Sondos
Sabra
Since
October 7, 2023, Sondos Sabra has kept a diary of the genocide. These entries
serve as a window into her life and the universal Gazan story of what it means
to survive. "I remember that I remember, and I will not have that memory
erased."
Palestinians inspect the damage in the Nuseirat refugee camp in the
central Gaza Strip after Israeli shelling of the camp stopped on
November 29, 2024. (Photo: Omar Ashtawy/APA Images)
October
7, 2023: Rain and olive trees
It’s
raining. I love rainy mornings. October rain is particularly eagerly
anticipated by Palestinians, especially my father. He’s on pins and needles for
it. It’s the season for Palestinian festivals. People consider it a sign from
Mother Nature, signaling the start of the olive season, a gesture from her to
cleanse the grains with green gold, as they call it. This morning seems
beautiful. In Palestinian slang, this time of year is called the “Jad
al-Zeitoon” season, where the bond between the land and the people is renewed,
and families gather to pick olives in an atmosphere of cooperation and joy.
My
grandfather, born in 1898, “before the establishment of Israel and the British
Mandate,” spent much of his life planting his land with olive and prickly pear
trees – my family’s name ‘sabra” comes from their reputation for planting it.
Over 80 years ago he established orchards that my father and my uncles then
inherited. My grandfather lived a long life, nearly 100 years, and when he
passed away his sons pledged to care for his trees as if they were their own
children. My grandfather used to say, “The olive tree is like Palestine: its
roots burrow deep into the earth; its branches are a symbol of peace, and its
oil is the elixir of life.” Despite all the colonisers” attempts to steal his
land, the Palestinian clings to it to every last inch of it, facing the Israeli
thirst for annihilation with an even more steadfast determination for life,
dying a thousand times, if necessary, only to rise back up with a newfound love
for the homeland.
Every
October, our family, from the youngest to the oldest, prepares for this season.
My father has bought a new ladder, and my younger brother Mahmoud fetched out a
large, elegant glass bottle he had put aside, to fill with oil, after the
pressing, to give to his friend at school. Yes, in Palestine, we give olive oil
as a gift and a symbol. A present for a friend, a reward for success, a
blessing for a bride.
For
me, I try to convince my father to buy a new tea kettle, but he insists on
keeping the old one that has been so charred by fire over the years it’s now
completely black. My father cherishes his things. He doesn’t let go of them
easily, and shows endless fondness towards them. He is the same with his
relationships. He always says, “The dearest things I own in this life are my
land, my library, and you,” referring to us “his children”. I’ll let you in on
a secret; throughout my childhood, I felt jealous of my father’s library
because of his preoccupation with it. I used to chide him, “The dearest things
you own in this life are me, me, and me… then your books. I’ll donate all your
books to my school, if you don’t accept that.” “I’ll donate you,” he’d reply
jokingly. “Or better still, I’ll sell you and buy more books with the money.”
Picking
olives is as laborious as it is enjoyable. Tasks are divided among the group.
One spreads out the mats on the ground, another undertakes to pick the olives
from low-hanging branches, another climbs the ladder to pick those on the
higher branches, and another prepares breakfast, usually skiving the bulk of
the work to sip a cup of tea and wait for the others to join them. We pick the
olives by hand, a method my late grandfather insisted upon. Others get machines
or even chemicals to do the work for them. But my father says picking by hand
is gentlest on the tree and causes it the least harm; it also yields the
richest oil. The olives that fall on their own, or with a gentle shake of the
branches, go for pickling and rather than being squeezed for their oil, for
reasons of quality. They are the best.
The
mats placed under the trees catch everything that falls. During the picking
process, large leaves, old or sick ones, fall with the fruits and must be
separated out before they’re sent for pressing or pickling. The separation
process is done either with a large sieve or by exposing them to an air
current, such as the waft of a palm frond.
Harvesting
activities begin in the early hours of dawn. Our visit today is to prepare for
the season, and we won’t start picking today. My four-year-old sister, Fatima,
woke up and didn’t allow anyone else to sleep; the whole family has to wake up
once she’s up. No one dares to break this rule, not even our cat Oscar. We
prepare for the busy day ahead. We load the necessary items for the season into
the car – ladder, ground mats, cooking
pots – and head towards our land. We haven’t even had our morning coffee yet;
we’ll have it on the land today. Once we’ve had breakfast, each of us will go
about our separate tasks. On the way there, I receive a message from my writer
friend Mahmoud El Basyouni reminding me of our meeting. Because he can be a bit
bird-brained, I often skip some details that he considers important, so he’s
chasing me. Mahmoud is publishing a sequel to his first novel, and we are
planning a launch event. He knows I’m passionate about Arabic literature and
poetry, and he chose me, “proudly”, to be the MC for the event.
As
soon as we reached the land, and got out of the car, explosions began to echo
in the distance. Consecutive explosions rattle off in time to our own
heartbeats. What is this? Is it a new war launched by Israel? Didn’t they have
enough bloodshed in previous wars and escalations? But these rockets are coming
from Gaza. Is it a mistake in the resistance’s missile platform system? My
questions are interrupted by the screams of my little sister Fatima, screams
that fill the orchard. I hug her tightly and try to calm her down. Fatima is
very attached to me, but I can’t seem to ease her shock. I remember this fear
well. I have lived with it throughout my childhood. My lungs can’t forget it.
The smell of gunpowder still lingers within them.
This
is what it’s like for Gazan kids. Alongside the alphabet of letters, we learned
the alphabet of wars. I was in the Arabic language test hall, when my
eight-year-old heart was tested on this latter subject. We received our papers,
and explosions began to thunder around us, their sounds creeping closer and
closer to my school – the Cairo Elementary School, in the Rimal neighborhood.
The words “war”, “escalation”, or “conflict” weren’t yet in my vocabulary, and
I didn’t understand the subtle differences between them. We poured out from our
desks, into the rows between exam tables, then out into the corridors of the
school, screaming and stumbling. What is this? What will we do? Why is this
happening to us? I wanted a hug that day from my mother. I remember needing it
so badly, so I don’t leave Fatima for a moment. Panic gripped everyone that
day, including the teachers and the administration. For the first time, I saw
my teacher trembling with fear and crying. Then I knew it was serious. This was
in late December 2008, when Israel launched a bloodthirsty war on Gaza, killing
over 200 Palestinians on the first day alone. In this war, Israel used white
phosphorus for the first time and has reused it in all subsequent wars on Gaza,
despite it being banned internationally. They even used it in an attack on
Al-Fakhoura school which is run by the UNRWA, killing 40 civilians.
We
quickly decide to pack up and return home, to leave the harvesting for another
day when things calm down. On the way back, passersby exchanged news with us
about one of the prominent leaders in Hamas being assassinated by Israel, and
Hamas launching rockets in response to the assassination. This didn’t surprise
me; Israel has a long history of assassinating leaders, figureheads, even
academics and poets – Ghassan Kanafani being one of the most prominent
examples. No Palestinian is safe from Israel’s targeting. The very existence of
any Palestinian – man, woman, or child – is unsettling for it. My brother
suggests we go grocery shopping, get a week’s load in emergency supplies in
case we’re not able to leave the house for a while. We do just this, quickly
grabbing whatever we think we might need, before heading home.
Uncertainty
still prevails over the course of events. Uncertainty about what’s happening
and what will happen. Uncertainty about my to-do list for today, tomorrow, who
knows how long. For someone like me, who’s mad about planning, this chaos is
disturbing. But it’s normal in Gaza. Life is full of surprises at the best of
times, no doubt. But Gaza’s surprises never end, and they’re all unpleasant.
October
13, 2023: An emergency bag
This
morning is unlike any other; the war rages on without pause. The house is
crowded; my older sister arrived yesterday with her children and grandchildren
after her home was badly damaged in a bombardment that pounded her
neighborhood. We wake up early to prepare breakfast. I sit next to little
Fatoum (as we call Fatima), both of us in front of the dough board. My task is
to spread the cheese, thyme, and oil onto the dough, and she carefully mimics
my movements, watching and learning with childish curiosity. Though the task is
simple, I feel a small degree of responsibility, then start to wonder why my
older siblings always entrust me with the easier jobs. I don’t mind; in fact,
it pleases me, but I can’t help but wonder if they will always see me as the
youngest, no matter how old I get.
When
it’s time to bake, my father takes over with skilled hands. The aroma of the
pastries fills the air, and as the first batch comes out, I quickly grab a few
along with a cup of sage tea and retreat to my room to continue watching a
movie I started the night before. I’m not sure if it’s the commotion I’m
running away from or the tension I need a time-out from. I tell myself it’s a
little soldier’s break, an excuse to detach, and decompress, even if
momentarily.
In
the movie, there is a scene of a woman trying to get the hero’s attention,
walking back and forth in front of him as he sat engrossed in his newspaper,
oblivious to her efforts. The scene stirs something in me, evoking a strange
sadness for women who chase men this way. For me, love cannot be forced or won
through tactics; it should flow naturally, unscripted. I hold onto the
traditional idea that femininity shines in calmness, while courage and
initiative are more a man’s game.
My
sister’s husband returns from an emergency meeting with UNRWA. The staff have
been ordered to evacuate North Gaza as Israel has declared it a high-risk
combat zone. It is unsettling to think that a prominent international
organization might leave thousands of people behind; it hints at something far
more ominous. Suddenly, the sky is filled with little pieces of white paper
fluttering down like leaves. We rush to the rooftop, watching as they drift
slowly downward. They are warnings from the Israeli army, demanding everyone in
the north evacuate immediately to South Gaza. What does it mean to have to
abandon our homes like this? Where do we go, and for how long? Are we just to
leave these homes as if they are worth nothing?
Back
inside our apartment, we feel the whole city rocked by loud explosions. The
walls shake, sending shockwaves of fear through us all. I’ve lived through wars
before, but this time, the force of the explosions is unlike anything I’ve
experienced, and the destruction is more widespread. The news is terrifying:
entire neighborhoods are collapsing, with hundreds dead. How is this justified
as self-defense?
My
father is worried about a repeat of the 1948 displacement, recalling how
Palestinians were forced to leave their land but hoped to return a few weeks
later. And as Egypt voices its rejection of any attempts to relocate
Palestinians to Sinai, it feels as if we are on the edge of an unknown fate, a
choice between dying here or leaving everything behind. My father suggests that
the children and most of the women go south, while he and some of the men stay
behind. The thought of splitting up is heartbreaking; I am not used to being
away from my family. I try to convince him to let me stay, but he firmly
refuses. I have never seen him so tense, so I stop arguing and go to pack my
bag.
In
my room, I collapse onto my bed, tears streaming down my face. The fear of what
is to come overwhelms me and suffocates me, and the thought of harm befalling
my father or any of my loved ones is unbearable. This senseless chaos in our
lives, as if our existence means nothing – we are always forced to endure it,
as if our lives and homes are disposable, as if our very presence is denied.
Displacement
is a leap into the unknown; you leave behind all that matters and pack your
life into a small emergency bag, light enough to carry. As I prepared mine, I
wondered what it could possibly hold. How can a bag carry everything that makes
a house a home?
Today
is not a day I will forget in a hurry; a day unlike any other, like the first
day of a new job, or a first love, or the first time you taste the bitterness
of loss. The first of anything leaves a lasting impact, sweet or bitter. But
displacement is unique in its abruptness, its sting. There’s no rehearsal, no
preparation – you must learn to improvise. You must train yourself to let go of
the things you cherish, to turn your back on them as if they never existed, and
to set out on a path that is jagged and desolate.
November
24, 2023: Rest from the shadow of death
At
seven o’clock on the 24th of November, a truce came into effect after 49 days
in which Israel tried to wring death out of every last second. This is not a
metaphor but a fact. The news of the martyrdom of Mohammed Al-Bayadh and Noaman
Al-Bayadh, prominent sons of the neighborhood I had recently moved to, came
just ten minutes before the truce began. Mohammed had gone for the dawn prayer
at the mosque across the street, and the Israeli planes bombed the mosque,
bringing it down on over the heads of the worshippers. When Noaman heard the
news, he rushed to the site to try and save his brother, but the plane bombed
the area once again.
The
mosque was not just for prayer but also housed a huge generator that supplied
the neighborhood not just with electricity for charging phones and batteries,
but also effectively with water, as all water tanks needed refilling through
pumps. Its destruction would cause a crisis for the entire neighborhood. I was
on the roof of the building, watching a huge crowd of people trying to lift the
rubble of the bombed mosque with their hands, searching for their loved ones.
With each martyr they pulled out, someone would cry out: “Martyr, martyr!” And
the crowd would chant loudly: “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.”
The
number of martyrs so far is 12, but there are still people missing under the
rubble. Their fate is unknown—whether they are dead or wounded. Until now,
everyone pulled from under the rubble has been a martyr. Mohammed and Noaman’s
uncle arrived at the site and sat under a tree, weeping. Another man came and
told him that Mohammed and Noaman were gone, and soon the news of their
martyrdom spread.
I
came down from the roof after a few minutes to tell my sister what I had heard:
Hammoud (as they called him) and Noaman have been martyred!
“I
knew him,” she replied, “He was a kind boy; he helped me many times carry water
upstairs.”
“May
God have mercy on him,” I said. After a few moments of silence in the presence
of death, I added, “I will prepare to return to our home. I miss it, the rose
plants on the balconies. Have they withered? I miss my room, especially my
bed.”
“Let’s
wait,” my sister said. “I fear Israel might break the truce, and we could get
hurt.”
“So
be it,” I replied. “I don’t care!”
“Shall
we have breakfast?”
“I
can’t bear to wait, not even for seconds.”
Reaching
our neighborhood during the past few days had posed too great a risk, but I
have to admit it, although I hid it from my sister, I have on several occasions
made secret attempts to return, trying to get as close to it as possible, only
to be stopped by warnings from passersby about the dangers of going any
further.
My
sister’s husband brought a container of water, and I took some to wash my face.
I tried to inhale it to clean my nose, which was clogged with dust and dirt
from last night’s insane bombardment. Everything in the house was covered in a
layer of fine dust. I shook off my coat, put it on hurriedly, and my sister and
I left.
At
the entrance of the building lay the bodies of Mohammed and Noaman, surrounded
by a crowd of people performing the burial rites. Their mother sat at the head
of Noaman, her youngest son, crying, clutching their shrouds, and saying,
“Wasn’t one enough? Both of them! Why am I not with you?” Her husband held her,
trying to wipe away her tears, but they both broke down crying together.
Mohammed
was tall and broad, but in his shroud, he was the size of a one-year-old child.
His body had melted, and they had only found his head, parts of his limbs, and
a few kilograms of his flesh. But at least, as one passerby put it, he was
lucky because he received the prayers of the men from the neighborhood and
would be buried in a grave. His body wasn’t left for stray dogs to feast on.
Have
you ever heard of people comparing one death to another?
Once,
during a conversation with my nieces, Abir, my 8-year-old niece, said to me: “I
hope I die instantly so I don’t feel anything, and that no part of me gets
amputated. I always pray not to get maimed. I want a quick death, all at once.
And you, auntie, how do you want to die?”
We
continued walking toward the sabra neighborhood, where my home is. The streets
were filled with people, most walking on foot, carrying their bedding and
belongings. Whenever someone met someone they knew, they would shake hands as
if it were a holiday, thanking God for the safety of their neighbors and
relatives.
“Where
are you headed, old man?” I hear one passerby say to another. “Are you still
alive? Only the good people die, and those like you stay alive!”
It
is a dark joke, but he laughs loudly and shakes his hand warmly.
I
wish I could shake someone’s hand, hug them, and tell them that I am still
alive! My family and most of my friends have now fled south to Rafah. I feel
the vitality of gratitude for being alive in the joy of passersby when they are
reunited with their loved ones. It stirs something in me! If my Fatoum (as I
call Fatima) were here, I would run to her, lift her in my arms, throw her into
the air, and catch her again, kissing her a thousand times. Fatoum’s kisses are
sweet, with a special flavor and scent. Fatoum, with her eyes, her heart, her
hugs, her kisses, and her mischief, ignites my appetite for life. I love life
because of her. A ceasefire and a hug from Fatoum are truly worth celebrating!
The
streets no longer looked familiar; the destruction had altered their
appearance, like a scene from a horror movie where the director went overboard
in terrifying the audience. Most of the buildings are damaged. The cars on the
streets seem to have just come out of a fierce battle. It is rare to find a car
unscathed, undamaged, or unbroken. I see cars with flat tires still being
driven. But most people have replaced cars with animal-drawn carts due to the
lack of diesel and gasoline. The streets resemble a poor, disheveled man from
another era, wearing tattered clothes, who everyone looks at with disdain.
Walking through them requires physical fitness; you have to climb over
mountains of rubble from destroyed buildings, then descend through deep valleys
left behind by crazed rockets determined to abolish life and infrastructure.
Electric poles lay on the ground, and the manhole covers gape open. The
remnants of explosives lie everywhere—some made in the U.S., others in India,
Germany, and Britain. Has the entire world united to kill this place? The faces
of the people are pale as if their colors have been stolen.
When
my house came into view from afar, my anxiety slowly eased. I had been afraid
we would lose it. My father spent a lifetime building it. I know exactly how it
feels when your house is bombed, and you see its rubble before your eyes. It’s
like having your heart ripped out of your chest. After that, you spend your
days wandering between refugee schools and displaced people’s tents, both
miserable in their own right. From a house full of love and the laughter of
your children to a tent that doesn’t protect you from the summer heat or the
winter cold. No safety, no privacy, no comfort, no life. How I wish I could
open rooms in my heart for those displaced children!
I
love my house simply because it has four walls where I can withdraw and
retreat, away from the noise of the world. I hate how they treat our homes as
if they’re just buildings made of stone—they are much more than that. It’s my
sanctuary. I can walk from room to room, talking to myself like a fool without
drawing anyone’s attention. I can run, dance, sing, and cry. They say walls
have ears, but I hope the walls of our house are deaf because I babble a lot. I
love my house because, once upon a time, it gathered us as a family under its
roof. We have family memories in every corner of it. I love my room in
particular. The best thing about it is that it’s mine, and I have the freedom
to choose its decor, paint, and furniture. The ability to choose, even within
limited options, gives me a sense of control over this chaotic life. These
days, limited choices bind me, making me feel like a one-eyed puppet. What also
delights me is that my room overlooks a balcony where I plant roses like
geraniums and… seedlings like basil and mint. My room’s door, along with my
father’s room and the house windows, are all broken, and some walls were hit by
small shrapnel. But despite everything, I’m grateful that the damage was only
to this extent.
This
long-awaited moment, after more than a month, is when I can lie on my bed and
sleep like a mischievous child worn out from playing all day. If time could
stop here, at this moment, I wouldn’t mind.
January
16, 2024: Living in darkness
Sleep
during wartime is elusive, the search for it is like the search for a loaf of
bread. Low-flying planes emit a never-ending buzz, and I wonder naively and
with a hint of seriousness: Does their fuel ever run out? Does the pilot ever
tire of soaring and diving, bombing and surveilling? Is he ever tempted to
retreat from our besieged skies and grant just one Gazan some peaceful sleep.
Gunfire
echoes sporadically. Any one of those bullets is capable of rending my body to
shreds. Any one of those missiles is capable of leveling an entire
neighborhood. Inside me, there’s another kind of buzzing, no less tumultuous
than the buzz of war, audible even amidst the gunfire and confusion, asking
questions like: “What if tragedy befalls my family in Rafah?” “Will I see my
little sister, Fatima again?” “Will we be separated forever?” “Will we be the
next target?” (When the bombing became too much, my family had to flee, but my
sister Shirin was pregnant and couldn’t walk long distances so I stayed to look
after her.)
We
all sleep in the central corridor of our home, stretched out on mattresses in
neat rows, like bodies in a mass grave, enveloped in darkness. The thirty or so
people currently taking refuge in our apartment crowd my thoughts, as I try to
work out how we can all share the lone bathroom at the end of the corridor.
Attempting to leave my mattress, using the light of my phone to guide me, I am
scolded by an elderly woman well over seventy years old: “Put down the phone,
child, you’ll get us all killed! Don’t you know there are snipers on the
rooftops all around us?” I return to my place, a lump forming in my throat,
wanting to scream – as much at the old woman as at the sniper on the rooftops
and the rest of the world.
In
the morning, the same old lady recounts stories of battles past and present,
detailing the many different risks resistance fighters take every day as if she
were one of them herself. She speaks of how the Israeli Army monitors
civilians’ movements through patrols, forcing them to evacuate to Rafah and
leave their homes, then monitors them as they move, and then monitors them when
they arrive and set up their tents. She obsesses over the devil that she calls
the mobile phone, how it exposes civilians and fighters alike, makes them
vulnerable with their bright screens and their traceable signals. She forbids
their use. Most likely, what the old lady is doing is channeling some of the
psychological symptoms of war through a generational gap, a distrust of technology,
and an abiding belief that all corruption stems from this advancement. Whether
in war or peace, she views the phone as the most trivial invention in human
history, a distraction and a hindrance we must rid ourselves of. For her, it’s
just a phone, but for me, it’s a lifeline connecting me to my memories and
beloved people. Even though communications are down most of the time, there’s
always hope – that a message from my father will reach me at any moment,
reassuring me that he and other members of my family are safe.
I’ve
become indifferent to everything, even the necessities of life. All I can think
of is how my heart would ache, when, back at the start of the war, I would hold
my four-year-old sister Fatima close to my chest, shielding her from the sounds
of explosions. Fatima and I have birthdays just a few days apart, and we
usually celebrate our birthdays together. Now we are separated, whenever I feel
lonely, I open up the photos on my phone, and look at pictures of her, her eyes
beaming with secrets, as if I could find solace in them. Her name feels like a
beautiful symphony, perhaps because it was also the name of my mother, who took
her place in heaven early, whose clothes I have kept yet refrained from wearing
yet, out of respect; the time is not right.
I
used to call my little sister “Tomato”, “Fatoom”, and “My Duckling”. How much I
miss her and want to call out to her: “Fatoom, my darling.”
Warplanes
launch their missiles day and night, and the explosions cast a pall of choking
gasses across the neighborhood, carrying a foul odor scraping at our throats,
sometimes even claiming lives. No one knows what is in these gasses, and they
seem to change each time. They target our area in the early hours of the night,
and a scent reminiscent of sewage permeates the apartment.
To
think I have made peace with these foul fumes and no longer care about them out
of sheer familiarity. I no longer even cover my mouth and nose when I smell
them after each explosion. But I can’t forget that one night; the bombing raid
wasn’t the same as other nights, and nor was the smoke. When it crept into my
nostrils, I struggled to breathe; I grabbed a towel, dampened it, and attempted
to breathe through it, but I lost consciousness, only waking up in the
hospital. I wasn’t alone in my bed, in the emergency room, but accompanied by a
spiderweb of tubes leading to oxygen tanks and other things. I learned then
that what spread wasn’t smoke but phosphorus, white and internationally banned,
and tested regularly on us Palestinians.
In
January, the cold at night is biting. My hands and nose freeze, hurting even
more each time I have to use water. I wish I could light a fire to warm a
little water, but my sister warned me repeatedly against even lighting a small
light at night, fearing the planes might notice it. Although they pretend their
missions are all directed at military targets, we know the enemy’s real target
is indiscriminate – all people in Gaza.
I
hear the sounds of clashes nearby. Time passes slowly as if stretching in on
itself so thinly it will disappear in the chaos of war. We wait eagerly for the
dawn, hoping it will bring a semblance of peace.
We
remain in our homes until late morning, hoping the sun will provide us some
safety. As always, we keep a close eye on the news, listen out for gunshots and
explosions, search for any glimmer of hope, from tracking the footsteps down in
the street below, to eavesdropping on others’ conversations and differing
opinions. Our thoughts swing like a pendulum between hope and anxiety. It seems
like a breakthrough is imminent. They say the enemy is withdrawing from the
area. People go out to verify the news, and gradually, there is a light
scattering of movement spreading across the neighborhood; a reassurance seeps
back into people’s hearts, as if life were slowly returning to our forgotten
streets.
Fear recedes slightly, but the queues at the
bathroom door didn’t get any shorter. When it comes to my turn, I discover the
water ran out with the person holding the eighth spot. I curse my luck and join
a new queue, searching for a litre of water, to no avail. I feel the great
sadness of our collective existence. If I were a cat, I wouldn’t have to queue
for water; I could eat from the earth’s scraps and drink from its puddles, not
have to wait for the war to end or the world’s sympathy to turn towards us.
In
the afternoon, the doorbell rings and I go to answer it. Our neighbor stands in
front of me, with a ball of dough in his hands, asking if he can use our
wood-fired oven. I hesitate for a moment, then find myself agreeing in exchange
for four liters of water. He accepts, and I’m ecstatic at the thought of having
secured some water but just as quickly saddened by the thought of us bartering
over such measly things, when once we would boast to the world about our
qualities of generosity and chivalry.
At
last, I get to wash my face, though I’m unable to avoid showing it to the
mirror as I do so. Just then our neighbor abandons his attempt to bake the
dough and I hear something in the kitchen crash to the ground, as he flees the
apartment. Before we know it we are all fleeing to the sound of a missile
screeching overhead. The walls shake, but the missile didn’t explode yet. Maybe
it is a warning strike, identifying a location for a subsequent, larger strike.
It’s so close its message cannot be any clearer: the withdrawal of tanks
doesn’t mean an end to the destruction.
Our
neighbor’s radio blares loudly, broadcasting to the entire neighborhood that
international pressure is being exerted on Israel to allow aid to enter,
particularly from the United States. “Our generous friends! They’ll send aid
while the waterfall of blood is still flowing!” our neighbor comments
sarcastically. This friendly character once fashioned a bombshell casing into
his favorite ashtray, hollowing it out and inscribing it with the words “Made
in America”. He calls out to his wife, Saad, “Tea without sugar?! Add some
sugar to it for goodness sake. We’ve been married for twenty years, and you
still haven’t learned how much sugar I prefer!” Saad retorts, “A kilo of sugar
costs ten times its normal price, my dear. Your teacups alone need a pound of sugar
a day. You have to get used to tea without it!”
They
say humans adapt and get accustomed to life. Perhaps Saad’s husband will get
used to drinking tea without sugar, but how will Palestinians get used to
what’s really happened over the last few months – our city in ruins, our people
stripped of their basic dignity? The shards of war have caught our souls in the
ricochet and robbed them of their joy. Let’s step away from the ambiguity of
metaphors and strive for the clearest possible language. This war has exhausted
us, drained us, worn us down. Those who haven’t received their share of Israeli
occupation weapons have suffered greatly, mentally and physically drained. We
are nothing but oppressed in our own land, counting the days and misnaming
them.
May
12, 2024: “We Kill Terrorism”
Of
course, they don’t intend to kill me, even when they drop 2000-pound bombs on
us. Even when they rain down bombardments across entire neighborhoods and make
life impossible in our city. No, no, don’t misunderstand. They are merely
eradicating “terrorism”.
Today,
“terrorism” was hiding in the body of Omar, my six-year-old nephew, perhaps in
his heart, or maybe among his soft locks of hair; so they killed him. They
dropped two missiles on him and his siblings, Aya and Ahmad, and his niece
Sila, who was only six months old, killing them all. Who knows, perhaps
terrorism hides in a garden, in the warmth of a home, in the bells of churches,
or the minarets of mosques, between the pages of books, in the streets and
alleyways of the camp, or even amidst the tents of the displaced. They have
every right to erase anything from the face of the earth if they so desire, and
no one has the right to criticize Israel.
After
all, they are saving humanity from the evildoers!
How
valiant of them. How noble.
This
is the story of how my nieces and nephews were killed.
At
five o’clock this morning, my sister Randa woke to strange noises around her
house. She roused her husband to go and investigate, and as soon as he opened
the window, two successive explosions shook him, and a thick layer of smoke
filled the air outside. After a few moments of trying to discern the source and
nature of the sound, he stammered, “It seems the army’s machinery is digging in
the nearby streets.” Randa fell to the floor and crawled on her hands and
knees, fearing a sniper might be in the surrounding buildings, toward the
adjacent room to wake her children. She found them awake. She whispered in the
ear of her eldest son, Samir, “The army has surrounded us.” Fear gripped
Samir’s heart; he picked up his seven-month-old daughter, Sila, kissed her, and
put his hand over her mouth to prevent any sound that might alert the soldiers
to their presence. Her husband suggested they go down to the basement on the
lower floor until the army withdrew from the area. As soon as they went
downstairs, shells began hitting the courtyard of the house, making the
decision for them: they had to leave the house immediately.
The
sun was already rising, as they moved cautiously towards the backyard, which
led outside. There were ten of them in total. They began to sneak into the
garden one by one, holding a white flag above their heads as they ran. The air
was filled with the smell of gunpowder; a dense fog enveloped the neighborhood,
and the sounds of cannons echoed on all sides. The family ran as fast as they
could towards the entrance to a side street about ten meters wide. A
“quadcopter” drone flying low over the rooftops noticed them and rained bullets
down on them. They scattered, stumbled, and fell to the ground thinking it was
all over for them, then realizing they were still alive got back to their feet
and ran with all their might, driven by the most profound of instincts,
survival. Some ran into a house at the end of the street. Others continued
running along the wall. None of them were injured. They thought they had
survived. But nowhere was safe around there, so they kept moving. After half an
hour of running like this, they reached a school affiliated with UNRWA and took
refuge.
But
the missiles had followed them.
How
must it have felt for them to be on the verge of safety, to be able to have
smelt survival they were that close to it, only to have death pounce on them,
as they rounded the corner.
My
six-year-old nephew Omar was struck in the head by a piece of shrapnel and died
instantly. His brother Ahmad, sister Aya, and niece Sila were left wounded, and
bleeding. This was Omar’s first year in elementary school, but he never got to
memorize the route each morning to school or mischievously ring doorbells and
run away before anyone came. He chose another path, a more peaceful one, to
soar with the flocks of young pigeons to the skies above Gaza City. Samir
dragged his siblings with the help of a local resident to a nearby house and
tried every possible way to stop their bleeding but to no avail. Aya was
wounded in the side, Ahmad in the chest and legs. Samir ran out again, trying
to find an ambulance, even though he himself had been injured by shrapnel in
his throat and had lost a tooth in his lower jaw. Ambulances have become scarce
in northern Gaza. Thousands of wounded are left to die on the pavements or in
their houses because there just aren’t enough of them. Samir’s efforts to find
an ambulance failed, and returning to Shuja’iyya became impossible as the army
had surrounded all its entrances.
When
I received the news, I tried to contact the Red Cross, and after struggling
with the network, I finally got through:
“Hello
habibti, Red Cross here, how can we help you?”
“This
is Sondos, I need an ambulance to transport my sister’s children who are
wounded to the hospital. They are now trapped in Shuja’iyya in a house
belonging to…”
“We
are sorry, habibti, we cannot help. The army is preventing our personnel from
entering Shuja’iyya.”
How
cold the answer was, and how warm the blood.
Ahmad
followed Omar, after an hour of bleeding, and Aya joined them minutes later.
Sila remained bleeding. The neighbor who was sheltering them wrapped the three
bodies in a cover and placed them on the second floor of the house, away from
the eyes of his children. Sila tried to cling to life as much as possible,
craving more of her mother’s hugs, her father’s kisses, and her grandparents’
gifts. Sila’s arrival, the first grandchild of my sister’s family, had brought
joy to the entire household, with everyone participating in setting up her
room, equipping it with everything a child might need up to the age of one. The
day of her birth had been a celebration. Her father distributed sweets to all
the children and adults across the entire neighborhood, rejoicing at her
arrival. During the November truce, I visited her, took her in my arms, and
smelled her. That day, a tiny white tooth had started to press upwards in her
lower gums. True, it hadn’t yet fully protruded, but beware, it already felt
sharp, biting voraciously any finger that dared touch it. She had a laugh that
would melt your soul, transporting you out of your own dull world into hers
with all its exuberance.
After
12 hours of bleeding, Sila decided to let go of this world that turned its back
on her.
Until
we meet again, summer fruit.
Sila’s
body remained in the arms of her mother, Saja, for a whole day. Due to the
ongoing fighting in the neighborhood, and the fact that they couldn’t go
outside, they were unable to bury them. Saja was injured herself, a piece of
shrapnel had embedded itself in her right elbow and another piece in her left
leg. She was barely able to move. The neighbor’s wife tried every way she could
think of to persuade Saja to let her take her daughter from her, so she could
place her with the other three bodies on the upper floor. But she refused.
“Please,” she begged, “Let her stay in my arms; I want to hold her some more.”
Saja married at 18, gave birth to Sila at 19, and lost her in the same year.
How can her small heart bear this amount of anguish? And to have this heartache
compounded by the pain of milk drying in her breasts.
My
sister Randa, her husband, and their daughter, Fella, were trapped in the house
they sought refuge in, unable to leave, unaware of their children’s martyrdom.
They tried calling Samir and his wife several times, but the network was down
throughout the neighborhood – cutting off all communication and internet is a
common tactic of the army when entering an area. They were not alone in the
house they’d taken refuge in; over forty people were trapped with them. All of
them went without food and water in that house a whole day, before they felt
safe enough to venture out. Only then did they hear the news.
October
1, 2024: A day in the life of a woman living under genocide
This
morning, George Orwell’s 1984 lingers in my thoughts.
“How
does one human impose their authority on another, Winston?”
The
answer: “He makes him suffer.”
These
words feel awfully close to how Israel deals with Palestinians. Today is a new
day, but we may as well be living in the past – dragged back a hundred years.
If only that long-dead author could be my friend. He would tell me more about
his life, about the details of his day. How would he manage to start a fire
quickly? What would he do when it rained, and the wood got too wet to burn?
I
imagine channeling his physical strength, the size of his hands, the thickness
of his skin, just for a few hours. My hands feel too fragile to light a fire,
or endure its flames. After all that I’ve lived through, I fear that if I were
to hold a rose in my hands, I might break the petals, and ruin it.
I
want to ask my long-dead author friend, how does the sound of wild pigeons in
the morning feel without being disrupted by the roar of fighter jets?
At
noon, I resume my work with a youth initiative where we provide psychological
support to children. I work in a school in northern Gaza that shelters
displaced families. I spend most of my time with the children. For them, the
word “school” now means nothing more than a shelter, stripped of its original
meaning as a place of learning.
Today’s
mission is to gather the children in a circle and spark conversations and
interactions that steer their thoughts away from war. On the surface, this
might seem simple, but it’s one of the hardest tasks I’ve ever faced. All their
stories revolve mostly around blood, loss, and destruction. I tried talking to
them about dreams and the future, but every time a child speaks, they start
with, “When the war ends, I’ll do this and that.”
One
little girl particularly dear to my heart is named Masa. Her name means
“precious gem” in Arabic. She’s five years old and is convinced that when the
war ends, her father will return. She and him will play with her toys on her
colorful bed, and she’ll scold him for being away so long. But Masa’s father
isn’t coming back; he was lost to the war, along with her home and her bed.
I
hug her, kiss her, and we sit together in the middle of the circle. I ask the
other children to share with me the things they love most about Masa and give
her a high five. They do, and as they return to their places, I can’t help but
feel the weight of their words.
After
work, my colleague Noor and I decide to go to the market. On the way, she
complains about her child’s health, as the doctor has told her he is
malnourished. We arrive at what Gazans still call a “market”, but just like the
school, it has lost most of its meaning. Supplies are scarce, prices are high,
and most of the food is canned.
Noor
points to the shelves of cans lining the market and says, “Do they expect these
to provide my children with the nutrients they need to grow?” Adding: “This
food is just meant to fill their bellies, nothing more. The bodies of adults
are already exhausted, so imagine a child’s!”
The
road is long, and we walk on foot because there is no diesel to run the cars or
other forms of transportation. When I finally get home, I light a fire to make
a cup of tea. I sit on my bamboo couch, sipping my tea, and the children’s
stories fill my thoughts.
As
I sat there, I realize all the stories that have accumulated, and I’m afraid I
might forget them. My mind can’t keep up with all the events or remember them
in full. Each time I try to craft a narrative, a new story is born, and I try
to shape that one too, with clumsy, tangled words. My thoughts are like
half-formed sentences, lacking the cohesion they need due to the overwhelming
things I see and feel.
When
I lay my head on the pillow, after almost a year of living through genocide, I
think about how disappointed I’ve become. How much I’ve let others down. I
think about how deeply sad I am, and I don’t know who to tell. I don’t know how
to wave to someone and say, “Hello, there’s a massive fire inside me. Do you
think you could help put it out?”
I
feel alone with all the little details, and the big ones, the ones that have
harshly strummed the strings of my heart. Since then, my body has been playing
a long, lonely wail.
October
31, 2024: When memory becomes consolation
It
feels like I’m walking on a taut thread, as if I’m balancing mid-air. I still
haven’t gotten used to this harsh way of life imposed on us. Despite the war’s
persistence, I cling to my refusal to adapt, with all the patience I have. I
revisit my old photos, reminders of who I am, and whisper to myself, “This is
me” – a butterfly, fluttering lightly; I won’t let sorrow turn me into a
mountain weighed down by despair.
I
know my steps have become heavier, the stabs of betrayal exhausting me, but
from the depths of my heart, I refuse to let scenes of our slaughter become
routine as they flash up on our screens. I refuse to let the souls of my
friends and loved ones disappear into passing numbers on news broadcasts, or
for our name as Palestinians to be synonymous only with misery and despair.
Today
is Thursday, and for the umpteenth day in a row, Israel maintains the closure
of the Kerem Shalom border crossing – the lifeline that keeps our food markets
and our healthcare going. Hospitals in Gaza face severe shortages of medicine
and fuel (needed to run vital equipment), putting citizens’ lives at direct
risk, while bombing continues in many different neighborhoods. Here in the
north, food is scarce and prices have skyrocketed. This strategy of starvation
has continued for over a year now, and no international law or humanitarian
plea seems capable of stopping it. What a farce this world is.
On
my way to work today, I see a blonde-haired little girl who looks like my
younger sister, her innocent smile lighting up her face. I stop, look at her,
and ask, “How are you, little one?” I hold her hands, hug her, and almost kiss
her before catching myself. I chide myself: She’s not your sister; it’s just
longing. You’re missing her.
When
I reach the shelter where I work as a volunteer with children, a missile lands
near the market next door. The screams of mothers fill the air as they run to
find their children playing outside. I realize leaving the house is not a safe
thing to do, but seeing the children and trying to ease their suffering lifts
some weight off my shoulders. Today, because of the incident, we decide to
cancel our activities, postponing them to another time in much the same way as
everything else that’s been delayed since the war began. Life itself is on hold
until further notice.
In
Gaza, living under such brutality, you find yourself struggling to remember
that you’re human; that you deserve life. Israel gives you nothing to allow you
to recall this – not even a sip of drinkable water, not even a warm shower to
wash off the dust of war. From day one, they announced loud and clear: “No
water, no food, no electricity.” And for seventeen years before that, they
imposed a suffocating blockade on us, making us feel as though even the air we
breathe is being watched. A world busy with its own news and gossip had
forgotten that there were human beings with hearts and blood in Gaza, and only
woke up on October 7, shocked, as if nothing had happened before, suddenly
concluding that we were beyond the salvation of international or “humanitarian”
law.
The
sting of memory is painful, yet essential to our survival. Dear reader, once we
had lives. We had friends. We had Gaza, with its sea, its bright, breezy
mornings, its balmy evenings that still reside inside us, strong and defiant
against forgetfulness. I remember poetry, how I loved it and still do, and how
I had dreams and ambitions that I will nurture again one day and see grow. I
remember my breakfast in the university courtyard, the sound of car horns in
the morning traffic, and the words I once wrote but never finished. I remember
that I remember!
They
want to amputate my memory. They want to erase every trace of that life. But I
still remember. I remember Gaza as it was. I remember its streets full of life,
the little shop on the corner where the owner would expertly fry falafel, its
smell instantly stirring the birds in your stomach. I remember that I remember,
and I will not have that memory erased…
Israel
wants to strip me of my humanity. But I always remind myself that I am a
spirit, a beating heart, a free being. They don’t want me to see myself as
anything but a number, just a voiceless creature. From the first moment of the
war, they declared loudly: “No water, no food, no electricity.” It’s as if they
were also whispering out of the corner of their mouths: “We won’t let you
remember your humanity.” But they have failed. I think, I write, and I
remember. I remember that I remember, and I will not have that memory erased…
I
remember the day I was forced by their cruelty to eat animal feed; there was no
flour, and the feed’s rough fiber tore the roof of my mouth for days. I
remember them dragging the men from our neighborhood, barefoot and naked before
our eyes along the street. I remember how my sister’s children lay dead,
unburied, for days. In those moments, I turned inward, and I began to write.
Writing became my salvation; it was my path to reclaim my essence, for they may
take away food and water, but they can’t strip us of our minds. Every tyrant on
earth has tried to control the oppressed by depriving them of the simplest
necessities of life, but none succeeded in controlling their minds. Thought
transcends shackles, it soars into the sky, free. Yes, I remember. I remember
that I remember, and I will not have that memory erased…
I
once had a life. I had a home. I had a family who wrapped me in warmth.
Overnight, we lost everything; we became displaced, and hungry, as if we had
been plunged into hell itself. Nothing remains but memory and a pen. But with
these two instruments, we can still reclaim the world, so we must cling to them
as if they were lifelines. In this age of injustice, it feels as though we are
living in the days of Abu Talib’s boycott, when the Prophet and his uncle were
shunned by society for spreading the word of Islam. Like them, we can only wait
for some noble spirit on the other side to tear up the “document,” and end the
hunger gnawing at our children’s bellies. But I have memory, I have a pen, and
I have the world.
I
remember that I remember, and I will not have that memory erased…
Sondos Sabra
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