Palestinian cartoonist Umayyah Juha documented in her ten-part diary, published by Tel Aviv Tribune Net, the harsh humanitarian conditions taking place during the Israeli war on the Gaza Strip, especially in the vicinity of Al-Shifa Hospital, which the World Health Organization described last November in its report. The league is described as a “death zone”.
In your hands, dear reader, is the eighth episode of the diary, which will be published successively over the coming days, in which a Palestinian woman from the Al-Nasr neighborhood, Zaghbar Tower in Gaza City, narrates the events she witnessed. She was displaced to Al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza (until the last contact with her before the hospital was stormed for the second time. On March 18, 2024), I lay down on the cold hospital floor, waiting for survival.
Sunday, November 5, 2023
On Sunday morning, I decided to eat only dates and water, until the war ended, for three reasons: the first was the scarcity of bread, the second was to reduce the need for hospital bathrooms, and the third was to take advantage of the opportunity to reduce my weight.
Most of the displaced people did not eat any food today, due to the lack of bread, and the occupation bombed most of the bakeries near the hospital, and even far from it, and some of them threatened their owners, so they chose to close rather than lose their bakeries and their lives.
Many of the displaced people bought the cheapest biscuits available, instead of bread, to feed their hungry children. One mother violently beat her child because he rebelled against this food. The boy fell asleep after crying for a long time. His mother woke him up after preparing him a small loaf of bread from other displaced people filled with Nutella chocolate. He was very happy and ate it greedily. It is a mother’s heart full of tenderness, even if it is hard for moments.
Maher, Roaa, and Taha, the children of my neighbor who sleeps on my right, have been waiting for their father since the morning to bring them food. The wait extended until the afternoon. Their father returned carrying only a small carton of dates. This is what he was able to provide, as a substitute for bread. They ate in silence, and did not show their complaints until after their father left.
I used to turn my head toward these kids when they slept, and the power went out. They were not afraid of the sound of bombing. I listened to their interesting conversations about their home, their bedroom, their toys, their garden plants, their school, their teachers, their friends, and their hobbies. Mahir is in the third grade, excelling in his studies, and showing signs of sharp intelligence. I loved his older-than-age talk.
Maher hopes to become a doctor when he grows up, so that he can treat all the wounded who are targeted by the occupation. I told him that I would come to his clinic if I got sick. He answered me: “You will be old then, and I will not take any wages from you.” I, in turn, would tell them about my home, my work, and my daughter, and show them some pictures on my iPad.
They were very happy, seeing dozens of personal photos saved in it. Maher’s mother puts her children next to each other when they sleep. She only had two covers: one to put on the tiles so they could sleep on it, and the other to cover her children with, and she remained without a cover throughout the cold night.
It is a mother’s heart full of sacrifice and altruism. Before sunset, Umm Hassan comes every day to spend the night at the hospital, while she spends almost the entire day in her house near the hospital, inspecting her house, completing her daily chores, and preparing the food she brings to her displaced grandchildren in the hospital. Umm Hassan has a well-known place among the displaced people in Al-Amber.
She was always smiling, and her silence and calmness dominated her conversations with those around her. The displaced people, who live close to the hospital, do the same thing as Umm Hassan. They believe that the hospital is the safest at night, because it cannot be exposed to bombing, which always hits homes. This evening, Umm Hassan came with another woman, approximately in her mid-thirties. Unusually, Umm Hassan was very sad. She was leaning on the shoulder of the woman who was with her, who had a frowning face, and both of her hands were trembling, while her eyes held paralyzing tears. She stands on the threshold of her eyeballs, motionless.
Looks of curiosity were directed at them, everyone wanting to know the secret of the sad newcomer. Violent bombardment began after this scene, in the Ansar area and the Beach camp, starting at 06:30 pm, until after midnight.
The bombing varied between belts of fire and random bombing hitting everywhere, which sparked a state of extreme panic among the displaced. Resorting to prayer was the only way to reassure the hearts that had been torn in pain by being displaced from their homes and being pursued by missiles, even in the places of their displacement. .
The strange thing is that everyone was trembling at the sound of each bombing, except for that woman who came with Umm Hassan. She was not affected at all, but was looking at those around her in complete amazement. It was as if she had become accustomed to these sounds before everyone else. What was even more astonishing was that all the displaced people fell asleep after the violent bombing round ended, except for her. I remained attached to Umm Hassan, staring at her until the dawn call to prayer. She stood up with Umm Hassan, prayed with her, then sat down again, muttering silently with her lips.
It later became clear to me that she was Umm Hassan’s younger sister. The occupation bombed her house, yesterday afternoon, Saturday, in the Al-Nasr neighborhood. By the grace of God, she emerged safely from under the rubble, while her three children, two girls and a boy, were martyred, the eldest of whom was a girl in her first year of university. The three sons are still under the rubble. The father does not know what happened to his family, as he was working inside the Palestinian territories occupied in 1948, and was not able to return, due to the occupation closing the crossings, after declaring war on the Gaza Strip.
I knew then why this grieving mother had not blinked all night. It is the mother’s heart that does not sleep, if it touches the liver. So what if the souls of the liver were disintegrated and buried under the rubble of their house without saying goodbye? Umm Hassan herself lost contact 10 days ago with her youngest son, who has been married for a year and has a child. Her son is an ordinary citizen who does not belong to any resistance faction. He left the house and did not return.
She says to me with a smile of satisfaction: “If he was killed, I hope that God will accept him as a martyr, and that he will be our intercessor, and if he is absent, I ask God to return him to us safe and sound,” and continues, “In both cases, I am satisfied with God’s decree and destiny.”
It is a mother’s heart full of faith. Many were martyred in the streets, without their names being known, and their families cannot reach them. Many of the makeshift gravestones bore the words “Unidentified.” The hearts of the displaced mothers were broken in this war. Some of them lost their homes, some of their children, some of them lost their husbands, and some of them lost their children between the north and south of the Gaza Strip. My friend’s mother was displaced with what remained of her children and grandchildren to a refugee school, while those of her children and grandchildren who were martyred were buried in the school’s outdoor backyard.
My friend says that her mother does not leave the window of the classroom in which she was displaced, as she overlooks the cemetery containing their remains, and makes them cry day and night, while repeating in a sad voice heritage songs that mourn the separation of loved ones.
