Friday 3 November
8am I fell in love with the song Killing Me Softly With His Song in my early 20s. I realised back then that my mother, too, had fallen in love with the same song at almost the same age. The version I am listening to is one of many covers of the original. My mother, may she rest in peace, always shared with me her love for music, art and theatre. We also loved Abba.
The things we inherit and share with our parents are beautiful. But these days, I would have rather inherited a dual nationality from my mother than the love of the same songs. Today, we heard the news about some holders of dual nationalities leaving the Gaza Strip. I am very happy for them; at least they will be safe. But what about those who are left behind? Don’t we deserve to be safe?
The stories of some of those who have left or are expecting to leave have started flooding in. I have heard about a man who was able to take his wife, children and parents, but could not take his siblings with him. They were all devastated. I have also heard about a teenage girl, living with her divorced mother in Gaza, who has another nationality from her father, who lives abroad. Her mother does not have the nationality. The girl has refused to leave without her mother, no matter what.
10am People in the area we’re staying in are hanging big sheets between buildings on the opposite sides of small streets. This means there is more shade for people to sit under, especially boys and men, leaving more space for women to be comfortable at home.
On my way to the pharmacy this morning, I see a group of teenage boys trying to get their ball, which is stuck above the hanging cover. They throw their slippers at the cover, hoping it will move the ball. They are laughing out loud as they try to retrieve it. I guess, for few minutes, these young boys have forgotten about the misery we are going through and are enjoying the moment.
I always ask myself what the future holds for the next generation. My life, and that of those my age, has never been easy, but we have had some few better experiences than the younger generations, who have not enjoyed a healthy childhood at all.
Noon My friend, a holder of degrees from prestigious universities, is angry when I talk to him on the phone. After finishing his PhD, he was offered a high-paying job in a European country, and, therefore, a possibility of getting some kind of a residency document if things went well. Instead, he decided to come back to Gaza.
“That was the stupidest decision I have ever made. Not only for me, but for my own children. Take my youngest child, he is less than six months old, and he has experienced evacuation, living in fear and lack of food. Is this the life I want for him?”
3pm Another friend, who evacuated to one of the schools at first, couldn’t handle the situation. Her family has been lucky – after a week, the family found an apartment, with three other families. She tells me that even though the situation is difficult, it is nothing compared to staying at the school with thousands of people. They are blessed enough to have access to food and water, but many other things are missing.
“The cold weather is approaching, and when we evacuated we only took light clothes with us,” she says. “Now, we cover the children with our clothes. We are afraid to go to the other area and buy clothes for the children. It is not safe. No one thought the situation will be this long.”
7pm One of the most annoying situations we Gazans find ourselves in is when we are calming other people, instead of the opposite happening. Ahmad has received a call from a friend abroad. His friend was crying and was very worried about us. He started calming her down, and telling her: “It is not that bad, we are alive.”
Minutes before the phone conversation, Ahmad was saying he was too tired to stand, that he would pay a $1m to sleep in a safe place for eight hours. Minutes ago, we were sharing the daily suffering of getting water. This is Ahmad, helpful Ahmad, who hears the continuous miseries of many people he knows who have lost their homes and have had to evacuate. And he tells her it is not that bad!
Even though I completely understand his intention, the emotional stress this puts on him is unbelievable. When I start reflecting on my own experiences, I realise that I do the same. While texting with a relative abroad, I lie about many details related to safety, or whether we have access to food and water. I understand Ahmad’s actions, but I just feel very sorry for him – and for myself.
10pm Lying on the couch, wondering how many nights I will spend away from home and my normal life, I start humming Killing Me Softly. I think that I want to be killed softly with kindness, happiness and love. I don’t want to be killed aggressively with weapons and bombs.
I want to die peacefully, at a very old age, after having spent a beautiful life and achieving all the dreams I wanted to make true.
And most importantly, I want to live.
Saturday 4 November
9.30am We finally find a vet where we can take Manara to have the remaining injections. It is 45 minutes’ walk away. These days, you are more likely to find $1,000 in the street before finding a car willing to give you a ride. I go with Ahmad with Manara in the bag. She does not resist.
On our way, we pass two schools where people have evacuated. All I need is to take one look to see how horrible the situation is. Thousands of people are in the schools, classrooms are full with laundry hanging in front. The playground is packed with men and children. On the entrance of the second school, a handwritten paper reads: “The school is full, there is no space for any evacuating family. We are sorry.”
We finally reach the vet, and he tells us there is no need to give the remaining shot to Manara. He says that her eye is ruined, and all we need to do for the other one is to use regular eye drops. He does not approve of giving her anti-flea medicine because she has scars all over her body.
The vet has no food left or cat litter, but he directs us to another shop, which takes another 10 minutes of walking to reach. When we arrive, I feel shocked; there is a lot of destruction around the place. I am scared.
We go into the shop, and buy the food and litter. I see a number of birds, fish and one hamster. The owner tells us he has lost many animals because of the bombing. As for the fish, he tries to turn on the water filter for an hour every day to keep the water clean. At the door, I see a big blanket covered with bread leftovers. He says his neighbour dries these for pigeon feed.
Noon Since Manara has chosen to sleep in an old carton, I go to buy her a box. Finding a box is easy but finding a blanket to put in it is not. There are almost no blankets or covers left. It takes me more than an hour of walking and asking at almost every shop. One seller offers me a place to wait while he fetches a blanket from his own home. I refuse and thank him.
Finally, I find a bed cover, one that comes with two pillowcases. On my way back, I remember that I don’t have enough cash on me; it’s a long way to the only functioning ATM machine. Recently, my bank announced that any shop with a Visa card machine can be used to withdraw money without commission. Unfortunately, only one shop offers the option of withdrawing cash – and they take commission. A big one.
2pm I don’t remember the last time I saw my sister eating. The grandmother hasn’t made any bread for the past two days. So, when my sister asks if I can get her some Saj bread, I go immediately.
For regular bread, people wait all day long, but Saj bread is different. It is very thin bread that is not enough to fill someone’s stomach, so, in these times, people won’t buy it because it’s not the best option. Thinking of this, I imagine I won’t have to wait, but I’m wrong. I wait for one hour and five minutes to buy five pieces of bread.
While waiting, I see an old colleague. She used to fight with her husband all the time. We heard more about their marital problems than about work. All the time people would be trying to fix things between them, and she would always say she would definitely leave him.
Today, I saw both of them, they were wearing dirty clothes, walking with their children, but they were hand in hand. They looked happy! Did the misery force them to disregard all their differences and focus on love?
Not everything I saw was beautiful. I saw a boy wearing a pair of shoes clearly at least two sizes bigger than his feet. He couldn’t move easily. Another sight was a guy I know, a bank employee who always wears suits. Today, he was wearing a torn T-shirt with dirty pyjama bottoms. He looked exhausted.
5.15pm Yesterday, while walking with Ahmad, we saw a small black cat. Ahmad brought a piece of luncheon meat and fed it. I told him an animal lover once told me that even cats face discrimination; some people offer food and help to “brighter-coloured” cats and ignore the black ones.
It is almost dark; I remember that I need to get something important. I go down immediately. By now, most shops are closed and almost no one is in the street.
While walking, I see the black cat I saw yesterday on the ground, with blood coming out of its mouth.
It seems like a car hit its jaw and it is unable to even move. I go quickly and pick it up, I ask a man if he can give me the nylon bag he is holding to put the cat in, and I take it home. Is it dying? I have no idea. I just can’t leave it alone.
When I enter the room we are staying in, the kids are with their mum and my sister. I order them to leave the room so they don’t see the injured cat. When my sister sees it, she says: “No, no, not another one.”
“But it is injured, I can’t leave it.”
My sister holds the cat and blood starts running over her hands. She brings one of the new pillow cases and covers the cat. She also tries to give it some water. The cat is in a horrible shape, breathing heavily and unable to move, while bleeding from its mouth.
For two hours, we try to contact the vet I went to today, and the one who helped Manara the first time. The place is dark, there are no cars, and no one is around. However, we are willing to jeopardise our lives for the cat. My sister puts on her shoes, and asks Ahmad to find us a car, before she even gets hold of any vet.
The connection is extremely bad; you need to call for hours until you get through. The first vet says he has no medical equipment or material with him at his home, and it is very dangerous to go out at night. There is nothing he can do until tomorrow morning.
“Just give it some water. If it is external bleeding, there is a possibility it will survive. If it is internal, there is nothing we can do.”
The second doctor tells us that he is in another area and even if we are crazy enough and willing to go, he does not know how to describe the location well, especially as the people who were hosting them have left.
There is nothing we can do. We gave it water, cover it with a pillowcase, and sit down praying. I pray that if it is destined to live, that it stays strong and doesn’t suffer. If not, I pray that it dies quickly without pain.
9pm I walked for hours today. The soles of my feet are killing me. I look at the cat and think that we need to wait for 13 hours for a doctor to see it. This is unbearable.
For no reason, I decide its name will be Jackie. I am not sure why I assume it is a she. If it is a he, it will be Jack.
Hearing the bombing outside, I think that this is going to be another fearful night, and it is going to be long, very long, for us – and for Jackie.
