Eman Alhaj Ali
Mondoweiss / November 3, 2024
As the year has dragged on, I can’t help but think my grandparents who experienced the Nakba were luckier. They never had to answer questions like, “What’s your message to a world that has failed you?”
It has been a year since the onslaught began, but it’s also 76 years of occupation and oppression, inflicted upon us under the guise of what is known as Israel. This year resonates differently, encapsulating not only the passage of time but also the unwavering spirit of resistance and longing for liberation.
So much has changed, leaving familiar landscapes unrecognizable and memories fading. Gaza has morphed into a dark graveyard where lives are buried alive or ravaged by airstrikes, starvation, disease, and unrelenting trauma. The myriad threats to life are staggering. The very mention of “war” feels inadequate to describe the reality, especially when a land that once was no longer exists.
Gazans have tragically become accustomed to suffering. Once, they held onto hope that the ongoing onslaught would conclude in days or weeks. Those illusions have been imagined.
In Gaza, nothing remains recognizable; the landscape is dominated by death and destruction. Bodies lie in the streets as buildings lie in ruins and mosques crumble during prayer. Schools, which once echoed with laughter and learning, are now shelters stripped of joy. Hospitals overflow with the injured and the displaced, many treated on the floor due to lack of space or equipment.
This is in stark contrast to what Gaza was, a paradise on earth even as we recognized it was an open-air prison.
The Old Town, rich in history, was home to the Great Omari Mosque, a 1,400-year-old center for prayer and inspiration. Nearby, historic markets bustled with life; visitors savoured the fragrant scents of spices, Arabic coffee, and traditional delicacies.
Abu Zuhair Restaurant was a beloved spot where locals and tourists alike would gather to savour the stunning views of archaeological sites while enjoying a hearty breakfast of delicious manakish (dough) topped with zaatar (thyme), and cheese. Its welcoming atmosphere made it a cherished destination in Gaza.
The sea was a sought-after gathering spot where visitors marvelled at the beauty of the golden hour as fishermen cast nets from their boats, a popular destination for families and friends who enjoyed early mornings of falafel, hummus with warm bread, and tea.
More recently, the sea is a refuge for the displaced, plagued by overcrowding, pollution, and the spread of disease.
Messages to a world that failed us
I have endured seven wars. As my family’s firstborn, I basked in my parents’ warmth, but amidst that tenderness was a profound loneliness. After years without a sibling, I longed for someone with which to share laughter, mischief, and meals. After a decade, the news of my mother’s pregnancy ignited hope, only to be extinguished by chaos, as I remember her collapsing in fear — a tragic prelude to loss.
Now, I live with my parents and siblings, feeling the weight of responsibility. In these trying times, I strive to shield them from the darkness outside, offering care and solace. My mission is to create a sanctuary of joy amid chaos, using storytelling to ignite their imaginations. Each story serves as a brief escape, where the burdens of the world fade temporarily.
My siblings and other children used to fill the air with laughter on their way to school while their mothers lovingly prepared za’atar sandwiches, turning ordinary mornings into rituals. Morning assemblies resonated with the Palestinian national anthem, harmonizing with birdsong, creating a sense of unity amid uncertainty.
Time slips away, and we feel the weight of our circumstances growing heavier. Last year, the attack stole away my birthday celebration; now it is overshadowed by genocide. The joy of celebration has faded, replaced by fear. At night, the only glow comes from missiles overhead, a stark reminder of the darkness we live in.
Graduating last year felt fleeting; I found work for a short time before the genocide began. That hope quickly dissolved as destruction swept through our lives, leaving workplaces in ruins and erasing our beloved universities. The students I once trained are shadows of the past, and the educational institutions are mere remains.
A year has dragged on in inaction, and at times, I can’t help but think my grandparents who lived through the Nakba were luckier; they faced struggles, but perhaps without the overwhelming sense of helplessness we feel today — because our suffering unfolds in front of the entire world, yet is met with indifference.
Unlike my grandparents, we are constantly reminded of what we have lost; social media archives taunt us with images of our homes and lives. They never had to answer poignant questions like, “What’s your message to a world that has failed you?” This mix of sadness combined with the constant recording of our pain makes coping with our lost lives increasingly difficult.
We are pressured to accept our role as mere numbers in a broader narrative. Yet, we cling to hope, wishing for someone to notice our suffering and shatter the indifference. As the bombs fall, I often question whether anyone is truly listening to our plight.
Eman Alhaj Ali is a Gazan-based journalist, writer, and translator from al-Maghazi refugee camp
