I took my kids to Gaza to see our family. I never thought we’d be trapped for 77 days in a terrifying war | Farah Morad
When my three young children and I arrived in Gaza in August, we were looking forward to a two-month vacation to visit my family after 10 years spent building our lives in the UK. I am a radiologist, but since having my younger children I’ve been a full-time mum, preparing for fellowship exams while my husband works as a surgeon in London. The plan was to make happy memories for the children, who are nine, four and 18 months old – have them meet their relatives and see the place I grew up in for the first time. My husband was staying behind to work.
And so, what feels like an eternity ago, we packed our bags and said goodbye to him. He wished us a safe trip, none of us suspecting that we would be trapped in a horrifying war, unsure if we would ever see each other again. We ended up fleeing from one place to another in Gaza for 77 days, living through a nightmare of survival, death and fear that we still cannot wake up from, even after being among the lucky ones who were evacuated.
After a 14-hour journey, landing first in Cairo, I was eager to give my mum a very long hug, indulge myself with the delicious cakes she makes, spend time with friends from university and enjoy sunsets from the Gaza beach. But at 6am on the morning of 7 October, my family and I woke up at our home in Al-Remal neighbourhood in the north, hearing loud noises, and rushed to the news and to social media to learn what was happening. I didn’t even get the chance to get over the shock before the war started at midnight. What followed was a week of sleepless nights – the house shaking and creaking from nearby airstrikes – and then the Israeli orders to evacuate.
With hearts full of despair, we left Al-Remal to head towards Al Nuseirat camp in the south. We took a horse cart to a point where we then had to walk for four hours. All I was carrying was my baby in my arms and a backpack with the most essential documents, a cloth for every one of us, a little bit of milk and some nappies. But my father – having a health condition – could not join us. As we walked away from him, I felt deep inside me that it was going to be for the last time.
After weeks of communications difficulties, my mum received a call on 7 December from a stranger telling us that Dad had been shot three times in the back by an Israeli sniper while sheltering in an UNRWA school. He bled out alone until 8 December, when he died, unable to receive any medical care as tanks surrounded the building. I still live with the pain of knowing we cannot even reach his body.
My three small children, my mum, young brother, my wheelchair-bound grandmother and myself evacuated many times, leaving the places we were trying to find safety in for other places where we knew we would not be safe, either. Everywhere was crowded with people who were displaced. We slept on floors, without warm clothes, food, clean water, privacy or safety, and we yearned for our normal peaceful daily routines – for home, for hot meals and laughs around the table. Each time we evacuated, we left behind places, people and things we love. We stepped on bodies hidden under rubble. It felt like a miracle that we survived.
Every day and night we were separated, my husband watched the news, looking for our faces among the dead, trying hard to get connected and hear his kids’ voices on the phone. He campaigned for our safe return through calls and emails, and was finally able to put my name and the kids’ names on the list for evacuation. We could make it out.
We crossed through the Rafah border on 22 December. I did not feel safe until my feet were on the Egyptian side. There, it felt like I could breathe again.
Just two hours later, my mum, brother and grandmother received another evacuation order to leave Al Nuseirat camp and move to Rafah. They are still there now, with no water and no food, sleeping in a garage, waiting for the ground invasion that Israel has promised will come. I feel guilty every moment. How can I be happy that I’m safe while they are not?
We arrived back in London at the end of January. My kids have finally gone back to school now, but every night they cover their ears, like they did when bombs were dropping around them, trying to drown out the horrible sounds. They hug themselves, like I tried to hug them both when the bombs sounded very close by. I wanted to make sure that if we died, we would die together.
My children had never seen war before, because they didn’t grow up in Gaza. But in those 77 days, we saw death in front of our eyes. They can remember every detail, recalling the most fearful and humiliating moments during the long hours’ walk under constant bombardment, with Israeli snipers and tanks pointing at us through what was supposed to be a “safe corridor” on our evacuation journey to the south. As we lived through that hell, I kept thinking, “How is this possible? How is no one able to stop what is happening to us? How did the world, the decision-makers and those who say they stand for human rights, leave us alone to experience this?”
Now, when I see the support of people on the streets of London and others sharing our stories and showing love and solidarity, I feel a sense of relief. I only hope that the UK, the country I love, where we built our lives helping as doctors, will join the other governments calling for a ceasefire now, and apply pressure to stop this unfolding genocide.
All my kids and I dream about now is peace and to be able to live. But I also want the world to hear our voices and see what is happening to us. Imagine how we lived. Moment by moment. I don’t know why we survived, and I don’t know if my family will. I only wish for this war to stop.
Farah Morad is a Palestinian radiologist living in London
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