One of my goals this year was to join the organizing team of the Hult Prize Award among university students around the world. I eagerly waited for the application forms and I filled them out as soon as they were available. Fortunately, I passed the first stage of this competition and was invited to interview. The interviews were scheduled for Oct. 7 at the Ayan Hotel on Gaza's beach.
On that day, I woke up early, dressed in formal attire, and prepared myself for the interview. My future for the year hinged on this fifteen-minute interview. However, this future soon faced a harsh reality. The suffocating blockade that lasted for 17 years erupted into explosions and conflict, shattering many dreams and goals.
War broke out, and bombardments surrounded us. The worst part came on the second day when Israeli forces dropped leaflets in our area, Al-Nasr neighborhood, demanding that we evacuate to other locations deemed 'safe.' Under heavy bombardment, my family and I were displaced for the first time to my uncle’s house in Al-Saftawi district. We stayed with them for less than a week. On the afternoon of the sixth day, Israeli forces called us and ordered us to evacuate the area because they were going to bomb us! We were filled with sorrow.
We evacuated for the second time, heading to my middle sister’s house in Al-Yazji district. We stayed there for less than four days before disaster struck as we became hungry and experienced electricity blackouts and water cuts. Electricity was available for no more than an hour and a half a day, and we'd scramble to charge our phones and check the news amidst the heavy bombing.
Shortly after midnight on the fourth night of the second evacuation, we were alarmed by loud noises and yelling from the street. People were yelling at neighborhood residents to evacuate because officers from the Israeli Occupation Forces had called, demanding that people evacuate to another area that they claimed to be 'safe.' The sight was harrowing; mothers screaming and running with their children in the street, fathers sending their families away while they tried to gather belongings.
Unable to find shelter, my family and I were forced to go to Al-Nasr Children's Hospital. We thought, international law forbids bombing hospitals and their surroundings. This was on the 13th day of the war, and this was our third displacement in less than two weeks. The word “displacement” is not light; it means packing your belongings and moving toward an unknown fate each time. At the hospital, we suffered from electricity outages and water scarcity.
I stayed at the hospital with my family and my uncles’ families, who had also been forced to evacuate. Food was scarce, and the bombing was intense. The hospital was overcrowded with displaced people, and a nearby mosque, though offered us reassurance was also a concern as places of worship were primary bombing targets.
During my stay at the hospital, I tried reading books to escape from this reality. And between reading a word and hearing a blast, I was able to finish Agatha Christie's novel, And Then There Were None.
I remember sitting with my sister on the hospital stairs reminiscing about life before the war. Overcome by nostalgia, I took out my journal that night and began writing about the 25th day of the war which fell on Oct. 31, 2023. I began writing at 8:10 p.m. I remember sitting with some friends under a tree when we heard the echo of a nearby bombing and some shrapnel fell on us, causing us minor injuries.
Days passed and the bombing around us intensified. One day, we heard an announcement inside the hospital: “There’s a sniper unit near the hospital that is targeting anyone who walks out the door.” The situation escalated, and we were forced to sleep in the hospital corridors that night due to the intense attacks. We were startled the next morning to find that a room overlooking the courtyard was bombed. Two girls were martyred and one lost her arm. This was on the 30th day of the war.
The sounds of clashes and blasts persisted, and no one could enter or leave the hospital. I remember that I one day woke up to the news of the martyrdom of three people at the hospital’s gate!
On the 35th day of the war, my cousin told me: “The tanks are at the hospital’s gate.” I did not believe the news at first, until there was a bombing inside the building. I remember lying on the floor. The doctors shut all the curtains and switched off all the lights. No one dared to move or make any sound. In a moment, the whole place became a ghost town. Silent. Then we heard a bomb and realized that the tank at the gate had hit the upper floor of the hospital.
When the attack on the hospital was over, we gathered in the hospital courtyard and prepared ourselves to escape. As we stood there, Israeli forces threw smoke grenades at us. We left and moved toward the Al-Ayoun intersection. I saw the tanks by the hospital from afar and heard their engines roaring. While I was distracted by the now-distant sounds, I tripped. I had stumbled over two bodies: a young man and his mother, who were killed by a sniper's bullet. A white flag lay next to them, tainted with their blood.
We continued our journey turning right toward Al-Jalaa Street, where I was briefly separated from my family. I ran into the martyr Dr. Refaat Al-Areer, with whom I studied poetic rhythm at college. I remember him asking me: “Do you need any help? I am ready for anything.” I stammered and said: “No, Professor, thank you." He went on his way, and I did not know that it would be our last meeting. I reunited with my family and while hesitant at first, we decided to heqad south, beginning a new chapter of suffering in this war.
We continued our way on foot toward the Tayaran intersection in the middle area of Gaza, together with large crowds of people and lots of fatigue. We carried what we could. When we arrived at the intersection, I found a taxi, ran to it, and stopped it. We headed from the Tayaran intersection to the Kuwaiti roundabout. When we arrived, we had to ride in horse-drawn carts to reach a place near the checkpoint between the north and the south. It took us approximately an hour to get there.
At a certain point, the cart owner stopped and from there we continued our journey on foot toward the checkpoint, joining the crowds of people along the path. I saw sights that I will never forget for the rest of my life!
At first, I saw remnant of people's belongings that they could no longer carry. Some luggage, some documents on the ground. The cart owner had warned us: “If your mother were to fall beside you, do not turn your head and just keep moving forward!” What kind of arrogance, destruction and injustice can a human suffer in a world that claims to be in the 21st century?!
As we continued on our way, joining crowds of displaced Palestinians, I saw Israeli tanks and vehicles, and what appeared to be soldiers crouching behind a hill of sandbags. They asked us to show our ID cards, but my sister, a doctor, had lost her ID earlier and had to identify herself using her medical card. A soldier shouted at us to stop and asked the person with the blue ID card to come forward. My sister was that person, but she refused to do what he asked. Instead, she tossed away her card and stood still. The soldier shouted again for us to continue walking, so we did, passing the checkpoint on Salah al-Din Street.
As we walked, I saw an old woman faint from fatigue, and a doctor helped her. At the Wadi Gaza Bridge, explosions and shells fell around us. The Occupation forces targeted evacuees on Salah al-Din Street, killing two people in front of me. This was on the 35th day of the war, around 3:30 p.m.
We continued our journey on a horse-drawn cart to the Deir al-Balah junction, then took a bus with another displaced to Bani Suhaila, east of Khan Yunis, in the south of the Strip. Upon our arrival on the outskirts of Khan Yunis, its citizens began welcoming us, offering us water, food, and juice. They were all saying: “If you don’t have a shelter, our homes are open for you.”
Despite the destruction, the unity and generosity of the people brought some happiness. They shared their food and little provisions, and perhaps what remains of their happiness, with other afflicted people “even if they themselves are needy” (Verse 9 of Surah Al-Hashr).
As we heard the Maghrib call to prayer, we arrived at the house that was our destination. It was the house of my sister’s friend’s relatives. We entered the room prepared for us. They had provided us with amenities, food, and a place to sleep. We wept, overwhelmed by the day's events. It was Nov. 10, our fourth displacement.
My sister's friend came to console her and my mother, and I consoled my father, and in an attempt to uplift everyone’s mood, I insisted that we start eating, so we ate. We do not know what happened afterwards; the time was close to 7 p.m., but suddenly it became 1 p.m. It was the first time we slept without terror or fear from the sound of continuous bombing.
We tried to restore normalcy and heal ourselves from the psychological trauma of the past month. The days passed with some bombing and explosive sounds, but the main suffering was caused by electricity, water, and cooking gas outages. We were forced to light wood on fire to cook — in addition to the scarcity of essential resources — but it was necessary to adapt and survive. The days passed quickly in Bani Suhaila. I met some old friends, and we would sit and try to remember our normal days, university life and other things. We would laugh, and that would lighten our burdens, even if just a little. Some nights passed without us being able to sleep, given that the town of Bani Suhaila is close to the eastern border, and the sounds of clashes were clearly audible, but what were we to do?
After 20 days of in Khan Yunis,the owner of the house knocked loudly on the door to our room, yelling: “Evacuation! Evacuation! The army officers called us, and the entire eastern area of Khan Yunis must be evacuated!” I thought, ‘Are you kidding me? These are the same officers who told us to go south and said it would be safe!’ The shelling intensified around us, so we were forced to evacuate and head to Deir al-Balah.
We split up. My sister went with her husband to his relatives' house, and I went with my parents and brother to an UNRWA shelter, a school. Two of my uncles and my father's aunt — who is nearly 80-years-old — were already there. This was the fifth displacement on the 55th day of the war.
We stayed at the school for a few days. We struggled; the building was dirty, there was no food. The shelter was located near Salah al-Din street which was designated a ‘red zone.’ One day, the bombings and clashes around us intensified and we heard an explosion inside the school. We fled the smoke toward the town of al-Zawayda near Al-Aqsa Hospital, to a land where two of my uncles were staying. This was our sixth displacement in the first 60 days of this war.
