Evacuating for the third time March 31, 2024
Evacuating for the third time
On January 25, 2024, we endured another sleepless night. Everyone was on edge, except for the exhausted children who had succumbed to fear and weariness. I sought refuge in my hideout—a tiny storeroom beneath the stairs in the administrative building. The cramped space overflowed with people, predominantly women and children. Men stood outside, tracking the escalating actions: tank movements, relentless shelling, sniper targets, and other overwhelming incidents.
During the night, another life slipped away—a wounded soul whose moans went unanswered by the four UNRWA ambulances. These vehicles arrived after interminable hours of waiting behind the checkpoint. Critical cases piled up, some unable to find space in the ambulances. We waited, hoping for their return after coordination with war generals.
My mother brought me a cup of tea and a sandwich. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday, but my energy had waned to the point where chewing and swallowing felt robotic. In the crowded hall, I joined the mass of humans, desperate for reassuring news. Yet conflicting reports swirled: some claimed the place remained safe, while others insisted evacuation was necessary. How could 60,000 IDPs evacuate? And where would they go? No place remained safe south of Gaza valley where we were directed to flee.
Around 11 a.m., I overheard talks about soldiers arresting two people near the area where voluntary people were cooking food. Upon their release, they carried a tragic message for the management team. My heart sank. I had grown accustomed to this place—a feat not easily achieved. We’d developed coping mechanisms to navigate the challenges of displacement. But reality defied our wishes. Tears welled up, yet they remained trapped within, leaving my eyes dry.
Now, I faced the daunting task of packing my cherished belongings—items that had multiplied during my three and a half months at the KYTC shelter. No, there must be a mistake.
As I stood there, disbelief gnawing at my resolve, I clung to the belief that this is an UNRWA facility—a place that should be deconflicted and couldn’t be evacuated in such a manner. But the double-check confirmed the grim truth. We were given 24 hours to evacuate. The directive was clear: move past the tanks, eyes fixed forward, no deviation left or right. Our hands, clutching only the essentials, had to remain free—ready to raise in surrender as we passed those monstrous machines.
How horrifying! My limbs trembled with fear, but my sisters’ frantic shouts propelled me forward. We stuffed our backpacks with cherished belongings, yet the crucial question loomed: Where would we go? Tears blurred my vision, mirroring the anguish etched in the eyes of the human mass around me. Together, we moved—like the walking dead—flooded through the gate, propelled by desperation and dread.