War on Gaza: I was buried alive beneath the rubble and awoke in a 'graveyard'

Since 7 October, the terrifying sound of bombs has become our unwelcome morning alarm in Gaza.

But on 1 December, the Israeli air strikes were unlike anything we had experienced before.

We awoke in terror, exchanging frightened glances and questioning what was happening. My father, seeking safety, decided to move us to a second home belonging to our family in the centre of the Jabalia refugee camp. We believed it to be safer and farther from the area under bombardment.

As soon as we arrived, the Israeli army issued a warning to the residents that it was going to bomb the entire neighbourhood. It was a harrowing moment. After much deliberation, my parents decided to return to our evacuated home while I sought refuge at my sister's house, which was not far from the camp's centre.

The next morning, I met my best friend, Mohammed al-Daour, who was famished. The area was already running out of food, so he asked me to visit our mutual friend, Yahya Obaid, to find something to eat.

When we arrived at Yahya's house, I called out to him. He poked his head out a window, letting me know he would be down shortly. As we waited, we jumped to take cover behind Yahya's house to avoid the shelling nearby. 

Buried alive

In a split second, the wall behind me crumbled, and dust billowed in the air. Before I could even react, I was buried under the rubble.

When I got home, I cried bitterly for two days.
I was clinging to my father in fear and disbelief at my survival from the massacre

There was only darkness. Everything happened so quickly that I couldn't understand what had just happened. 

I could feel the debris crushing my back. Each attempt to move felt like trying to lift a mountain, and every passing moment felt like an eternity.

Suffocating on dust and smoke, I realised the bombing scenes I had seen on TV were now my reality.

The fear of being one of the countless victims buried beneath rubble overwhelmed me.

Memories flooded my mind. My exchange programme in Malaga, Spain, in 2022; the beauty of Gaza seemed futile to me at that moment. I realised Mohammed lay close to me, but I could not call out to him. I listened carefully to hear his voice but heard nothing. The raid had taken his beautiful soul in a blink of an eye.

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I was numb, unable to grieve, until a sliver of light pierced through the darkness and reignited my hope.

I yelled for help. Rescue workers arrived moments later and pulled me out. I asked them what happened and was told that Yahya's house had been bombed.

I immediately started thinking of my closest friend, who was on his way down to greet us, and the 80 people sheltering in his home. Everything after that went blank until I awoke in the hospital to my father's voice. He was at my side, crying and praying for me.

I was transported to Kamal Adwan Hospital in Beit Lahia. It was like a graveyard. With limited beds, I was placed on the floor, surrounded by corpses. They were everywhere, more than I could count.

Tens of other injured people were crying out in pain.

I glimpsed at my exposed, bone-visible knee, which I didn't dare look at again. A nurse rushed to clean the wound and began operating on it without anaesthesia, or even enough thread due to a shortage of supplies. The pain was excruciating and the surgery was incomplete since a part of the wound remained open after the nurse ran out of thread to stitch it up.

Although my injury required further care, the miserable condition of the hospital drove my father to take me home.

But above all, I wish to see an end to this relentless, bloody war. I am sick of all this.

My father and brothers carried me out on their shoulders. When I got home, I cried bitterly for two days. I was clinging to my father in fear and disbelief at my survival from the massacre. I couldn't believe I lost my friends. It was all too much to bear.

My brothers became my caregivers - one assisting with bathroom needs, the other administering medication through a cannula. Two days later, my brother's wife called him crying and saying the house they were sheltering had been bombed.

The brother who had been giving me the medication rushed to check on his wife and daughter.

An open wound

Shortly after, the Israeli army invaded and stationed in our neighbourhood.

We were scared to death. There wasn't a single break from the gunfire and clashes. Everyone was screaming. Hearing the constant terrified cries of the children and women was heartbreaking.

My father and siblings eventually moved me to another room, where we all slept together. Each time the army invaded or burnt a house nearby, we would say that our turn was next. I kept wondering what I would do if they invaded our home or ordered us to leave: how could I even move? Where would we go?

It wasn't long before we ran out of drinkable water. After my brother left to be with his wife, I was unable to take my medication for 12 days. I instead took painkillers, which I could only wash down with contaminated water.

All my family had to eat was rice and lentils, which lacked the nutrients to counter the blood loss. With limited food, my family opted to fast most days, and broke their fast with dates and contaminated water.

After 12 harrowing days, the army left. My father immediately called a nurse to check on my injury. Unfortunately, my wound had worsened. It became infected due to a lack of proper cleaning supplies.

I returned to the hospital. The doctors told me that it was very likely that my leg tendon was severed. However, there was no way to confirm this diagnosis as it required an MRI, which was no longer available in hospitals in the north of Gaza. The Israeli army had destroyed all MRI devices when they invaded the hospitals.

Three months later, my wound is still open. I cannot walk normally, pray, or go upstairs. Any touch triggers excruciating pain. When my little niece, Rahaf, plays with me and hits my wound accidentally, I cry out in pain.

Besides the physical pain, a deeper ache has settled in my soul.

Losing Mohammed and Yahya, my best friend since childhood, has left a gaping hole in my life. We were inseparable, and now every corner of our neighbourhood whispers those memories. Even neighbours, trying to be kind, tell me: "If Yahya were here, he'd be walking beside you."

Walking itself has become a terrifying act. Each building I pass is a potential target for Israeli raids. I'm forced to imagine escape routes and other means of survival. Such nightmare scenarios flood my thoughts.

I've lost so much. Yahya's family members are still under the rubble, and the stench of death and bombing emanating from his home is overwhelming. I do not dare to walk along that street.

Even my college graduation seems like a distant mirage. The bombing of the Islamic University of Gaza, where I was supposed to be studying in my last year, feels like the theft of my future.

My greatest dream now is simply to receive treatment for my physical wounds. In a desperate bid for medical care, I launched a crowdfunding campaign to receive treatment abroad and resume my studies.

But above all, I wish to see an end to this relentless, bloody war.

I am sick of all this. This is not the Gaza I know.

We have lost everything.

The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Eye.