The Electronic Intifada 7 October 2024
The sun sets over Deir al-Balah in January 2021.
APA imagesA day in the small coastal city of Deir al-Balah used to begin with fishermen pulling out in their rudimentary boats and throwing their nets into the sea.
Further inland, farmers would plant and harvest the seeds they’ve been tending to for months.
Against the sandy slopes of the seasides, white lilies bloom. The land in the city is fertile, brimming with olive and palm trees and large fields of vegetables and fruits, such as lettuce, spinach, oranges, and strawberries.
The city’s pre-war population was around 50,000 people. There was a sense of calm in the heart of the city, which covers about 15 square kilometers.
Children brought the city to life in the morning. Full of energy, full of joy, full of noise, they strolled to school to which teachers took taxis. Mothers fed hungry little mouths with zaatar sandwiches. Morning assemblies would see the sound of the Palestinian national anthem mingle with birdsong.
Palestine Technical College was the city’s sole university, located right in the center.
The city hosted the main hospital in central Gaza, al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, which was also a teaching facility for medical students and a picnic spot for locals. Wards and hospital floors were spotless. Doctors took breaks in the serene gardens.
The sports stadium, Al-Dorra, erupted every weekend with cheers, laughter and revelry and in a quieter corner of the city, visitors flocked to Al-Khader Shrine, a small ancient structure, sometimes associated with St George, that was built in the Roman period some 16 centuries ago.
The city closed its eyes as the sun set with the same sense of peace as dawn broke.
This was Deir al-Balah, the only city in Gaza that goes to bed early and rises early. Chaos and traffic were unknown to us. We are just regular folks who enjoy life to the fullest and value each second.
A city in ruins
I was born at al-Aqsa Martyrs hospital on 24 November 2002. It was, they tell me, a very cold night. I am a child of this city and I am grateful and pleased to be a part of life here.
Now, though, the sight of my city sickens the senses. Entire squares have been reduced to rubble, entire neighborhoods have been destroyed and entire families have vanished.
Tents are scattered along the beach and the few remaining streets. Traumatized children queue for hours to get a sip of water. The sound of mothers sobbing in agony over the loss of their loved ones is never far away.
The city, which used to feel like a sanctuary and lived through many wars and escalations that always rubbed salt into its wounds, now symbolizes our general suffering. Israel’s ceaseless bombardment makes my family and I anxious all the time.
There’s hardly any food. I remember a day when I had to eat canned pet food and rotten wheat seeds. I had constant gastroenteritis and fatigue due to malnutrition in the following days.
Every day is a struggle to survive.
We drink unfiltered water.
Our lives might end in an instant.
The schools no longer draw a smile on children’s faces. They are shelters for the displaced. Palestine Technical College and Al-Dorra Stadium are now sheltering thousands of displaced people from the north of Gaza. There is no education, no sports and no hope of their return.
Al-Aqsa Martyrs hospital is a place of unspeakable terror. The smell of blood, splattered on floors and walls, permeates every space. Funeral prayers are held daily. Injured children wail over the bodies of their mothers. White plastic bags with human remains fill refrigerators.
Despite the historical importance of Al-Khader Shrine, it has been abandoned because of Israel’s ruthless bombardment in Deir al-Balah.
All agricultural lands on the eastern outskirts of Deir al-Balah have been leveled by bulldozers, lands that once brimmed with beauty and nature.
Pain and hope
How can I describe the pain?
I can’t see my friends.
We don’t have the bare minimum to exist.
I am fighting for a cup of water.
I am desperate for some medicine.
I can’t continue my education.
I can’t, I can’t, I just can’t.
A man harvests dates from Deir al-Balah palms in 2010.
APA imagesMy friend Al-Hassan and I were separated by one street, but couldn’t see each other.
Before the war, we would whizz around the city in five minutes in his car. We spent time at his home.
I try to remember that now.
Israel destroyed the streets. Israel targeted my friend’s home.
Israel killed him.
Our souls are beautiful, and so are Deir al-Balah and Gaza.
Deir al-Balah, home of the only standing stadium and university left in Gaza.
Deir al-Balah and I are surviving the genocide.
Notwithstanding all the trauma inflicted and the decimation of life in Deir al-Balah and Gaza, we continue to see hope and beauty.
Beautiful souls
On 1 September, it rained. Palm leaves waved like the wings of birds; olives trees shimmered a wonderful green color; basil and jasmine flowers reflected the slight light of the sunbeams, and children smiled in dilapidated tents.
We still believe that this genocide will end very soon.
We hope and pray daily that we will truly live again because we are actually dying under such harsh circumstances.
Our lives were stolen, but our souls remain beautiful. We smile when we see someone, somewhere, anywhere, raise the flag of Palestine in a street or in a football stadium, or a mother putting keffiyehs around her children’s necks and people talking about us as if they are part of us.
And surely, they really are.
Despite being deprived of their harvest last year, farmers in Deir al-Balah have managed to salvage some plants and trees and are readying to collect their fruits this month. October is the harvest month, a time when we see bunches of dates and buckets of olives all around.
And this year, despite the genocide, we will live the same days. We will simply restore our euphoria and joy.
I have a yellow rose, a jasmine tree, some homegrown basil, two palm trees, and three olive trees in my garden. That’s how I define hope.
In every house standing in my neighborhood, even in my city, are plants and olive and palm trees.
Our souls are beautiful, and so are Deir al-Balah and Gaza. This is the reality the entire world needs to know.
Abubaker Abed is a journalist and translator from Deir al-Balah refugee camp in Gaza.
