‘If something happens to me, take care of my children.’ This is what my sister-in-law has repeatedly told me for the last year. For over a year now, Palestinians in Gaza like me have barely felt safe.
As a result, planning for what happens after our deaths has become commonplace. Before October 7, 2023, I used to love scanning the sky at night, marvelling at the countless stars watching over us. But now, that same sky is filled with Israeli drones and war planes, ominously monitoring our every move.
Life has dramatically changed since that fateful day. I feel like I’ve aged a hundred years in just months. Gradually, family members began taking shelter at my house in Deir Al Balah City after a long period of multiple forced displacements by the Israeli army – I hosted 16 in total.
I’d bake bread for my family and everyone would joke that I was really getting the hang of it. Then it was my turn for displacement. It was a Friday in August, when an Oxfam colleague called at midday with the news that would change my life immeasurably.
‘What block are you in?’ he asked urgently. ‘I’m at home,’ I said. After Israel initially announced their ‘grid’ evacuation plan last winter, almost everyone in Gaza has memorised their designated blocks.
Mine was 127. ‘You need to go. Now.
Your block is marked for evacuation.’ His words hit me hard. All 13 of us – my parents, my brothers and their families, my sister and her family, my uncle and his family, my brother�.
