REPORTER’S NOTEBOOK
Early in the morning, there was an explosion in the windows, and I protected my child with my body and I realized: There is no safe place.
Gaza City – As I write this, I no longer believe we will survive this.
On Wednesday, I awoke from my untimely sleep to the sound of shelling that has continued non-stop for the past four nights. Every day we wake up in a different house. But the sounds and smells we wake up to every day are the same.
Our house was badly damaged the first night of the bombing. So we moved into my parent’s house. Then, on Tuesday, a missile that destroyed a house one building away left my parents’ house uninhabitable. So we came to my in-laws house. Now, there are 40 of us here. It feels like the missiles are coming after us – getting closer with each hit – and we’re running out of room to run.
I prayed Fajr, the pre-dawn prayer, and then lay down next to my two-month-old son as he slept. I couldn’t smell her skin, her hair through the stench of gunpowder, smoke and dust that seems to forever fill the air.
A few minutes later the windows were smashed in, covering us with shards of glass. I instinctively covered her small body with mine. So I picked it up and ran, all the while crying for my eight-year-old daughter.
“Banias! Where is Banias?” I prayed as everyone ran, all of us calling out to our children, our parents amidst the chaos. When I found her, she was crying and shaking. My husband and I took turns hugging each other, comforting as best we could, knowing there was so little comfort to be found.
Still shaken, we ran downstairs so we could get away if we had to, but then it appeared the bombing had stopped. Outside, airstrikes leveled another house, just a few meters from where we were. They struck without warning. Often, a small strike is followed by a larger one. Fortunately, the people who lived there were not inside when it hit.
While we were still at my parents’ house, we similarly ran downstairs amid the screams and shouts of neighbors warning each other to take cover after a strike hit a nearby building. The moments waiting for the second, larger strike were unbearable. I held my baby tightly and turned her face to my chest as if to protect her from the dust and fumes of the explosives.
Hours passed. Then, on Tuesday afternoon, a large missile hit, leveling the building. Our screams filled the air amid the sounds of broken glass and objects. About 10 minutes after the dust had settled, we saw my parents’ front door and windows destroyed and the furniture covered in debris. We quickly packed up and left.
I thought my parents’ house would be safe. I thought my brother-in-law’s place would be safe.
But where do we go then? There is no safe house in Gaza.
