Shadow of Resistance

Chapter Thirty One

It's been a week since the war began, and the relentless bombing and killing across Gaza haven't ceased. They say the attacks won't end until Hamas is completely destroyed and all hostages are returned. They also announced that they are going to start a ground invasion. Meanwhile, Hamas announced that the ground invasion will work in their favour, declaring that they are fully prepared for it. Tensions are mounting, and the situation isn't getting any better.

I haven't been able to reach Sarah for the entire week, and I constantly pray that she and her family are safe. For Youssef, he called me mostly everyday during this week to check on us.

During this time, we've had to adapt to some harsh realities, like waking up early to stand in the long line for the bathroom. On some days, it takes us two hours just to get our turn, and even then, the bathroom is far from clean.

The floor is always wet and dirty, and the air is thick with a toxic smell. This is normal, given the sheer number of people using it daily, there's little opportunity for the place to be properly cleaned. Omar and I have got used to that, but the girls struggle a lot with these terrible conditions.

Food is another challenge. The UNRWA distributes canned food and cleaning products to us. They say they are going to try giving us the same amount of food everyday and the same amount of cleaning products every week. So far, they've kept their word, but I am not sure how long they can provide this to this huge number of refugees.

Each family receives a can of beans and a can of meat daily. Omar and I take turns going to the bakery, where bread now costs twice as much as it did before the war. For me that amount of food is enough as I've endured weeks on just cucumbers in prison. But for the rest they feel hungry most of the time.

Today, it's my turn to go to the bakery. As I stand in the long line, waiting for my turn, a rocket suddenly hits the bakery directly. The force of the explosion knocks me off my feet, makes my ears ring, and everything feels shaky, muffled. I can hardly stand up.

I look around, and the scene before me is horrifying, body parts are scattered everywhere, the bakery is engulfed in flames, and dust and flour swirl through the air. I stand frozen in shock as others rush to carry the injured to safety. I realise how close I was to death, just a few steps away from the chaos that nearly claimed me.

As I snap out of the shock, I immediately rush to help, joining others in carrying the injured to cars that will take them to the nearest hospital. My heart races as I lift one person and hurry them to the car before turning back to the bakery. On my way back, I notice someone on the floor. I kneel down to find his body without a head. A wave of horror crashes over me, and I fall back, paralyzed by the sight.

The piercing scream of someone nearby jolts me back to reality. I see a man beside me with a deep, severe cut in his leg, bleeding profusely. Without immediate help, he won't survive. I grab a stick and a piece of cloth and rush over to him. With trembling hands, I do my best to make a tourniquet, trying to slow the bleeding with what I have. I then help him limp towards the car, praying he makes it to the hospital in time.

After the last of the injured is taken to the hospital, I find myself walking back to the school, empty-handed and shaken. My mind drifts to my father, the man who had always shouldered the burden of keeping us safe, silently enduring these horrors during every war. I wonder how many times he was steps from death, or how many times he saw these horrible massacres and was always sure that no one of us felt something odd. That is why he never wanted us to get food or anything during any war on Gaza.

As I approach the school, I see a lot of people are fleeing in every direction, panic etched on their faces. My heart pounds with dread as I think of my siblings inside. I force my way against the tide, determined to reach them.

As I get closer, a thick, white gas fills the air, swirling ominously around the building. Through the haze, I see people frantically hurling objects out of the school, grenades, I realise, that are spewing the same white smoke. Others are desperately barricading themselves in rooms, sealing doors and windows in an attempt to keep the gas at bay.

That is when it hit me. Israel threw white phosphorus on the school. It is an incendiary weapon that its contact with skin can cause horrific burns, it sears through flesh down to the bone. Inhalation can lead to severe respiratory issues, and even problems if it touches the eyes.

I rush to our room and find the door closed. I quickly open it and shut it behind me, sealing us in. The little girls, terrified, run straight into my arms, trembling as they seek comfort. We huddle together, holding on to each other to escape the chaos outside. We stay in the room for hours until the atmosphere is clear outside.

I decided to step out and check on the others. As I walk through the school yard, the silence is shattered by the sound of another plane overhead. My heart skips a beat as I look up, expecting the worst. But instead of grenades, I see countless white dots descending slowly from the sky. Confused, I watch them flutter down like snowflakes, until one of the papers lands at my feet.

I pick it up and see a map of the Gaza Strip, accompanied by a message in Arabic. My stomach knots as I read the words. We are being ordered to evacuate north Gaza and move to the south, following a specific road, within 24 hours. The urgency of the message is clear, this is not a suggestion, but a demand, one that comes with an unspoken threat.