Israel turned Jabalia into a barren desert and made our home a grave
When my family was forced to flee Jabalia last month, we had two options: die and leave our bodies under the rubble or on the road, to be torn apart by stray dogs, or survive with the constant threat of death looming over us, enduring the bitter taste of another Nakba, or catastrophe, until we die.
From that moment on, we became refugees for the second time in less than two generations. We were forced to leave behind apartments, buildings and lands that meant everything to us.
In the blink of an eye, we became nothing.
It was in Jabalia that my father dedicated years of hard work to build a 200 sqm apartment for me - a symbol of hope and stability for my future family. Every tile and ornament was chosen with love, a testament to our dreams of a peaceful life.
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After the war began, I bought solar energy equipment for charging and lighting. I did not overspend on it because I thought a day like this might come when I would have to leave everything behind.
A barren desert
Since the beginning of the war on Gaza, the Israeli army has launched three brutal ground operations in Jabalia. While the third operation is still ongoing, hundreds of bodies lie under the rubble, scattered in the streets and inside homes.
On the evening of 5 October 2024, the Israeli military carried out intense air strikes, paving the way for a ground invasion the following morning from both the eastern and western sides of Jabalia.
The Israeli army not only deprived my grandfather of food, water, medicine and security but also deprived him of his right to be buried with dignity
The incursion forced us to flee the shelter we had sought and return to our house in the centre of Jabalia, where all of our relatives gathered. We hoped that the operation would be limited and that the army would withdraw after two days.
During this time, Jabalia transformed into a barren desert. There was no water, food or safe place. Hospitals and schools were reduced to rubble and medical assistance was a distant memory. Living there became impossible.
As time passed, the advance of military vehicles and the intensity of air strikes increased and it became hellish. Those were the hardest days of my life and the lives of all my family members.
On the evening of 7 October, the army launched a fierce air strike nearby that shook the very foundations of our home.
Just two minutes later, my grandfather took his final breath and died. He spent his last day barely able to catch his breath, panting in fear, his lips trembling until the end.
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At the time of my grandfather's passing, Israeli military vehicles were just a few metres away from our home and had surrounded the cemetery. This made burying him there impossible. It took us until morning to decide how to temporarily bury him in light of the circumstances.
When the morning of 8 October arrived, we contacted the hospital and requested an ambulance, but they told us they could not move or reach us.
I suggested that we bury him in a nearby area, but my father saw that as too risky and decided to bury him at home.
Trapped in the house, my siblings and I started digging the grave. We broke through a 7cm-thick layer of concrete, then dug in the sand to a depth of 60cm and a length of 170cm.
Fear engulfed us as the strikes, bombings and gunfire continued.
At the same time, we borrowed a large piece of fabric from our neighbour, the tailor, to serve as a shroud in the absence of ambulances and proper materials. It was miraculous that our neighbour managed to bring the fabric from his home to ours without being harmed.
We performed the ritual washing of grandfather's body, prayed for him, bid him farewell and buried him. During the burial, we placed a sheet of asbestos over the supports, covered it with nylon and filled the grave with the sand we had dug up.
The Israeli army not only deprived my grandfather of food, water, medicine and security but also deprived him of his right to be mourned and buried with dignity as a deceased person.
Yet, I considered him lucky to have found someone to bury him, even temporarily, as I might die and have no one to bury me, just like thousands of Palestinians in Gaza.
Roundabout of death
The following evening, on 8 October, I sank into a chair, my heart racing as I listened to the news.
Each report felt like a countdown to disaster, urging me to act. They said the operation could last for weeks or months. I got up to look out the window at the street leading to Gaza City, where I saw two groups of families crossing a passage.
In those moments, many racing thoughts crossed my mind: the opportunity to catch up with them might not come again, and, as a university student, I could not afford to be away from my online studies for weeks or months at a time.
Moreover, the drinking water and food in the house, shared by nearly 50 people, would run out within days. What would happen if this continued for weeks or months?
I did not have much time, so I quickly put on my shoes, packed my bags and prepared to flee to Gaza City.
My mother, father and siblings criticised me, urging me not to leave. But I was determined to evacuate and pass through that roundabout, which had been recently dubbed the "roundabout of death", where many civilians had been killed while trying to cross.
My mother tried to help me quickly prepare the evacuation bags, including food, towels and clothes. But my father interrupted, saying: "Don't go out because the news just said that the army is heavily shelling the road you will pass through."
My older brother also tried to dissuade me just as I was able to leave: "We barely buried our grandfather and there's no space at home for your burial." He added: "You might die at the roundabout of death, and we won't be able to take your body. Just wait a little."
All this happened in less than two minutes. I ignored their pleas, knowing that the outcome of these difficult journeys often depends on split-second decisions and precise details that can have life-altering consequences. What was needed was speed and decisiveness, so I rushed to the street leading to the "roundabout of death", taking quick steps while my family watched me from the window, terrified and screaming.
When I reached the roundabout, intense fear swelled up within me as the moment came for me to cross those few metres. It felt like my heart was about to pierce my ribcage from the force of its beating and my joints could barely hold me together.
The road was littered with rubble and difficult to manoeuvre. But my body was accustomed to running for hours and I was prepared to cross the distance over the ruins of the destroyed houses as fast as I could.
I pushed myself and ran until I reached safety, where I found journalists risking their lives to take some pictures and interview displaced people crossing the roundabout.
Once I arrived in Gaza City, I sent a light-hearted text message to my father: "I did it, lol!" I wanted to reassure him and the rest of my family that I was safe. I was happy to have escaped hell. But at the same time, I was sad, carrying the burden of my family members who were still there.
Endless terror
I lost contact with my family for two weeks after that moment, only to meet them again in phases.
I could hardly contact them due to the disruption of communications and the internet. But when we finally met again, my sisters, Iman, 25, and Enas, 27, and their families had stories that no human mind could bear of what they endured both before and during their escape from hell.
For a moment, Iman felt as if death was seeping from her hands. An orange hue rushed around her, and dizziness enveloped her body
On the night of 17 October, Iman and her husband, Atiyah, woke up to strange sounds from outside.
Soon, the area around them was filled with the sounds of drone gunfire. The sounds of gunfire grew louder as they struck the walls of the small room that housed their family.
Iman held her children and whispered reassurances to them in a barely audible voice while she turned off the faint light and put their phones on aeroplane mode, trying to make the house appear empty.
Suddenly, a massive explosion echoed. For a moment, Iman felt as if death was seeping from her hands. An orange hue rushed around her, and dizziness enveloped her body, so she screamed for her husband: "The kids, Atiyah. Where is Mu'min?"
Her heart froze when she lost sight of her one-year-old son until she finally saw him peeking his head out from between two stones. The family emerged from the debris nearly unscathed - a miracle in itself - but without their belongings, which they had left behind. The house that had witnessed their family's love and closeness was now in ruins.
In her testimony, Iman described grim details of the explosive drones the army had planted days before in neighbouring houses, realising then that their homes were nothing more than targeted sites and their lives were at grave risk.
Meanwhile, Enas and her family, who were displaced in Iman's house, experienced horrors that she would never forget. She was forced to listen as barrel bombs demolished her neighbours' houses. Further surrounding her were the sounds of soldiers and the whizzing of bullets.
She described the moments when death seemed to be just a heartbeat away.
When the barrel exploded, Enas felt her heart stop. The sound of the explosion collided with the silence of the room that enveloped her and her family. "It was like the sound of a heart monitor flatlining," she said, describing the dizziness and numbness that followed.
She thought of her children's safety when her husband's voice called out to her: "Are you okay?" When she heard her children's voices responding to her, life returned to her once again.
My sisters fled to Kamal Adwan Hospital, only for the army to invade it two days later. They and other patients were forced to evacuate the place under the watchful eyes of planes above and soldiers on the ground. They had no choice but to carry their children and leave on foot in search of another refuge.
Painful distances
On 24 October, their small families could no longer bear the shock of life in Jabalia. The decision to evacuate was painful but unavoidable. Iman and Enas prepared whatever emergency supplies they could and began their journey towards the long Beit Lahia Street.
Upon reaching the military checkpoint near the Indonesian Hospital, an order was issued to detain men over the age of 15. Iman found herself carrying her bag on her back and her children between her hands, continuing down the road alone as her five-year-old daughter Zeina whispered: "Where's Dad? I want Dad."
On Salah al-Din Road, the harsh realities piled up: tanks kicked up dust into people's faces, children searched for their parents, bags were scattered everywhere on the ground and mothers bore their children's burdens atop their own. The twin boys, Mu'min and Mahmoud, aged one, exhausted Iman's body as they struggled in her tight embrace, indifferent to the weight and difficulty of the journey.
With bullets flying through the air, families were urged to hurry along while women fell to the ground from the weight of pain and fatigue, their hearts trembling with fear of the war machines looming around them.
Zeina, her eyelashes white with dust, clutched the hem of her mother's dress, crying softly: "Where's Dad?" Meanwhile, Iman stumbled forward, clutching her children amid the stench of death and dust, feeling that her faded youth had been lost on the desolate roads.
My parents, both 66 years old, were still trapped alone in the house situated in the heart of Jabalia. They had spent nearly 20 days surrounded by rows of soldiers and vehicles, with bombardment and gunfire never ceasing until the situation became unbearable.
Besieged at home, my parents narrowly escaped death numerous times, particularly during the bombings of neighbouring houses, where those still inside perished under the rubble and remain there to this day.
This prompted my parents to decide to evacuate to Gaza City. They packed a few bags and convinced a neighbour from the adjacent house, who was alone, to leave with them through a side road.
This presented a significant challenge for my parents, as my mother, who suffers from diabetes and needs a knee replacement, could barely walk. How could she cover such a distance on foot along a rugged path strewn with debris from destroyed homes?
My mother recalled the sheer terror she felt witnessing dogs and insects devour the bodies left on the roads
Despite this, my father insisted on going, holding my mother's hand while our neighbour helped with the bags. By chance, my father found a cane to lean on for the journey, navigating the path under the fire of drones.
My mother later confessed she had no idea how she managed to cross that road but recalled the sheer terror she felt witnessing dogs and insects devour the bodies left on the roads.
Seeing my parents in such a pitiful state when I welcomed and embraced them upon their arrival in Gaza City filled me with rage. Their cheeks were sunken, their bodies were emaciated from the lack of food and they were still unable to sleep due to their deteriorating health.
Despite their old age, my parents had shown no signs of ageing until the ravages of this brutal war.
The war has exhausted us and revealed the signs of ageing, but what pains me most is watching my parents grow old before my eyes while I can do nothing to help.
The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Eye.
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