Gaza: A Personal Account

I'm not here to draw a simple line between good and bad, for the narrative is infinitely complex. What compels me is an impassioned refusal to stand idly by while innocent civilians are thrust into the crucible of danger and despair. This isn't a headline lost in the noise; it's the haunting reality etched into the daily lives of Palestinians dwelling in places marked by decades of occupation, relentless oppression, and the enduring pain of apartheid, an affliction that has festered for over half a century.

I stand as one among two million souls, each bearing witness to the cruel annals of time etched upon this land, etching a story of resilience in the face of unrelenting adversity from the Israeli occupation. What unfolded in Gaza didn't originate on October 7th; rather, it is the culmination of seventy-five years of anguish under occupation. It's a response to the accumulated suffering of seventeen long years of blockade that Israel imposed, where two million people have been stripped of their most basic needs – electricity, clean drinking water, medicine, and freedom of movement.

In my personal history, I recount a tale of heartache and loss, a narrative interwoven with the bitter sting of Israeli airstrikes claiming my father in 2006. And our home lay shattered four times over because of Israeli bombing over the years. Today, I bear witness to war crimes waged not just against the infrastructure of a people, but against the very essence of two million lives – a war whose dimensions transcend war, unmasking itself as a campaign of genocide and ethnic cleansing.

My family, like countless others, has been displaced thrice, embarking on a harrowing journey from the north to the south, every step taken beneath the specter of constant shelling. Their journey was not one of choice but of desperation, as ten children, six of them aged five or under, sought shelter amidst the chaos. Yet, in Gaza, refuge remains an elusive dream, an impossibility, as it is a place bereft of electricity, devoid of clean water, and starved of vital medications. Everyone lies on the bare ground, bereft of mattresses and blankets, where the shelling shows no mercy, distinguishing neither stone from human. The victims are overwhelmingly children and women, their homes razed with them trapped within. Even the wounded and afflicted find no sanctuary, for hospitals and ambulances fall prey to Israeli bombing.

I have been in Canada for over four years. I have not been able to see my family since coming to Canada in August, 2019. In this war, till now, my family’s house and my entire town, Beit Hanoun, was demolished by the Israeli airstrikes. I have lost 30 of my relatives, including a cousin and her five children, my mother’s cousin and 20 members of his family, and my father’s cousin with three of her four children. Every time I am successful in talking to my family, I feel it is that last time. I am forcing myself to accept that I might lose some family members in this war, if not all of them.

What transpires in this crucible of suffering isn't merely a humanitarian catastrophe; it is war crimes and ethnic cleansing. The world cannot turn a blind eye, for it must bear witness to the heart-wrenching story of Gaza's people, a tale of resilience amidst despair, where hope lingers in the shadows, and the cry for justice reverberates.