Nada Hamdouna
The Electronic Intifada / August 1, 2024
In March 2024, when the Israeli military withdrew from al-Amoudi in northwestern Gaza, my family and I returned to see if our house was still standing.
The shock was immense when we found that the house had been bombed and was all burned up. We sat down to process our loss, and once we regained our senses we searched inside what was left of the house.
After three hours of searching, I found a precious gift given to me by my grandmother before she died, a bottle of perfume. It was a surprise to find this, and I thought I might find more.
Then, there was an explosion in the house. All I remember is dust and smoke filling the ruins of our home. I was disoriented and didn’t know what was happening. My hand was bleeding.
My family and I called out to each other. When we finally found each other, we were all in shock.
We found my cousin Issa lying on the ground, his body pocked with small holes and his eyes not where they were supposed to be.
There was no taxi or car to take us to the hospital, and since the cell phone networks were down we couldn’t call for an ambulance. My father carried Issa, running, around 1.5 kilometers to the hospital.
But when he arrived, Issa was dead. He was only 15 years old.
We believe it was an unexploded munition that killed him.
We took him to the cemetery to bury him, and we recited the verses from the Quran. But my brothers couldn’t say goodbye to Issa. They couldn’t accept he was dead.
I survived the explosion physically, but I do not think I survived it psychologically.
Each day I feel the weight of grief, tears and heartache. Life feels like a nightmare that will not end, full of pain that cannot be erased.
Who will bring back our loved ones and our own lives? I pray for patience and strength.
First losses
I remember the moment when it seemed like the pain of this genocidal war started for my family and I.
We were at my grandmother’s house in Gaza City. It was the middle of October 2023, and the days were not peaceful, with Israeli bombs and missiles being fired day and night.
My father’s phone rang, and it was a call from a worker named Iyad, whom my father had employed at a sewing factory.
Iyad was in desperate need of money for his son’s surgery abroad. He had no one else to ask but my father.
Although my father did not have the full amount of money that Iyad needed, he gave him what he could.
But five hours after the money had been given to Iyad, Iyad’s wife called my father to say that her husband was missing. His wife was distraught and didn’t know where he was.
After a whole week of trying to find out Iyad’s whereabouts, my father received a call from an unknown number. The caller said that he had found a man’s body in the street in Gaza City, killed by an Israeli attack.
He said that the man’s features were unrecognizable, but that he had found his phone and ID. Since the last number dialed was my father’s, they contacted him.
My father went to retrieve the body and inform the family. The money that my father had loaned him was still in his wallet.
The son was still able to have the surgery abroad. However, his joy was likely cut short since the loss of his father.
I still have hope
In Gaza, we all wonder if life will ever return to “normal.” We want to see our loved ones again, reclaim our homes and our jobs. But so much has been buried under the rubble, irretrievable.
I had dreamed of becoming a translator, mastering different languages and traveling to discover new cultures. But now I only dream of surviving.
Two weeks before Israel launched its war on Gaza, I had enrolled in a master’s program in international relations and diplomacy. I wanted to understand foreign policy and the history behind global powers.
But with the escalation of violence, this passion has faded. It became clear to me how insignificant Gaza is to the world. Our lives are so cheap.
I believe that the war will end someday, even if our lives never return to normal. At least we will see our loved ones again, at least those of us who survive.
I have not lost faith that tomorrow will be better. Despite the darkness of today, I still have light in my heart.
Nada Hamdouna is a writer in Gaza
