Part 1
It’s been seven years since I escaped my embattled city of Gaza and came to the U.S. On Thanksgiving, my mother sent me a photo of a felled 16-ft. tree in southern Gaza, where my family has been sheltering these last weeks. Ten of my relatives are standing on asphalt, surrounding the trunk, and one of them is hacking off its limbs. It’s impossible to obtain cooking gas, and this tree is now the firewood that will allow them to prepare their next meal.
Since Hamas’s
atrocious attacks on Oct. 7—leaving around 1,200 people dead, the largest mass killing of Jews on a single day since the Holocaust—the systems that supply Gaza’s food, water, and medicine are in urgent decline as Israel carries out its ongoing bombardment of Gaza in return. At least
27,000 Palestinians have died since, thousands of whom are
reportedly Hamas fighters, and some 1.7 million of Gaza’s 2.3 million people displaced along with
tens of thousands of Israelis by ongoing rocket fire from Hezbollah in southern Lebanon. Much of Gaza is now reduced to rubble. But the sense of disorder and emergency in the Strip today stretches much further into the past.
Since Hamas’s violent takeover of Gaza in 2007, the bustling and beautiful streets I knew have been dominated by terrorist chaos. Hamas is driven by an ideological stand originating in the concept of annihilating the state of Israel and replacing it with an Islamic Palestinian one. In striving to make this a reality, Hamas has continued to normalize violence and militarization in every aspect of public and private life in Gaza. They have in the process obliterated the chances of a successful Palestinian state alongside Israel, even if the prospect of one had increasingly looked dim amid successive Israeli governments that worked against that.
We lived in my father Imad’s family building and saved money for nearly 18 years until we were able to build our own house in the north of Gaza. The first sign that Hamas was building tunnels underneath our house came in July 2013, while the house was under construction. Our soon-to-be new neighbor, Um Yazid Salha, got in touch with my mother Saadia to ask why my brother Hamza and I always come to the site after midnight.
The two-story construction site was surrounded by a wall and two gates. And every night we were all in the apartment at our family building, where the door closes and locks at 10 p.m. without fail. “No one comes or goes after 10,” my mother told Um Yazid.
The next day I went to the construction site with my mother and Hamza. After a quick look around, we saw nothing amiss. But when we examined the site more closely, we found several concrete slabs in the area under the interior staircase, each about 1.5-ft. long. We also found an area with newly moved soil to the right of our house and the wall surrounding it.
My brother Hamza and I dug a depth of 1.5 ft. in that soil as our mother looked on. We would soon hit a metal gate, sealed with a lock. We had no idea what it was or why it was there. Hamza and I quickly covered the area with soil again and went directly to our neighbor’s house.
Now it lies in ruin alongside countless other homes in northern Gaza.
time.com