Jumana Taiseer
The Electronic Intifada / August 13, 2024
Ali al-Aswad, 23, and his cousin Muhammad, 21, counted the shells as they exploded around their home in Gaza’s Jabaliya refugee camp on 7 December 2023. The Israeli army had launched a major offensive on the camp, and the barrage of shells was constant and terrifying.
The cousins counted 13 to 15 explosions per minute.
The family was forced to leave home at 6 am due to the ongoing barrage. Their first stop was a distribution point run by the UN agency for Palestine refugees, or UNRWA. Yet by 1 pm, missiles had already struck a nearby mosque.
They were forced to flee once more, this time to an UNRWA school. It felt like the only thing between them and certain death were the walls of this school.
For 12 long days, the school was their sanctuary.
“Those days at the school were among the hardest we ever endured,” Ali said.
His family shared a classroom with another family. The women and children – more than 70 – slept in the room and the men slept in the hallways and on chairs.
“One of us would lie on a mattress on the floor while another took a chair, and then we’d switch places to give each other some relief.”
“The overcrowding was stifling,” Ali said, “and the cleanliness left much to be desired.” Thousands of people were sharing bathrooms and using the same facilities.
They sheltered in the school until 19 December, and the memory of that day is etched into Ali’s brain with searing clarity.
‘His face was gone’
The al-Aswad family was finally told they could return home on 19 December.
That morning, “a truck came to pick up our belongings,” he said. “Mattresses, bags and everything we had brought with us. My older brother and my cousin Muhammad insisted on taking the truck despite my pleas to go myself.”
Sixteen minutes later, tragedy would strike.
Israeli missiles targeted residential blocks in Jabaliya camp that included the home of the al-Aswad family.
The destruction was unimaginable. Israel killed at least 30 people, each a beloved member of the community, in an instant.
Ali was among the first to arrive at the scene, along with his brother Issa, running the entire way.
“When we arrived, my legs could no longer carry me,” he said. “I couldn’t recognize the blood-soaked figure before me. We identified my cousin Muhammad by his clothes.”
“I reached out to touch his face, but I could only feel the bones of his neck. His face was gone, his head shattered. They hadn’t even left us a face to say goodbye to and hold.”
Is recovery possible ?
As Ali took in the scene, all he could think about was “who we were before this aggression.”
Before October 2023, Muhammad had worked at a shawarma restaurant in Jabaliya. His father was arranging his marriage, something that Muhammad was looking forward to.
Ali was in his final year at al-Aqsa University, studying English, and he also worked as a photojournalist.
When Ali was returning home late, Muhammad would have a shawarma ready for him, free of charge.
“I lost all sense of time,” Ali said, remembering when he saw Muhammad’s corpse. “I don’t remember what happened next. My family later told me that I was laughing hysterically, a reaction to the overwhelming trauma.”
Jumana Taiseer is a writer in Gaza
