The Electronic Intifada 22 December 2023
Maghazi was supposed to be a safe area. But Israel has been bombing the area regardless. Here Civil Defense crews search for survivors of an Israelis strike on 1 December.
APA imagesI used to revel in the tranquil embrace of early morning, and the enchanting ballet of nature.
At 6:00 am, my mood would soar as I opened my bedroom window, revealing a picturesque expanse adorned with lush grass and an array of verdant trees and a bounty of vegetables and fruits.
Tree branches, pirouetting in a crisp wind, created a mesmerizing dance, accentuated by the delicate presence of anemone coronaria. In this idyllic scene, I found solace in the simplicity of brewing my morning coffee, accompanied by a symphony of birds.
However, the routine that once defined my mornings has been eclipsed by the harsh reality of the last 70-plus days.
The dawn, which was once a canvas for nature’s creativity, now echoes with the disconcerting reverberations of missile strikes. The workplace that once thrived with camaraderie among colleagues is now encircled by Israeli tanks, casting a somber shadow over my professional life.
The once serene beach, a sanctuary for post-work relaxation, is now a scene of fiery hues from missile launches, instead of a tranquil sunset.
Winter’s guilt
As winter descends, the season’s usual delights have been replaced by unrelenting gloom.
The comforting rituals of holding a blanket and sipping coffee while indulging in a favorite movie are tainted by guilt. This winter there is not merely a chill in the air; there are constant reminders of those forced to endure without shelter.
The sound of thunder, once a source of cozy delight, now competes with the disconcerting cacophony of missiles and bombings.
In the shadows of winter, a profound loss compounds the prevailing despair. The passing of a great poet and professor, Dr. Refaat Alareer, leaves an indelible void. His influence extended beyond the academic realm, transcending the conventional teacher-student dynamic.
As a mentor, he was like a father, shaping not only literary acumen but also nurturing a profound connection to the written word. I vividly remember his captivating courses on world literature.
Dr. Alareer’s passion for literature infused his teachings, igniting a flame within me for the profound stories that weave through the ages. It was under his guidance that I explored the nuances of poetry, crafting verses that echoed the beauty he so ardently championed.
His enthusiasm for Shakespeare was contagious, imprinting upon us a shared appreciation for the genius of the celebrated playwright. Beyond academia, Dr. Alareer coached us in creative writing, urging us to wield our pens as weapons, defending the Palestinian cause through the power of words.
“If I must die, you must live to tell my story,” he would declare, a rallying cry that resonates even more profoundly now.
A desperate plea
My anguish also extends to the plight of Um Hassan and her family.
Once residents of Al Yarmouk Street in the northern part of Gaza, they reluctantly traveled the so-called “safe corridor” to the south, seeking refuge.
However, their relocation to Maghazi refugee camp has brought only despair. Safety proves elusive even in areas Israel has designated as secure.
Um Hassan’s expression mirrors the desperation and misery inflicted upon her and her seven married sons. Forced into cramped living conditions in a single room, their journey was marked by the ominous drone of nearby bombings and their arrival has been marked by a scarcity of resources.
The promise of safety shattered, their daily existence is consumed by the dread of impending danger.
Amid this somber reality, Um Hassan shares the heartbreaking plight of two pregnant daughters-in-law. Their fears intensify as their precarious situation threatens not only their well-being, but also the lives of unborn children.
They fear giving birth. Hospitals, once sanctuaries of health, are now targets, exacerbating the vulnerability of those in need.
A constant question permeates the air – when will this ceaseless torment end?
The life we once knew has transformed into a nightmarish existence, where the threat of bombardment hangs like a dark cloud, sparing none.
Eman Alhaj Ali is a journalist, translator, and writer based in Gaza.
