“Where would we go?” I repeated to myself, after hearing that Israeli forces had launched yet another military operation in my area. In my mind, I replayed the first time I evacuated when we left our home and my mother behind.
When the Israeli Occupation Forces (IOF) invaded my neighborhood — blowing everything up — my family and I escaped to the Aldaraj neighborhood, seeking shelter at a school. There, we witnessed a horrific massacre. The IOF began shelling the school, and, in the chaos of smoke and destruction, my mother was killed. We buried her body in a relative’s garden and continued our arduous journey of displacement, until we reached a neighborhood that the Israeli Occupation had claimed to be “safe.”
Fortunately, this time, we had a place to go. We stayed at a small apartment that my grandmother bought six years ago, particularly for emergencies like this. This modest refuge became a shelter for us and 30 members of our family.
I still vividly remember the day we arrived at the apartment. I was shocked, devastated, and exhausted. We had walked over rubble and broken glass for more than five hours. My clothes were stained with my mother's blood, my face was covered in black dust, and my bare feet were bleeding.
My brothers were silent. The loss of our mother was unbearable for them. She had been a source of strength in overcoming the hardship of war. Her death destroyed us mentally and physically.
We spent two weeks at our new refuge, but the bombs didn’t stop. Each boom sounded louder and closer than the last. My father told us to prepare our bags because we might have to leave at any moment, again.
As nightfall descended, the sound of gunfire and explosions reverberated through the streets. We sat in the living room, panic invading every corner of our hearts. Scenes of the horror we faced during our evacuation from the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood came back to me; blood and dead bodies. I couldn't bear to relive this hellish nightmare.
By dawn, the distant sound of Israeli tanks rolling through the streets cast a shadow of death over the area. The bombardment intensified. Rockets illuminated the sky with trails of fire. Blasts of artillery shells were deafening. My father and uncle were certain that the IOF would invade the area we were sheltering in within hours.
We decided to leave. My father said, “If the tanks surround the area, we won’t be able to evacuate.” This time, the evacuation journey was harder. There were children and elderly people with us. We were each assigned a specific task. I was responsible for the kids. My brothers and cousins were responsible for my aunts and grandmother. Others were responsible for carrying bags.
We prepared ourselves to be displaced again through the heavy bombardment to set off into the unknown. My uncle split us into two groups and instructed us to meet at a specific location in case we got separated.
Along the way, artillery shells targeted paint storage facilities. Wild flames roared through the residential buildings, consuming everything in their path and leaving behind only charred remains, ashes, and choking smoke.
As bombs continued to fall and the fire raged, thousands of families poured into the streets unconsciously. Israeli tanks approached, and drones showered the street with live bullets. I held little Haneen and Abdullah by their hands, running from an absolute death. Their cries echoed through the chaos, painting a grim picture of the horrors of war. I closed my eyes and walked over dead bodies. Horror. Horror. My cousin, Bilal, who was carrying our grandmother, found a way out of the inferno. He shouted, “Come, I know a way out!”
We followed his lead until we found ourselves away from this pocket of hell. We walked for more than four hours to escape the area. Exhausted, thirsty, and homeless, we finally stopped. It was in that moment that I envied my mother. She had been relieved from the savagery of this war and the pain of displacement that we are enduring. I used to fear death, but now I realize that death was relief from tragedy.
