Ayah Victoria McKhail is a Palestinian writer based in Toronto with family in Gaza. Her writing has appeared in The Palestine Chronicle, The Globe and Mail, and the Literary Review of Canada, among other publications.
As a Palestinian with family in the Gaza Strip, the past few months have been full of anguish. It's like I've been in a prolonged state of suffocation watching the horrors there unfold. I'm haunted by the endless stream of shocking images from Gaza, of so many Palestinians in the rubble of destroyed homes, schools and hospitals—places they had sought shelter, protection and care for their injuries from Israel's mass bombardment. Instead, more than 37,000 Palestinians in Gaza have met a violent and horrific death. Others are left crying out for help, clinging to a shard of hope that this war will end and that they will somehow, miraculously, survive.
In Gaza's devastation, destroyed buildings have been spray-painted with the names of the people who were inside when the walls caved in and floors collapsed, their bodies still trapped under the rubble.
If I must die,
you must live
to tell my story
These opening lines from Refaat Alareer's chilling poem, "If I Must Die," reverberate daily. The Palestinian writer, poet, professor and activist was killed along with several members of his family in an Israeli airstrike in Gaza last December. To me, they're a rallying call to bear witness and speak out against Israel's destruction of life in Gaza.
My cousin, Abir Hamza El-Khawaja, is still in Gaza. When she regained internet access recently, she began recounting her harrowing ordeal of dodging death under an Israeli bombing campaign that has decimated one of the most densely populated places on Earth—its destruction, in just a few months, matching the years-long carpet bombing of German cities in World War II.
I last saw Abir during an idyllic summer I spent in Gaza. It was 1995, and she was a baby. I recall marveling at how adorable she was. She had big, beautiful brown eyes, full of wonder and curiosity. I loved holding her and watching her crawl, as she discovered her surroundings, while I tried to keep her safe.
Abir grew up and became a teacher in early childhood education, with a keen interest in child psychology. Prior to Israel's unprecedented military assault in retaliation for the Hamas-led attack into southern Israel, she relished reading to her young students and teaching them right from wrong. Seeing them flourish filled her with joy.
Her home was in Gaza City, but it was destroyed by Israeli forces in the first weeks of the war in October. She and her family are now in Deir al-Balah, a city in the central part of the besieged enclave, where they've sought shelter with relatives.
The following are excerpts from her diary, which she has entrusted me with. They include her correspondence with me. She granted me permission to share them. As she told me, "I would be grateful for some of our voices to reach the world."
"We used to have lives and dreams. All that exists is destruction."
- Abir Hamza El-Khawaja
April 14, 2024
It began on October 7, 2023. On that day, heavy sounds of thunder began to fall on our heads like rain. We didn't leave home until a week later, when the bombing intensified and the destruction of the houses adjacent to us increased. None of us carried very much; just a personal bag and our official documents. Initially, we thought we'd be returning home after a week and that the prevailing situation wouldn't last long. We left without any idea of what was looming and what would become of the Sheikh Radwan neighborhood where we lived, which was quickly being evacuated. On the first night, we sought shelter in a school. It was a sleepless night and a fear of the unknown loomed.
The bombing was incessant, so we moved to another school. We and other displaced people walked in total darkness, under the piercingly loud sounds of missiles, with stray dogs trailing us. We didn't know what our fate would be, as we found ourselves in unfamiliar surroundings. Fear and suffering engulfed us.
On the following day, in the afternoon, we moved into my uncle's house, which was already crammed with other relatives. My mother, my two sisters and I were given a room. From that day to the present, our entire lives have existed in this one room. Can you imagine your life becoming confined to one room?
*
April 15, 2024
I have a photograph of you, which I've kept since I was a child. It's from your visit to Gaza. This photograph, like the rest of our memories, were left behind in our house. I don't know if we'll ever return there, or if this is a distant dream. There's no safety in this lonely city.
We used to have lives and dreams. Despite the fact the Gaza Strip has long been besieged, right now, it's completely desolate. All that exists is destruction. It's become apparent that our dreams may not come true, such as the ultimate dream of visiting Jerusalem, or Akka, for example. But beforehand, we were able to enjoy simple pleasures: We could go to work in the morning; we could eat our favorite food; and we could quietly read a book. We could enjoy watching the sunset over the vast sea, and people could play with their children. We could then return to our families at the end of each night and to a warm bed, where we could enjoy a favorite drink, in peace. This security disappeared from that moment, and it seems it'll never return.
In previous Israeli military assaults on the Gaza Strip, most people would stay in their homes. We were inevitably suffering from all the death, destruction and incessant bombing, but this time, it's not like that. It's annihilation, displacement and starvation. This time, they're really taking our lives.
"There's no safety in this city. You wake up in fear and sleep in terror. They've robbed us of our dreams. They've robbed us of life."
- Abir Hamza El-Khawaja
April 23, 2024
Sorry I wasn't able to write you. The previous two days were difficult and the bombing intensified day and night here. There's no safety in this city. You wake up in fear and sleep in terror. They've robbed us of our dreams and stolen our smiles. They've robbed us of life.
In the previous days, a threatening number of planes flew menacingly over our heads, foreshadowing that there would be more brutality in the coming days, especially if they actually decide to invade the rest of the Strip. From the very beginning, we had absolutely no idea where we'd go. There was no safe place here, and that remains the case.
Every single day and specifically every morning, we only prepare one important bag to take if we're forced to flee yet again. This is what life is like when a person is displaced time and time again.
But when you die, you don't take anything with you; just your soul. You then flee to another place. In such an instance, you're not only escaping death, as death is the easiest thing here, but you're escaping disfigurement; injury; losing a limb; or even entering a coma from which there could be uncertainty as to whether or not you're going to wake up.
We live in waiting. This is worse than death. Waiting kills the joy of life.
