IT WAS ALMOST 11:30 am on a Friday night a few weeks ago, when I decided to take a break from working on my dissertation. I made a cup of Turkish coffee, letting its distinctive aroma fill the room while listening to Coldplay’s A Sky Full of Stars and looking from the open window at the sky. In Gaza, the sun blazes for most of the year, with rain a rare visitor, a stark contrast to Ireland — the place of my second birth — where I’ve allowed myself to enjoy the luxury of being bothered by simple things like the seagulls’ cries in the morning or the endless grey skies.
Back in Gaza, it was never the weather that upset me, but the relentless Israeli bombings, the constant hum of Israeli surveillance drones, and the suffocating 18-year-old Israeli siege on the strip that shaped every moment of my life. I snapped back to reality, remembering I had to email my professor about my progress in the dissertation. Opening my laptop, I was met with a WhatsApp notification from A Gaza news channel I follow, shattering the tranquillity.
Breaking news: a bombing in the Al-Bureij camp, in the middle of the strip, targeting the Alsammak family. I lost my mind, as my family had taken shelter there after our house had been bombed. Panic gripped me.
I was trembling while calling my mother. No answer. I tried again, then again.
Nothing. My heart pounded in my chest and barely could breathe. The worst scenarios occupied my mind.
I felt utterly powerless. After tens of tries, my sister-in-.
