The Electronic Intifada 18 September 2024
Two women mourn their slain relatives on 17 September after an Israeli airstrike struck a home in the Nuseirat refugee camp.
APA imagesIn a world filled with loss and pain, we sometimes face circumstances so appalling they surpass the power of words to convey.
Gaza is now replete with stories of tragedy and grief, where wounds refuse to heal and leave an indelible mark on our hearts.
They speak of nights that turned into nightmares and days that stole everything dear. They speak of loved ones who perished in tragic moments, leaving behind echoes of sorrow and what-might-have-beens.
I’ve compiled these stories below to give voice to the grief and pain and resilience of those living through Israel’s ongoing genocide.
Samah al-Shamali
Samah is 32. She is a writer, now displaced to Deir al-Balah:
It was 7 July. I woke up at 3 am to a message from my mother congratulating me on my brother’s newborn son, Tamim, and thanking “God for the safety of your brother’s wife.”
I was relieved. Even amid this Israeli genocide and all the difficult circumstances, at least this passed off without complication.
I thought about sending a message to my sister Mona in northern Gaza to tell her about the new addition to our family, but I decided it wasn’t the right time. It’s never easy these days to communicate by phone or over the internet and it hadn’t been easy to communicate with Mona for days.
The next morning, my older brother, Muhammad, in northern Gaza called to congratulate his younger brother, Shadi, and suggested he go buy some meat for the occasion and bring Mona and her daughters to eat with us.
My younger brother went off happily to find Mona and tell her they would celebrate the occasion together. When he got to her neighborhood, however, there was no house.
The house, neighbors told him, had been bombed the night before. All the inhabitants had been martyred.
My brother rushed to the clinic, heart racing faster than his steps. He was too late. My sister, her daughters, her husband… all had already been buried.
Communication was very poor that day, and the rest of us did not learn about the martyrdom of my sister and her family for hours.
I used to call her every day to check on her, but communications had been cut off three days before her martyrdom.
The last call between us she seemed scared, telling me: “They bombed the house next to us, and there are martyrs.”
Her last message to me was: “Samah, reply.”
I tried, Mona. I tried for three days to reach you.
Farewell, Mona. You would have loved Tamim.
Iman Awda
Iman Awda is 23. Before 7 October she was an actress for TV and theater. She is now displaced to Khan Younis:
On 2 December 2023, some three months into Israeli’s genocide in Gaza, I was sitting with my sisters at my uncle Mahmoud’s home at about 6 pm.
My parents were both at the hospital. My father, Yusef, had been ill for a while and my mother was with him.
The Israeli bombing was constant, the situation dire, and my heart ached for my family and our situation.
I was also worried about my parents even though they were in the hospital because hospitals have been bombed and targeted throughout this genocide.
My uncle received a call. It was my cousin, Mustafa, calling his father to tell him that my father had passed away.
“There is no power and no strength except through God,” I remember my uncle saying before enquiring about my mother.
My father had been sick for four years, suffering and improving, suffering and improving, and we used to thank God that he was still with us.
But when I heard he had left us, I screamed and cried. We had all expected it, but still I couldn’t believe it. I just wanted to go to him.
I couldn’t. Outside, the situation and the roads were dangerous. I was told we would leave early in the morning to bid him farewell. But the next morning, the situation outside was the same, and we couldn’t go because of ongoing Israeli attacks.
Then my mother called to say my father had been buried. His face, she said, was as beautiful as the moon.
He left without me saying goodbye.
I couldn’t visit his grave. Even that was demolished in the Israeli attacks.
Alaa Mohammed
Alaa Mohammed is 32. A teacher, she is now displaced to southern Gaza:
That night was like an endless nightmare, one from which I will never awaken.
It was Ramadan, and we were preparing for Taraweeh prayers which are done at night during the holy month.
The blast was powerful. It was powerful enough to shake the ground beneath our feet.
I ran as fast as I could toward the sound. It had come from near the house we were staying, but I never imagined the missile had struck my loved ones.
I couldn’t get there and everyone was too terrified to speak the truth. Desperately, I turned to my phone, searching for answers. It was my uncle’s house, where my family had been staying.
I clutched my phone, hands trembling, trying to call my sister Tasneem, but the phone just kept ringing. My strength failed me, and I sank down, pleading with God that the news was false.
When the truth was confirmed, I ran to the hospital, my heart begging the heavens to find my loved ones safe. I arrived as the ambulances were still bringing those that could be saved from the rubble. I was told my mother and sister, Razan, 19, had been rescued alive.
I fell into a prostration of gratitude. But hope was soon shattered when I was told that my brother Mu’ath and my sister Tasneem had both been martyred.
I rushed to the mortuary, where a crowd had gathered around Mu’ath’s body, breathing in the scent of musk that filled the air. In a moment of overwhelming grief I realized that this sweet fragrance was coming from his blood.
The people cried out: “What was between you and your Lord, Mu’ath?”
To this day, I have not awakened from this nightmare. I still cannot comprehend what happened.
Patience binds our hearts and helps us endure the trials of this world.
Nabeel Tayeh
Nabeel Tayeh is 34. He used to make a living as a freelance coder. He is now displaced to an unspecified location in southern Gaza:
In the early hours of 1 December, I lost my beloved father after three long years of illness.
It was my brother, Sofyan, who called me. Voice trembling, he simply repeated: “Our father was a righteous man. Our father was a righteous man.”
That was that day. Then came the next morning.
On 2 December, I heard the news that took away what little comfort I had in life.
Sofyan had been martyred along with his immediate family, his wife and five children. My older sister Fadwa was gone, as was her entire family, her husband and her three children.
My younger brother Yusef’s wife and two daughters had also perished.
I couldn’t reach any of their phones, except for that of my dear niece, Samah, one of Fadwa’s daughters. But that just kept ringing. Each unanswered call tore at my soul. She, of course, was also dead.
Most days now, I find myself avoiding people, just so I don’t break down in uncontrollable tears.
I avoid looking at my chat history or at any photo that includes any of my slain relatives.
But there is no escape from this pain; the wounds are deep, and the agony is indescribable.
There is hardly a moment in which I don’t feel their absence.
We have so many memories, so many joyful moments. All are documented in photos, videos and conversations that speak of a life filled with love and happiness.
They speak of a life taken from me.
Alaa al-Agha
Alaa al-Agha is 27. She is a clinical pharmacist in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia:
I received the news of the martyrdom of my brother, Muhammad, and father, Ahmed, in an abrupt and casual manner.
It was a Saturday night. I couldn’t sleep; I was glued to the news, my heart aching and filled with fear. I briefly dozed off and woke up from a haunting nightmare.
At 9 am, my cousin called to ask if I knew anything about my family. I told her I hadn’t heard from them in a while due to the lack of any stable network. I asked if something had happened. She told me everyone was fine and reassured me to rest.
She knew the truth. She couldn’t bring herself to tell me.
Two hours later, I saw the news on a WhatsApp group, which posted a list of martyrs for 23 and 24 February. The list focused on individuals killed by Israeli sniper fire on Salah al-Din Road.
There was my brother’s name.
I gave thanks to God. My brother had wished for martyrdom.
As for my father, I was told that he had buried my brother in Mawasi and returned safely.
But that evening, despite my disorientation and grief, I signed into the WhatsApp group again.
There was my father’s picture and his name listed among the martyrs at the European Hospital.
Oh God, it had been a year since I last saw him, when I left Gaza for Saudi Arabia to follow my career. And now I have lost him forever. My heart had longed for the end of the war so I could embrace my father, savor his voice and kindness, and see my brother and family.
Despite leaving behind three young daughters, despite our deep longing for his presence, he deserved the honor of martyrdom. I wished I could have seen him one last time, but I was denied this farewell.
Even now, it feels like a dream, as if my father and brother are still alive and I’ll see them again once the war ends.
Four months have passed, but each night is more painful than the last.
My heart is consumed with fear for my mother and my displaced sisters living in a tent. I fear losing them, and the fear overwhelms me.
Eman al-Kurd
Eman al-Kurd is 29 and is a homemaker. She has remained in northern Gaza:
I was at home when I received the news that the house next to the one where my family was sheltering had been bombed.
My cousin, Dima, trapped under the rubble, called us, crying for help.
Amid my fear for my relatives, I told myself that my parents, Intizar and Mustafa, and my siblings must be fine. They might have been injured, but death seemed too far-fetched. I tried to comfort myself.
I called. I called. I kept calling them without any response until I finally got through to my sister Etaf’s phone. She told me they had fled, but didn’t know where our parents were. I screamed at her, asking how could they not know, how could they have left them behind.
Then the call abruptly ended.
I called Mom, but she didn’t answer. I called Dad.
Someone finally picked up. I asked who was on the line and was simply told that everyone under the rubble had died.
I screamed with all my might, a noise that came from the depths of my heart. It was the most painful moment of my life.
It was more painful than when the news was finally confirmed.
Jehan Yahya is a writer in Gaza.
