The Terrifying Madness of Waking Up in Gaza

Opinions about events beyond our borders.
July 23 2014 12:36 PM

I Do Not Want to Be a Number

The missiles raining on Gaza are reducing once beautiful lives to no more than digits. It happens in an instant, and the thought drives you mad.

Funeral ceremony is held for the 25 Palestinians killed in Israeli shelling.
A funeral ceremony for Palestinians killed in Israeli shelling in Khan Younis on July 21, 2014.

Photo by Belal Khaled/Anadolu Agency/Getty Images

GAZA—Despite a long night of bombing, I woke early Tuesday morning to the sound of voices drifting through the window of my room, newly displaced people taking refuge in the United Nations Relief and Works Agency school across the street. In the last two weeks thousands have been forced to leave their homes on the coastal side of Beit Lahia and Beit Hanoun to avoid being killed by a shell from a tank or a warship. They have brought with them little but their desire to survive and have traveled toward Jabalia, the neighborhood I have lived in all my life. Jabalia is itself a refugee camp, established after the 1948 Nakba when thousands were forced to leave their villages and towns across the country that was Palestine. Already the most densely populated camp in the Gaza Strip, Jabalia is now receiving a new wave of refugees after 66 years.

From my window, which overlooks the school, I can see old women, exhausted, sitting down on the little steps in front of the playground, their children clinging to them, many of them crying; old men are looking nervously up to the sky where drones are still hovering, making a noise that they will not forget in the years they have left. The UNRWA man is trying to organize everything in this chaos. Monday night was a terrible chapter in the history of Gaza—especially for the eastern part of Beit Hanoun. Tanks moved in from the border toward the residential areas, destroying everything in their paths, erasing every building, every school, every orchard. You do not know whether the next shell will fall on your head. When you will be reduced to another number in the news. You think about what it means to disappear from the world, to evaporate like a drop of water, leaving no sign of your existence, and the thought drives you mad.

A shell killed a family of six people three days ago. Cousins of my neighbor Eyad. They were sitting around their food waiting for the prayer to break their fast. The four children were killed instantly, and the parents were mortally injured. Eyad told me that one of the dead girls vanished completely; they found no sign of her body. No bones, no arms, no legs. Nothing that might suggest it belonged to her, that a little girl of 9 years existed in this place just a few seconds ago. Apparently the rocket hit her body directly.

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In two hours the newcomers are settled in the classrooms and in the tents set up in front of the school. The UNRWA man gives his instruction through his megaphone, explaining that everyone needs to follow his orders. The sound of his voice echoes around my head as I try to go back to sleep. You have to sleep when you can in this war, as most nights you will not sleep a wink. You have to gather sleep up, as much as you possibly can, and store it, as they say in Arabic, “behind the eyes.”

Images fly though my head; memories are jostling for position with old songs, old ambitions, and hopes. I cannot always distinguish what is a memory and what is hope. My boy, Yaser, is trying to move slowly across the room without making any noise. I see him walking on tiptoes. He doesn’t want to wake me up. Smiling, I follow his footsteps. He takes the charger and his iPad. I realize that the electricity is now back on after a 15-hour blackout. My kids are adapting to this war—they fight eagerly every time the power comes on to charge their iPads—so they can enjoy playing on them when it drops out again. They have their own ideas about how to waste their time during the day.  

The first question I ask when I open my eyes is, “When is the truce?” Everybody is asking the same question. After 16 days of attacks, you wish, even harder than at the start, that it is all just a nightmare. Many times I have closed my eyes and thought, “What if I were just sleeping, and everything I saw was a dream?” I shake my head and look around. Everything looks real: The tree in the school yard moves in the wind, the sun shines, the lady next door is sitting in front of her house with other old ladies of the neighborhood, everything looks normal. No sign that this is a dream, a nightmare.

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