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-law, Dalia, replied with a shaking voice, barely above a whisper: “It’s your uncle’s house. We’re okay, but all of your cousins were in the house. They’re under the rubble now. Neighbours are digging with their hands to get them out.”
My body went cold. It felt like a knife twisting deeper into my heart.
My uncle’s wife, Suad, aged 55, had been pulled from the rubble, but she was already gone — her body lifeless. She had been a widow for over two decades. She loved my uncle, Ali, to the point where she could not be with another man, dedicating all her life to her three sons, aged 17, 20 and 22.
Suad and I were close friends. She was like a second mom to everyone. Before I left for Ireland last September to pursue my master’s, she joked, “Even if you fall in love with an Irish girl, make sure to have your wedding party in Gaza. I want to celebrate with you here as the Irish weather is cold, and I catch flu quickly.”
Then another message from Dalia, saying my three cousins were pulled out but severely injured, and one of them was utterly burnt. Two of them have been in coma since then. If they survive and leave the hospital, they will be displaced and injured orphans in a tent.
In Gaza, you learn quickly that survival is a daily gamble, and sometimes the survivors are left wishing they had not made it through.
Suddenly, I was hit with the weight of it all — the brutality of the genocide. It takes only seconds to be shattered forever by an Israeli raid. Only seconds.
The sky became full of grey clouds and started raining, but it was too far to bother me now. I called my mom again. She said they were considering moving to another place but were afraid of moving as the sky was filled with warplanes.
Just eight days earlier, my other uncle, Aziz, went with his friend to a nearby farm to collect olives. As they did not return until night, his sons had looked for them. They found his friend killed and burnt, while my uncle’s bicycle and phone were stained in blood.
Neighbours told them that an Israeli drone, known as quadcopters, had dropped explosives in the area, but no one could confirm if my uncle was dead or alive.
My brother told me that my uncle’s friend’s family thanked God that they had found the body as stray dogs were documented many times, especially in the areas close to the Israeli bases in Gaza beneath the rubble, eating the dead bodies.
Since October 7, 2023, Israel has banned the entry of hygiene products, water, fuel, food, medications and countless basic goods to Gaza, except very few trucks every now and then. As a result, diseases, particularly polio, skin diseases and hepatitis have spread in the strip.
A spokesperson of the UN said last month that: “Most of Gazan children I’ve seen are covered in skin diseases and rashes, living in inhumane conditions that are causing and spreading these diseases continues.”
What has worsened the situation there is the Israeli deliberate bombing of infrastructure in Gaza, making sewage flooding a lot of streets and areas where displaced people are sheltering in tents.
My younger brother, Momen, aged 24, is a humanitarian worker. He caught hepatitis A two weeks ago. He was suffering from severe symptoms. However, doctors told him due to the Israeli closure of all Gaza crossings borders, there were no vaccines, no proper treatment, just painkillers.
He isolated himself in a room in my uncle’s house — he is recovering, thankfully.
As toilet paper is scarce and costly in Gaza, like countless Gazans, my family have had to use old clothes and fabrics many times recently, instead!
“Still got diarrhoea, but your old clothes are a real lifesaver! Brotherhood in the dark times at its absolute finest.” Momen told me in a sarcastic tone when I checked in on him a few days ago.
Thanks to Israel’s boundless creativity, they have come up with a variety of ways to kill us— bombs, quadcopters, being tortured to death, snipers, diseases… take your pick! Even stray dogs in Gaza should be grateful to Israel for the endless meals — the countless bodies of Gazans buried under the rubble.
The UN said earlier this year that around 10,000 killed Gazans are still beneath the rubble.
It is the dilemma I have been experiencing since the war erupted, juggling my mind between Ireland and Gaza, between the peace and safety here and the genocide there. One in which people’s dreams have been reduced to hoping for a dignified grave, not to become a meal for stray dogs.
When Israel ordered 1.2 million residents in north Gaza to evacuate to the south, my cousin, Ahmed, refused to leave his house, fearing another Nakba. Due to starvation in the north, Ahmed’s wife, his three children and his parents had to evacuate to the south, but he stayed. After seven months of separation, last May, he caught hepatitis. Utterly starved without any medications, he scummed to the virus.
Ahmed and I are the same age and name. We grew up together. When I called my aunt, Ahmed’s mother, Itaf, to send my heartfelt condolences, she cried so much when she pronounced my name. I have not talked to her since then, as I do not want her to remember her loss.
Returning to my life in Ireland, I take a sip of my coffee which has become cold and force myself to continue working on my dissertation, pretending life could somehow be normal. But nothing about this is normal, and it never will be — as long as Israel’s deliberate wiping out of everyone in Gaza is ongoing.
Ahmed Alsammak is a Palestinian journalist from Gaza. He is currently based in Dublin to pursue his MBA studies. He was a project assistant at We Are Not Numbers, a youth-led Palestinian nonprofit project in the Gaza Strip. Twitter: @Ahmed_al_sammak.
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