Amidst the continuous bombardment in Gaza, our family gathered together on the third night, seeking solace in the dark, a cacophony of explosions echoing outside. In this harrowing environment, we tried to distract the children with games, telling them the unsettling noises were merely fireworks, though deep down, I knew they saw through our façade.
My infant son, already restless, struggled to sleep, jolting awake at every deafening blast. Forced to flee our own home, now uninhabitable after an Israeli missile struck it while we were away, we had sought refuge at my parents’ house. Meanwhile, my husband and daughter sought shelter at my in-laws’.
In the early hours of the morning, a horrifying noise pierced the air, jolting us awake. Instinctively, I scooped up my baby, and without pause, we all fled, running to escape the impending danger. The air grew thick with dust and the acrid smell of gunpowder, our senses overwhelmed.
Our neighbors, too, were in chaos, their shouts and cries unintelligible amid the chaos. Visibility was reduced to zero, our eyes stinging from the dust and shock. This strike felt far closer than anything we’d previously endured, the ringing in our ears seeming to reverberate through our vision.
Stepping onto the street, we strained to see in the direction our neighbors were heading. The building struck was a four-story apartment complex just one house away from my parents’, mere meters apart. The street was littered with debris, but we couldn’t linger; the police instructed us to return home hastily. Uncertainty prevailed—was it a “warning” missile, or the main attack?
If it was a “warning,” it meant that in approximately 15 minutes, a larger, deadlier missile would obliterate the same house. Our neighbors across the street embraced the shaken families who had fled the damaged building, offering shelter. My family returned to our home, gathering on the ground floor, our silent gazes locked, our frayed nerves teetering on the edge.
The wailing sirens of ambulances punctuated the night. Who had been injured? How could there be a missile anywhere on Earth more devastating than this? How were humans expected to endure such horrors?
As the minutes passed and the dust settled somewhat, we ventured outside once more. A crowd had assembled around the fallen building, its bewildered residents gazing at the rubble that had once been their home, their history, their memories—now reduced to ruins.
We retreated indoors; there was little we could do outside. Inside, we surveyed our dust-covered home and possessions. Friends and relatives inundated us with messages and calls, checking if we were safe. My sister offered a wry remark: “We were the news today,” a hint of her signature dark humor.
Overwhelmed and speechless, I sank onto the nearest sofa, cradling my miraculously sleeping baby who had somehow slept through the chaos. The wide-eyed children who remained awake stared at us, their young faces pallid with fear. Four of my nephews, all under four years old, mirrored their mothers’ helplessness in shielding them from this trauma.
The thunderous sound of bombs persisted, day and night, shaking our home as each projectile struck, tearing lives apart. It was an unending barrage that defied any sense of humanity—a relentless, genocidal bombing campaign. Beyond terrifying and incomprehensible, it was a descent into sheer madness.