Farah Samer Zaina
The Electronic Intifada / September 9, 2024
There is little time for joy in Gaza at the moment.
But on 20 June, songs were played loudly enough on Al-Jalaa Street near our house in Gaza City to include our whole square.
It was the last day of the Eid al-Adha, and we tried to celebrate as best we could to put a smile on our children’s faces despite the war.
There were no new clothes, no family gatherings, no chocolates, no feasts and no gifts. But we could sing them songs.
Laughter echoed through the square for a change.
A man spoke through a microphone, gathering children to celebrate the holiday and offering a bit of entertainment.
My little sister, Sarah, came to me enthusiastically. She wanted to join the other kids celebrating in the street. We both dressed up and went to join a circle of happy kids inside a circle of devastated houses.
Sarah and the other kids played simple games, jumped, clapped, sang, and were entertained by a clown who made them giggle and laugh.
She was happy. I was happy.
I returned alone to the house and fell asleep. My father, mother and other sister, Maryam, were still in the front garden. My brother was with neighbors in the street.
Bombs broke the silence
Then, the all too familiar sound of bombing returned.
I jumped with a start from the couch and rushed to the window. Outside, a cloud of smoke rose from the direction of Al-Jalaa Street.
Then another bomb struck. This one was nearer the neighborhood.
It was followed by something hitting the garden or maybe the house.
There was smoke and dust everywhere. I heard Maryam, 18, screaming in pain. I followed her voice, blinded by the smoke, and saw my father and brother placing her on the couch in the living room.
She was bleeding and in shock.
I managed to act quickly. I held her head, preventing her from fainting.
She was in great distress and asked if it was serious. I reassured her that it was nothing too bad and that she would be all right, while unable to look away from her torn flesh and the blood coming from her legs.
“Am I gonna die?” she asked.
“No,” I confirmed.
While my dad cut her pants and made medical wraps, my eldest brother called the ambulance. I could see blood stains and small flesh pieces on my dad’s pants and hands.
I was relieved that shrapnel seemed to have hit only the flesh in my sister’s legs, not any arteries or nerves.
We heard the ambulance, and I threw a blanket and hijab on my sister.
My dad, my brother, a neighbor, and two paramedics filled the stairs with footsteps from her blood. My brother went with her to Al-Ahli Arab Hospital, and my dad stayed with us.
She left us with the smell of blood and powder.
‘What the heck’
While cleaning her blood from the stairs, I found pieces of flesh and two shells from what had struck her. I scanned the area until I found two holes. One in the wall of the stairs, and the other in the wooden door.
My sister had been standing between the two when she was wounded.
I finished cleaning and offered to make a hot dinner to raise Sarah’s and my mom and dad’s spirits. But the smell of blood and powder in the house did not help.
We had not heard from my brother yet so I called a friend who lives near the hospital. She went with her dad and brother to see what had happened, and she eventually stayed with Maryam until midnight when her condition was reported back as stable.
The next morning, we prepared two bags of food and clothes for my brother and injured sister, and packed a mattress, a pillow, and a blanket so I could stay with Maryam.
When I entered my sister’s hospital room, I found her lying on her stomach. I woke her up gently. She told me she had been given an anesthetic to lessen the pain and a CT scan to confirm whether there were bone fragments in her body. There weren’t.
Then they gave her the kind of anesthetic that makes you delirious.
“What the heck,” she told me she had cried out repeatedly while undergoing a three–hour surgery. One of the nurses tried to cover her mouth, but she only laughed louder.
“I am not gonna shut up, so what the heck!”
The whole medical team broke into laughter. But now, as she was telling me this, she began to feel a little embarrassed.
I told her that Mom and Dad were okay. But a 13-year-old boy we knew, Arafat, had been martyred along with Abu Rashed, a man in his sixties.
Arafat had been in the street trying to get his siblings home when what we believe was a tank shell struck the area. He was injured somewhere in the belly and bled to death.
Abu Rashed was in his home, in the living room, proving that staying indoors is no safer. Bullets ricocheted through his window and injured him in his neck.
Torments of the living
While at the hospital, I saw a lot of death. I saw many tormented lives.
My heart ached for the families of the martyrs who wept in agony.
There was a kind lady who smiled weakly and tried to say “hi” to us with her fingers. I smiled and replied with a big wave.
Another Maryam, a severely burned woman in her thirties, arrived at the hospital after midnight and kept screaming until 6 a.m. It was a hellish night for both Maryams.
I heard a man screaming in pain before they transferred him to a bed near us. He was severely burned all over his body with a broken leg and arm. He had been buried under his destroyed house, waiting for someone to get him out.
A child about 2 years old or so was burned in the chest, arms, and a little in her face. She looked me in the eyes, crying for help, while doctors injected her with medication.
Under Israel’s 2023-2024 genocide in Gaza, the living are tormented. Only the martyrs rest in peace.
Farah Samer Zaina is a writer in Gaza
