Ruwaida Amer
Earlier this
year, when a rumour spread that Palestinians could travel from southern Gaza to
the north, Sabreen Lashin was one of the first to attempt to return home.
A displaced Palestinian woman stands outside her tent, which is damaged
by wind and rain, in Deir al-Balah central Gaza Strip, on 25 November
2024 (Majdi Fathi/NurPhoto via Reuters)
But, much to her
disappointment, the mother from Gaza City’s al-Shati refugee camp was blocked
by Israeli forces occupying the so-called Netzarim corridor, or the “axis of
death” as Palestinians refer to it.
Fed up with the
miserable life of displacement she had endured in southern Gaza for a year and
three months, she refused to give up.
Along with five
other women, she attempted to explain to the soldiers the harsh living
conditions in southern Gaza.
There, she had
been displaced 14 times, each time seeking safety from Israeli bombardment, but
to no avail.
“My children
can’t find work, and I can’t afford the medication I need," the
44-year-old tells Middle East Eye.
“The constant
displacement, hunger, bombings, and humiliation in the south eventually pushed
me to make the difficult decision to return to the north, despite the risks.”
At the
checkpoint in the Netzarim corridor, some Israeli soldiers listened to her,
while others remained silent. All of them rejected her pleas to return to her
home.
Without warning,
she says, Israeli forces began shooting at people who had approached the
corridor, hoping to return home.
“One of the
women, a 35-year-old, was shot twice - once in the back and once below her
chest,” Lashin told MEE.
She clutched
Lashin’s arm, pleading with her not to leave her behind for the soldiers to
find.
Lashin had no
choice but to drag the woman back toward the south, as the others fled in fear
from the sound of gunfire.
As they moved, a
tank rolled over the area, threatening to run over the woman.
A soldier
stepped out and told Lashin to leave the woman behind, but she refused.
"She's still alive," Lashin insisted.
She eventually
managed to drag the woman along the road until she reached a group of young
men, who helped take the wounded woman to al-Awda hospital in Nuseirat. But
tragically, she did not survive.
This was one of
12 attempts Lashin made to return home in northern Gaza, and it likely won’t be
the last.
“Each time, I
narrowly escape death, but I refuse to give up,” she says.
“I keep hoping
that one day the soldiers will show some mercy and let me return.”
At the Netzarim
corridor, she adds, the area is filled with military jeeps and tanks, while
drones hover overhead, targeting anyone who approaches.
But the risk of
dying while attempting to return home is better than staying displaced in the
south, she tells MEE.
“I still dream
of returning home,” she adds.
“I want to set
up a tent on the rubble of my house and live with my children, rather than
enduring the humiliation of displacement in the south."
'An axis of
death'
Lashin is one of
the hundreds of thousands of internally displaced Palestinians whom Israel has
been blocking from returning to their homes since the war began last year.
Ahead of its
invasion of Gaza in late October 2023, the Israeli military forced more than
one million Palestinians in northern Gaza to head south under heavy bombing.
The military
promised safety in the south and stated that the relocation would be temporary.
However, the
hundreds of thousands who complied have been bombed in the south, including
when in schools, makeshift tents, hospitals, and other shelters.
Meanwhile,
Israeli troops invaded the so-called Netzarim Corridor, a 6km stretch of land
south of Gaza City that divides the strip into its northern and southern parts.
It stretches
from the Israeli boundary with Gaza City in the east to the Mediterranean Sea.
The Netzarim
route is now reportedly 7km wide and contains military bases. It is used by
Israeli forces to monitor and control the movement of Palestinians between
northern and southern Gaza and to launch military operations.
Mohammed Hajjo,
from Sheikh Radwan in Gaza City, initially refused to leave northern Gaza.
His wife and
children moved south at the onset of the war, but he chose to stay and guard
the house, assuming their absence in the south would be brief.
But when the war
dragged on with no end in sight and severe hunger reached southern Gaza, he
decided to cross the Netzarim corridor and move south to help his family.
“I took many
clothes for my children because the cold in the tents was unbearable. I also
brought clothes for my wife and many other things,” Hajjo told MEE.
His journey was
long and filled with fear.
"I walked
for a long time along the coast, constantly fearing being sniped or
arrested," the 32-year-old father recalled.
When he reached
the Netzarim checkpoint, the soldiers stopped him.
"They
forced me to throw away everything I had - clothes, supplies - and even took my
phone. I saw a large hole filled with items from other displaced families,
discarded as though they didn’t matter," he said.
"There were
many soldiers, tanks, cameras, and scanning devices everywhere. The landscape
had changed so much, but I wasn’t focused on that. I was focused only on
getting out of there safely."
The soldiers
held him overnight. "They made me take off my clothes, took everything
from me, and asked many pointless questions - why I had fled south now, and not
earlier," he said. "I thought they would arrest me, but in the
morning, they let me go, naked."
A young man saw
him on the road and helped him put on some clothes, before he eventually
reached his family in Khan Yunis.
Despite the
relief of reuniting with his family, the ordeal still weighed heavily on him.
"I was
heartbroken because they made me throw away everything my family desperately
needed. We had already suffered so much humiliation and degradation during the
war. This place, Netzarim, is an axis of death, not just a checkpoint."
Gone without a
trace
Hajjo was one of
the few lucky ones who managed to reach the Netzarim corridor and come out
alive.
Last week, a
Haaretz investigation revealed that hundreds of Palestinians, including
children, have been indiscriminately shot dead by Israeli soldiers at the
Netzarim Corridor.
It has been
designated a “kill zone” by the Division 252 commander, according to a senior
officer, allowing soldiers to shoot “anyone who enters".
Those killed are
posthumously branded "terrorists," even if they are children.
The boundaries
of the zone were largely arbitrary and extended "as far as a sniper can
see," another member of the division told Haaretz.
"We're
killing civilians there, who are then counted as terrorists," he added.
Another soldier
referred to a military spokesperson announcing that their division had killed
more than 200 "militants" in Gaza.
But of those 200
casualties, only 10 were confirmed to be known Hamas operatives, he said.
Though many are
killed, others are arbitrarily detained at the checkpoint and forcibly
disappeared.
Intisar
al-Attar, 58, lost one of her sons in an Israeli bombardment at the start of
the war, forcing her to flee Gaza City south with the rest of her family.
But after months
of displacement, her other son, Sami, decided to make the dangerous journey
north in the hopes of returning home.
That was three
months ago, and al-Attar has yet to hear from him.
"I do not
know anything about him. Was he martyred or arrested? I do not know," she
told MEE.
Near Netzarim,
young men gather at an area called al-Nuwairi, waiting for a chance to return
to the north.
Attar says she
stands nearby, hoping someone will bring her the reassurance she desperately
needs regarding the fate of her son.
But the recent
reports of arbitrary killings of Palestinians near the corridor have only added
to her fears.
"The
soldiers' statements in the news are frightening. They say they shoot anyone
who approaches that area," she said.
"I hope the
war stops so that I can go to the Netzarim area and search for my son. If he’s
dead, I want to bury him. If they’ve arrested him, I want to reassure myself
about him."
"My heart
has been burning since he left me," she says with tears in her eyes.
People search for survivors in the aftermath of Israel’s attack on the
compound of the Greek Orthodox St. Porphyrius Church in Gaza City,
October 20, 2023. (Omar El-Qattaa)
Ruwaida
Kamal Amer
As
the second Christmas under Israeli bombardment draws near, nearly 1,000
Palestinian Christians are sheltering in the Greek Orthodox Church of St.
Porphyrius and the Latin Monastery in the center of Gaza City. For more than a
year now, since the beginning of Israel’s assault on the Strip, they have been
living in these two churches with hardly any food, water, or electricity.
Among
them is 47-year-old Ramez Suhail Al-Suri, a Palestinian Christian from Gaza
City. Before the war, Al-Suri fondly recollected, Christmas was a joyous time
for him and his family — his wife, Helen, and his three children, Suhail (14),
Julie (12), and Majd (11).
“In
Gaza during the holidays, we had a Christmas tree [at home], but we used to go
to the market and buy new clothes, chocolate, and decorations so that the
children would be happy,” Al-Suri recounted to +972. “We also would participate
in church celebrations — we had a lot of joy in our lives.”
As
soon as Israel began bombarding the Strip on October 7, Al-Suri and his family,
along with other relatives, sought refuge in the Orthodox church. “We know that
international and humanitarian laws prohibit the bombing of churches and
mosques,” he explained.
But
it quickly became clear to them that “the bombing was random and very violent.”
When a massive explosion rocked Al-Ahli hospital on Oct. 17, 2023, just 350
meters away from where Al-Suri and his family were sheltering in the church,
they could feel the impact. “It was a very terrifying and tragic moment —
nearly 500 people were killed. We were worried about this indiscriminate
bombing, [since] it was so near.”
Sadly,
Al-Suri’s anxieties would be justified just two days later. “That evening, we
put our children in their places to sleep [inside the church] and left them
there,” Al-Suri told +972. “My wife and I went to see my sick father, who is 87
years old, and was sleeping in another building to be cared for and looked
after.”
At
around 8:30 p.m., an Israeli airstrike hit the church’s outer building, causing
it to collapse and killing 18 people, including Al-Suri’s three children, and
wounding several others. “At that moment, I could not believe what I was
seeing. I tried to save my children but all three of them were in critical
condition and died quickly,” Al-Suri said. “One of my children was lying on the
[church’s] fence and I could not carry him, but the rescue teams helped.”
The
Oct. 19 strike would only be the first of multiple attacks on Gaza’s churches
over the past year, despite their role as shelters for hundreds of displaced
Palestinians, including young children, the elderly and the disabled. Less than
two months later, in December, Israeli snipers killed mother and daughter
Nahida and Samar Anton in the courtyard of the Latin Monastery, also known as
the Holy Family Church, and injured seven others who rushed to help them. Then
in July, the Israeli army struck the Holy Family School, killing four
civilians, and targeted the Greek Orthodox church yet again in a separate
airstrike.
Al-Suri’s
children all attended the Holy Family School, “one of the most prestigious in
Gaza,” he recalled with pride. “They had dreams for their future: Julie wanted
to be a dentist, Suhail wanted to be an accountant, and Majd wanted to study
business.” All three of them planned to compete in a bible memorization
competition in the West Bank last year. “They memorized the book and were
waiting for permits to leave Gaza,” he added. “Now they are reading the book in
heaven.
“On
[Oct. 19], I lost my entire life — my life now has no meaning. I lost three
children in a few seconds and now their mother and I are alone,” Al-Suri
lamented. “This is what the war on Gaza did to me.”
‘We
hope that God will respond to us and stop this war’
The
Greek Orthodox Church of St. Porphyrius in Gaza City is one of the oldest
active churches in the world. Its foundation dates to the 5th century, while
the current structure was completed in the 12th century, with stained-glass
windows that boast ornate biblical depictions and thick walls that surround the
tomb of St. Porphyrius, the first bishop of Gaza. The building is a legacy of
Gaza’s colorful history, having witnessed periods of pagan, Christian, and
Muslim rule.
Both
the Church of St. Porphyrius and the Latin Monastery have also been anchors for
Gaza’s dwindling Christian community, whose number hovered slightly above 1,000
before Israel launched its most violent and destructive assault on the Strip to
date — and around three times as many prior to Israel’s imposed siege and
blockade in 2007. Nor has this been the first year that they have served as
shelters: both have historically opened their doors to Gazans of various faiths
during the previous four wars Israel waged against the enclave since 2005.
During Israel’s 2014 Operation Protective Edge, about 70 Palestinians sheltered
in the Orthodox church for days.
Over
the past decade and a half, Christmas represented a rare and cherished
opportunity for many Gazan Christians to escape the blockaded strip and reunite
with family in the West Bank. “We used to obtain approval from the Israeli army
to visit the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem,” Al-Suri recounted to +972.
“We used to feel the glorious holiday rituals in that city, with its prayers
and celebrations.”
Al-Suri’s
family would also visit friends and relatives in Ramallah and Jerusalem, where
they would make the pilgrimage to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, believed by
Christians to be the site of Jesus’ crucifixion and burial. Al-Suri took great
care to organize such visits. “We only got those permits once a year,” he
noted.
This
Christmas in Gaza, like all other holidays that are meant to be joyous, is
“dull, limited to prayer and supplication only,” Al-Suri observed. Helen, his
wife, still struggles to comprehend her children’s absence. “She tries to be
strong, but I see great sadness in her eyes, and I cannot blame her,” he said.
Helen now suffers from high blood pressure and an enlarged heart muscle, which
she manages with medication. To help her cope with the loss, Al-Suri recently
enrolled her in online accounting studies at Al-Azhar University.
As
soon as he is able, Al-Suri plans to seek asylum for himself, his wife, and his
parents — either in Australia, the United States, or Europe. His sisters live
abroad and have attempted to help him get out of Gaza, an impossible task since
Israel’s closure of the Rafah crossing in May.
“We
hope that God will respond to us and stop this war,” Al-Suri pleaded. “What we
have experienced of injustice, famine, displacement is enough, and I do not
think the Palestinian people are able to bear more suffering.
“I
try to help people through humanitarian work in all areas of the Gaza Strip and
return to my normal everyday life, but I cannot: my children are in front of my
eyes every moment.”
No
safe places for worship or shelter
Among
the Palestinian Christians who fled Gaza since October 7, 300 have ended up in
Egypt. At the beginning of the war, Kamel Ayyad, a 51-year-old Palestinian
Christian from Gaza City, was displaced with his family from the western part
of the city to its center, and ultimately managed to escape to Egypt in
November 2023.
After
October 7, Ayyad quickly corralled his immediate family and relatives and, like
Al-Suri and his family, took shelter in a house of worship — the Latin
Monastery in the Zeitoun neighborhood. “We believed that it was a safe place
and nothing would happen to us,” he told +972.
Their
problems, however, immediately compounded. “There was no food, no water, and no
electricity. The church was trying to provide us with what we needed, but the
situation was very bad,” Ayyad recalled.
Then,
in mid-October, the massacre at the St. Porphyrius Greek Orthodox Church sent
Ayyad and other Christians who had been sheltering in the Latin Monastery into
shock. Many of them arrived at the scene on foot to help with rescue efforts
and check on family and friends: “Everyone went out to inspect the place. We
found some body parts that we recognized. Among the dead was my cousin Lisa
Al-Suri [32], her husband Tariq [37], and her son Issa [12]. An entire family
was killed by the Israeli missile.”
For
Ayyad, the bombing was a turning point. “It was a great tragedy — sadness
spread in the churches,” he recalled. “Everyone became afraid and wanted to
leave Gaza. The sight of [bodies] in white shrouds [affirmed that] this is a
war that has crossed many lines and spares no one; there are no safe places of
worship or shelters for the displaced.” Out of fear for his children’s safety,
Ayyad made the decision to leave.
From
Egypt, Ayyad, who used to work in the Holy Family Church, reminisces about past
Christmas celebrations in Gaza. “December was considered the happiest month for
us. Young people came to decorate the church, and the huge tree sat in the
middle of the courtyard. Christians and Muslims shared in the celebration.
“Now
the church is sad: the displaced are sleeping in the corridors, most of us have
lost our homes and workplaces, and the bombing is still ongoing. Nothing has
changed at all.” Despite all this, Ayyad says he still hopes to return to Gaza,
one day — to “how it was before.”
No comments:
Post a Comment