"Gaza's Struggle in between Fear and Grief, a Diary of Hope and Resilience"
Yesterday marked a rare venture outside for me since our displacement on that fateful Friday. I made my way to
Deir el-Balah, determined to assess the situation and gather vital information about the conditions of those displaced to the south.
The decision to embark on this journey weighed heavily on my mind. The ever-present air raids and the well-founded fears were a heavy burden. Both my husband and my brother
accompanied me on this perilous journey, seizing the opportunity to procure groceries for our family.
As we prepared to leave, a sense of trepidation filled the air. The nagging thought persisted that one of us should remain behind with our children, should the worst come to pass.
Ensuring their safety was our utmost priority.
"Are you ready, Maram?" my husband called out as he waited for me. We set out on foot, a decision driven by what appeared to be the safer option, with the roads seeing minimal traffic.
As we turned the corner onto the next street, a massive explosion reverberated through the area, sending shockwaves of fear coursing through my veins. The concerns that had initially accompanied me before leaving our home flooded back, and our anxious family immediately contacted us, urging our swift return.
We paused to observe the billowing smoke following the air raid. The street was bustling with people, all rushing to secure life's essentials, but the atmosphere remained far from normal. Tension clung to the air as people hurriedly completed their tasks.
Continuing on, we eventually reached a marketplace where people were fervently purchasing vital groceries. The cashier was swarmed with customers, and some shelves had already been picked clean. The diligent supermarket owner meticulously took inventory of his stock.
As a journalist, striking up conversations with people amidst such circumstances is an arduous task. Everyone was in a hurry – men, women, and children. While the owner was willing to share some insights about the market, it was more challenging to engage the customers, especially the women.
One woman entering the market with her children caught my eye, and I thought her perspective might offer valuable insights. I approached her, asking, "Are you displaced, or are
you originally from Deir el-Balah?" She responded with a melancholy smile, "Displaced," and we shook hands, connecting through our shared experiences.
Throughout my journey, I encountered numerous individuals with similar stories. Some were hesitant to open up, while others seized the opportunity to express their thoughts and
emotions. People were doing their best to continue with their lives, to procure food necessary for their survival.
At one point, I observed people gathering water from a nearby mosque. I attempted to engage them in conversation, but the urgency of the situation left them with little time to spare. I, too, faced a dilemma, torn between my role as a journalist and the
pressing need to secure water for my own family.
Later, my husband asked if I was ready to return home. His question served as a stark reminder that, regardless of our professions, we find ourselves in the same dire circumstances.
Whether doctors, journalists, paramedics, or NGO workers, we are all under attack. A few hours after my return home, while finalizing my piece about the challenges faced by those displaced to the south, heart-wrenching news broke. The al-Ahli Arab hospital had been bombed, and the death toll had surged past 400.
The news struck us like a thunderbolt, plunging us into a profound state of shock and disbelief. I closed my laptop, leaving my work unfinished.
The overwhelming grief that washed over me upon hearing this news made it abundantly clear how unbearable this situation has become for the people of Gaza. No words can adequately convey the immense pain that has gripped this coastal enclave.
0 comments:
Post a Comment