Family

I am overwhelmed with embarrassment when I share the struggles of my family in Gaza, especially when others, also in Gaza, are suffering the worst conditions of death, torture, and genocide. But from what my mother tells me, I’ve come to understand that surviving airstrikes doesn’t necessarily mean escaping death. The threats of hunger, thirst, inconsolable grief, and disease are ever-present. These conditions, which include starvation and deprivation, are forms of and can be seen as acts of genocide, just as horrific as missile attacks and the use of internationally prohibited weapons.

My sister, Nour, shares stories of disease spreading due to accumulating waste, fly infestations, and fluctuating weather conditions— scorching during the day and freezing at night. Many displaced individuals lack adequate blankets and winter clothing. The public toilets, currently being used by thousands, pose a significant risk for infections, fever, diarrhea, influenza, and other contagious diseases. On the rare occasions when the internet connection is stable enough for a video call, I glimpse the harsh reality my family is living in — mounds of garbage and swarms of flies that churn my stomach. I constantly find myself questioning whether will they succumb to the lack of basic necessities or the absence of medication, especially for those battling chronic diseases.

My cousin, Lama, is battling kidney failure and requires daily kidney dialysis. However, as of today, November 15, she has only been able to receive treatment using makeshift, unsterilized equipment within an exposed and ill-equipped tent. Her mother bitterly awaits her daughter's inevitable fate, perhaps finding some comfort in the thought that her daughter might finally find peace.

During our last conversation, Lama’s once vibrant features were barely recognizable due to fluid and toxin retention in her frail body. She told me:  “I want Israelis to stop bombing hospitals. Why would they bomb Al-Rantisi Hospital?! And I want them to open Erez crossing so I can get my medication. I don’t want to die.” This heroic girl, who was never afraid of death, is now clinging to life, refusing to surrender to the brutality of an enemy that seems only to understand the language of blood.

What troubles me most is the situation of my five-year-old niece, Joury, who suffers from epilepsy and has run out of medication. Without her twice-daily doses, she experiences severe seizures that could potentially lead to paralysis — God forbid. It breaks my heart that her medical condition hasn't been accurately diagnosed due to the Israeli blockade preventing Joury and her parents from traveling outside Gaza to seek specialized diagnosis and treatment. Most neurologists in Gaza believe her illness is a result of her mother inhaling the smoke of internationally banned white phosphorus bombs used in previous wars. Each day, I ask my sister Nour if they’ve found Joury’s medicine, but the answer is always “no.” She tells me that her husband, Ahmad, spends hours every day searching for an alternative for their daughter's medication but always comes back empty-handed.

Despite not being able to communicate with my family for five days, I continued to send messages, hoping for a reply. I find myself asking, “Did you find food to eat? Did you find drinkable water? Were you able to get clothes, blankets, or anything to help fortify your tent against the upcoming winter rains?” Now, they can’t even decide if rain is a blessing, providing them with much-needed water or a curse, as they face the elements without proper shelter — only a flimsy tent stitched together from fabric scraps that constantly fall on their heads.

My father shared with me that a week ago, they had to resort to eating expired biscuits for breakfast. They’ve only been able to secure bottled drinking water twice in the past month since being displaced to the south. Even if they’re fortunate enough to secure more than one meal a day, my brother Mahmoud tells me he limits himself to one meal daily to avoid the long lines at the public toilets. As a result, the gaunt faces of my family members, who have lost significant weight due to the starvation tactics employed by Israel against all Palestinians in Gaza, are no longer surprising. The enormity of the situation is beyond what TV cameras and social media posts can capture.

In another tragedy, my friend Jullnar, with whom I’ve only managed to speak three times since the aggression began, shared her experience of being displaced twice. Their home in the Al-Nasr neighborhood was bombed without warning, as was her husband’s family home, which was hit by Israeli tank shells, leading to the martyrdom of her uncle. She and her husband fled to the center of Gaza City, uncertain of the fate of the rest of her family. Jullnar, who has had three miscarriages in the past and went to great lengths to carry her baby to term, lost contact with her private doctor and couldn’t get the daily injections she needed to maintain her pregnancy. She shared with me through WhatsApp messages her experiences of bleeding and pain over the past few days, unable to reach a doctor or a hospital. She can’t even get the results of bloodwork tests she had before October 7, as she had hoped to communicate with a doctor outside Gaza to answer some of her questions, determine the dosage she should take or the date of her delivery, and whether the birth would be natural or a cesarean section.

And then there's Fatima, my cousin, the only member of my family I managed to talk to in the last five days, who told me she's embarrassed to even talk about the quality of the water they drink and the food they eat. She explains how it is hard to explain to her six-year-old sister, Joud, who has diabetes, that she can't receive her injections even if they are available because there are no open pharmacies. Even if they find one, there are no refrigerators to store her injections! She pleads with me to stop my questions as the answers leave her wounded and choked up. And this is how any conversation I have with my family in the southern part of the Gaza Strip ends — in a cloud of bitterness and helplessness.

This testimony was translated into English by Aya Jayyousi.