Editor’s note: Over the last year our colleague in Gaza has submitted at least 50 blogs detailing his experiences under bombardment. While the blogs have been anonymised for his safety, they have formed a deeply personal window into not only the daily lives of his family, but also his darkest thoughts and most fervently held hopes. Sometimes putting pen to paper has been a relief for our colleague, but often it has been a challenging and upsetting process. We’ve been humbled to receive and share these regular updates, and, on this bleak anniversary, we thank him for his selfless dedication to ensuring the Palestinian experience is not lost among headlines and statistics, no matter how futile these efforts have seemed to him at times. Thank you. 

A year into the unprecedented escalation, an Islamic Relief aid worker* in Gaza looks back in disbelief and despair at all he and his family have endured and wonders what kind of future is left for the people of Gaza. 

The first day we met, my dear readers, was one year ago. Back then, I was trying to open a window for you to see what was happening in Gaza. Over the last year, I got used to speaking to you, there was comfort for me in writing about my ups and downs, my hopes and fears, my dreams and nightmares. I never thought I would still be writing these war diaries one year later. I really hoped this was a milestone we’d never reach. I still can’t grasp the idea that a whole year has passed, and the situation is still the same. I was hoping that my words might drive some change, but, as time went on, I resigned myself to the idea that I was just telling my story.  

At least I am still able to tell my story.  

I am not a hero, I am just like you, my readers. A normal guy – a father who wishes to provide the best for his family, a dreamer who wishes for a better world. A man calling out for peace. I am just me.  

This year has been the worst of my life without doubt. I always thought that a single year in a whole lifetime is not a big deal, but this one has exhausted myself and my family beyond measure. The worst thing is that we went through this year keeping hope alive that the crisis would end. We have been following any news of a ceasefire like crazy, hoping that it will happen. But after one year, I still don’t see any ceasefire on the horizon. I feel that has been part of a psychological war to keep feeding us false hope. 

In July, I promised my wife that next year, we would not celebrate her birthday like this. We wanted to leave Gaza to give our kids a better chance at life. But we couldn’t. I kept telling myself that the next big family occasion will be celebrated back in our own home. But our home is gone, and our memories gone with it.  

This war has deeply affected us. Every breath hurts. Every morning waking up to realise I’m still not sleeping in my own bed hurts. Every moment knowing I can’t fetch my children’s toys for them hurts. It has been a year of torture, of famine, of loss, of annihilation. A year like no other. 

Homes, schools, mosques, hospitals in Gaza – all lost 

Over the last year, my house has been damaged and left uninhabitable. My 2 sisters and my brother have all lost their homes, and almost all of my colleagues at Islamic Relief Palestine have lost theirs. Worse still, some have also lost their family members. Our Islamic Relief office is gone, as are my children’s schools, the mosque I used to pray at, the hospitals where my kids were born, the restaurants that I liked, the road to work, my Christian neighbours’ church. We’ve lost a country. We’ve lost a home. We’ve lost the faith and belief that has kept us sane.  

My son used to have a stuffed monkey toy that he hugged when he went to sleep. Every night, I hear him whispering to his mum that he misses ‘Monkey’, that’s its name. My daughter is growing up without her cousins, without her friends. The place where she used to play basketball is destroyed. Every time she shows me photos with her team she starts crying. She is so sensitive, but I keep pushing her to be stronger. This world is not for sensitive people like my girl. My mum struggles to find the medicine for her diabetes. We check every pharmacy and all the field hospitals but they say they can’t provide it. Israel blocks aid with impunity and the world watches on. 

Everyday atrocities, everyday indignities 

This year tested all our humanity, and I guess most of us failed. In the first few months of the war our voices were loud but then people got used to the scenes. I remember the Baptist hospital massacres, but dozens of massacres took place after that, all soon forgotten by the outside world. I remember the story of Hind Rajab, trapped helpless in a bombed-out car waiting for ambulances that could not reach her. But since then, thousands of children have been killed without even a mention in news reports.  

Now, my readers, we can’t wash because there are no cleaning products. We can’t find clothes for the approaching winter. We can’t find paper to teach our kids to write. We can’t find treatments for our illnesses. My friend is suffering so badly from a kidney stone that they can hardly move, but there is no treatment. I’ve had flu for the past 2 weeks and I can’t find paracetamol. I can’t even find shoes.  

My friends living in tents were drowned after the first heavy rain. Families set up their tents on the shoreline and the tide swept them out to sea. Israel isn’t allowing cash into Gaza. We can’t pay for bread, for a haircut, for a water refill. Our backup batteries have long since gone dead and Israel is not allowing new ones.  

Yes, my readers, in Gaza it is not only airstrikes and bombs that bring death. Death comes for us when Israel cuts off power for sewage treatment plants, severs vaccine supplies, blocks wounded people from leaving Gaza for treatment, closes our borders to aid, supports and arms criminals, and encourages conflict. Israel is systematically destroying our lives. This deliberate intent to annihilate Palestinian lives could be the end of us. 

Suffering families in Gaza desperately need a ceasefire 

I had been thinking that after this war ends, I want to use every platform available to tell our story. I wanted to start rebuilding. I was thinking of solutions for the disrupted services – water, electricity, education, health – if we returned to our homes. But I didn’t really think too deeply about it. I wanted to see an end to this, and I knew Allah would provide for us after that. I am a believer, a devout one, I can handle whatever comes. 

Now, I feel I’ve lost my faith. I’ve lost belief in this world. I am tired, exhausted and done. This last year has depleted all my energy, and I don’t have any back up batteries to recharge myself. I think this war is killing us all. It targets every possible chance for us to restart any kind of life. I think my story could end here. However, if I do survive to see an end to this war, my only wish will be to go to some quiet place. Somewhere without falsehoods, somewhere as isolated as it gets. I am tired of logic and rationality. I am tired of repeating myself while no one listens. I am done. 

Please help Islamic Relief support people in desperate need in Gaza: Donate to our Palestine Emergency Appeal now. 

*This blog is anonymised to protect the safety and security of our colleague and others mentioned. Read the other blogs in this series here. 

Editor’s note: This blog was submitted amid a fast-changing and deepening crisis. The information was correct as of Friday 20 September 2024.