Return to Gaza: passing on the never-ending tragedy

At 7am on Saturday 27 July, a ceasefire started. At my family home in Bureij, south of Gaza City, next to the Israeli border, we had been under incessant shelling for a week.

The “we” is me, my toddler Aida, my baby boy Rakan, my mum – also Aida – dad Abdel Dayam, uncle Abdel Minem and my older brother Amro. It had been like living in hell. The shelling had been non-stop, sometimes for 14 hours with no let-up at all.

The ceasefire meant we could escape. But my dad is stubborn. He refused to go. As a child, his family were forced to leave their home in Beer Sheva in the Negev desert. He said: “Never again.” So we couldn’t persuade him to go.

My mum, though? She would have had a heart attack if she’d stayed a moment longer. I felt I had to take my mum and just hope that the men back on the farm would be OK. It was the hardest decision in my life. I felt like my head would explode. Too many confused emotions running through my mind. I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept in days.

I felt great pressure to take advantage of the ceasefire in case it was the last, and take my mother and the kids to what is supposedly a safer place. But I also knew that there is no such thing as a safe place in Gaza.

Read Paul Mason's blog: 'Israel doesn't understand - we're a nation that can't be crushed'

‘Heart torn to pieces’

We decided to head to my maternal grandfather’s house in Gaza City. It was the first time I had been there since my grandparents died. For me, this added to the emotional turmoil. I was so relieved to be out, but my heart was torn into pieces.

So many of the families who were killed in the last couple of weeks died when the houses – or even UN schools – which they had escaped to were then bombed by the Israeli army. I also could not bear the idea that something could happen to our beautiful farmhouse in my absence. I could not believe that in blink of an eye everything could be history.

My whole childhood was in that house and on our farm. Everywhere I have been in the past 15 years, that place was always my compass. But, if I knew that if I had to leave that home, my grandfather’s house would be the only place that I would find bearable.

As children, we had spent our weekends playing in the garden with my cousins. In 2008-9 war, we almost lost the house when the adjacent government ministries were hit with 16 one-tonne bombs.

‘Post-apocalyptic’

We set off from the farm. My brother Amro came too. He needed to see his wife and daughter who had moved to his in-laws’ home in Gaza City at the beginning of the war.

The scene that confronted us as we drove into town was post-apocalyptic. Heart-wrenching. People were fleeing. Thousands were rummaging through the ruins of their homes, looking for remains of their previous lives. Cars were loaded down with personal belongings; mattresses, kitchen utensils and children’s toys.

Utter despair was written on people’s faces. I saw anger and I saw pain. They moved aimlessly from one pile of rubble to another. I was scared. Everybody is scared of the unknown.

‘Despair’

I felt I was looking through my grandparents’ eyes as they were driven out of their homes during the Nakba in 1948. This was Nakba 2014. (Nakba is the term used by Palestinians to describe the loss off their homes when the state of Israel was founded. It means “the catastrophe”).

It is terrible to think that I will now pass on this never-ending tragedy to my children, just as my parents passed it on to me and my grandparents to them. The short journey into Gaza City seemed to take forever. What I saw will remain with me until the last day of my life.

While writing these words, two of the next-door buildings were targeted and hit by Israeli naval gunboat shells. There have been a couple of F16 strikes nearby. News coming from our farm has been intermittent. The ceasefire has not held all the time; there has been more artillery shelling even while I’ve been here in Gaza City.

As Eid draws near, I am overwhelmed by the sense of despair. So many children will not be going in the early hours of the morning to buy their Eid gifts. So many little boys will not be riding their brand new shiny bicycles… because they are no longer with us. I have decided that, tomorrow, I will go to the children’s ward at Shifa hospital and bring some toys and chocolates.

Happy Eid from Gaza.