My Grandmother’s Persistence from Birth in Bayt Daras to Death in Gaza
Date: 
October 09 2024
Author: 
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In the early months of 1948, the quiet village of Beit Daras, its sunlit fields and groves of olives, was thrust into the chaos of massacres. My grandmother, Amera who preferred to be called Um Mohamed (mother of Mohamed, her son), was seven years old at the time. She witnessed what we now call the Nakba, the catastrophe that forever altered the course of her life. The Haganah Zionist militia stormed her village in March of that year, attacking people and land for two months with mortar shells and machine guns. Her family, and countless others, were forced to leave their homes, venturing into an uncertain future.

"My home was a piece of my heart," she would often recount, her voice heavy with the weight of memories. "We were forced to leave, and as we fled, the sight of blood and slaughtered people was everywhere. Houses were set ablaze with people still inside." Her recollections painted a vivid picture of a paradise turned to hell.

For a child of seven, the journey was grueling beyond words. "I fell to the ground out of exhaustion several times," she recalled. "I was hungry and thirsty. We walked for days without a clear destination." Each step away from Beit Daras was a step into the unknown, fueled by fear and the hope of survival.

After days of difficult travel, my grandmother's family finally reached Gaza. They arrived with nothing, leaving everything they knew and loved in Beit Daras. Their new life began in tents, where they faced the harsh realities of displacement: deprivation of basic needs, endless work to afford food, and the loss of childhood joys. My grandmother spent those formative years standing in lines for water and food, working in the fields instead of playing with friends. Yet, amid the hardships, the hope of returning to Beit Daras kept her spirit alive. "The thought of going back home encouraged me to endure," she would say, eyes glinting with determination.

Years passed, but the hope in my grandmother’s heart never waned. She would often declare, "One day, I will return to my home in Beit Daras," not fully realizing that the Israeli Occupation would continue to shadow her steps, dismantling her dreams of return and haunting her life with persistent threats.

In 2023, the dark memories of 1948 returned, casting a shadow over Gaza as history repeated itself in a hauntingly familiar way. The memories of displacement and resilience, passed down through generations, once again became a harsh reality. From the very first day of the war, the Israeli Occupation issued urgent warnings to the residents of northern Gaza, demanding they evacuate to the south. These demands were backed by threats — starvation, relentless bombing, and a looming military invasion — intended to force people from their homes, just as they had done decades earlier.

Despite the horrors and massacres that we faced, my grandmother refused to leave. She said, "I am not afraid of their tanks and warplanes. I will not repeat the same mistake twice. If I die, I will die here in the north." Her conviction that the south was merely an Israeli trap — intended to displace people to Sinai and resolve the Palestinian issue by force — strengthened our resolve to stay with her.

However, the situation in the north deteriorated beyond our worst fears. It became a living nightmare, and survival became impossible. The Israeli Occupation's genocide included the destruction of hospitals and the blockade of humanitarian aid. Starvation gripped us, and markets lay empty. With no other options, we were forced to eat animal feed just to quell our hunger. Death seemed inevitable: from the constant bombardment or starvation and the lack of medical services.

My grandmother paid the heaviest price. Starvation left her frail, her weight plummeting, and her face growing pale and lifeless. Her health declined daily, and what she needed — nourishing food and medical care — had become unattainable luxuries. I cried bitterly each time I saw her, once our pillar of strength now weakened and deteriorated. It felt as though I was watching her die in front of me. I felt helpless. I wished I had all the food and medicine in the world to restore her health and ease her suffering.

Desperation drove me to the market, searching for anything to nourish my grandmother. I walked through the desolate streets, my hope dwindling with each empty stall I passed. But then, I spotted a small sack — just one kilogram of lentils. It felt like a lifeline. I bought it immediately, clutching it as though it were the most precious thing in the world. I ran home, heart racing with a glimmer of joy. Finally, I had something that might help her, to ease her suffering.                       

I burst through the door, eager to share my small victory. But as I entered, I found my little brother standing there, his face a mix of sorrow and an attempt to hold back his tears. "Where is Grandmother? Where is everyone?" I asked, holding up the lentils as if they were the answer to our prayers.

He said nothing, but his eyes, filled with tears, spoke volumes. The silence was deafening. My grandmother, the strong, unyielding force in our lives, had passed away quietly while I was out searching for a lifeline.

I dropped to my knees, the lentils slipping from my grasp. They scattered across the floor, their worth now meaningless. The grief hit me like a tidal wave. I had been too late. She had died in silence, without the comfort of the food I had struggled so hard to find. The realization tore through me, leaving me with an emptiness that words could never fill. She passed away on February 18, 2024.

But in that moment of unbearable grief, I felt something deeper stir within me. My grandmother's spirit, forged in the fires of 1948 and tempered by a lifetime of resilience, was still with us. She had faced unimaginable horrors as a child, yet she had survived, carrying the hope of return and the determination never to be displaced again. Her last stance, refusing to flee, was not in vain — it was a testament to her unwavering resolve.

The occupation may have robbed her of life, but it could never destroy the legacy she left behind. Her courage, defiance, and love for the land she refused to abandon, now lived in us. We honor her by standing firm and refusing to be driven away from the north, where she chose to stay until the very end.

About The Author: 

Shahad Ali is an English literature student at the Islamic University of Gaza. She has a long experience in writing short stories and journal articles depicting the suffering of Palestinians under Israeli Occupation.

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