October 9th 2023
On October 9, 2023, the third day of the war in Gaza, I bid farewell to my bed. In these violent nights, seeking refuge in my grandmother’s flat on the first floor feels safer than our own apartment. The explosions are less terrifying there, and the walls tremble with a touch more mercy.
At five in the evening, fighter jets roamed above our heads, their threatening cries echoing like witches: “Souls to devour today, and more in the days to come. We’ll spare neither children nor adults, nor even trees or rocks.” My heart raced, yet I clung to hope. Seated on a couch in the living room, my cousins—residents of my grandmother’s flat—hurriedly moving in and out of the kitchen, filling their stomachs before darkness descended. But I had no appetite. Two spoons of rice and stew felt like plastic in my mouth.
Half-past five now. A thunderous surge in the sky split my heart in two, each part sinking deep into my toes. Then came the deafening explosion, shaking the house, shattering window glass. Screams erupted from all directions. The successive blasts showed no mercy. I dashed to the corridor, finding five human forms huddled on the floor—my younger cousins. Their hands covered their ears, eyes squeezed shut, muscles rigid. I lacked the energy to calm them; instead, I addressed my own fears: “I’ve survived this before; this will be no different. Hold on, girl!” I longed for my mother’s presence. As I prepared to call out, her hasty footsteps descended the stairs, her voice trembling. She joined me, attempting to soothe my panic, her eyes betrayed her fear. “They’ve targeted a neighboring house, and it’s over now,” she said. I wished she were right, but then the house shook again, unlike anything before. Successive explosions deafened my ears. This time, my mother’s arms offered no solace as the air strikes mercilessly bombarded us for over five minutes. Fire belts they must be, I have experienced them before.
My uncle’s calming voice broke through the chaos. “It’s a fire belt,” he assured us. “They’re bombing streets, but no harm will reach you. Believe me.” My uncle, the eternal optimist, always had his mobile phone with earbuds in place. Now, I realized he was fabricating news to soothe our frayed nerves.
The huddled forms of my cousins relaxed slightly; their arms and legs stretched. But the dark flying witches above disapproved. They soared high and bombed again, this time demolishing a building near our southern fence. The explosions were horrifying, they snatched the windowpanes and dark clouds blared the outside view for those who dare looking out. When the clouds finally cleared, we were astounded—the view had transformed. New buildings stood where none had been visible before. “Where on earth did, they come from?” I wondered aloud. Then I murmured, “Oh! They were always there, hidden behind the demolished one.
It is nine o’clock now, and I had hoped the tormentors would tire of our flesh and tempers, granting us release. Alas, my hope was misplaced. They remain insatiable, hungry for blood. The infernal dance persists, thrusting us into unfamiliar realms of terror. These sounds, unlike any I’ve heard in my five wars and countless escalations are killing my senses.
My aunt’s hushed voice reaches me: ‘They’re throwing barrels of explosions upon the Islamic University’s various buildings, just two streets away from our home.’ The noise becomes unbearable, stretching my nerves beyond capacity. My stomach churns with sickness, my throat parched, hands icy, arms aching, and legs trembling. Even as I half-lie on the corridor carpet, clutching my mother’s hand, I yearn to hide within her. But the corridor is filled with other souls—flesh balls, as I call them—each too frightened to offer solace.
At 2 a.m., the flying terror still haunts our sky. Smoke and ashes burned our eyes and noses. Someone whispers, “White phosphorus, perhaps. Cover your mouth and nose with any scrap of cloth you can find.”
The streets surrounding the UNRWA buildings, and the Islamic University are under relentless bombardment. Houses on both sides crumble, their owners crushed beneath the weight of destruction. I once believed we, as civilians, would remain unharmed. But that was a lie. The truth revealed itself as I witnessed homes collapsing upon their inhabitants.
The bombing went on until the sun’s first rays pierce the sky. By then, I am numb, my head spinning. Sleep beckons, yet I cling to the corridor. My mother drags a light mattress for me, and I lay my head upon the pillow, drifting into a state between slumber and unconsciousness. That night, I understood, those who perished in the initial two days were the fortunate ones who escaped this living hell.