By: M.Mortaja
That night was unlike any other. We had been trying to cope with the daily terror, but this night brought a new threat. We received news that the neighboring house had been warned to evacuate, triggering a fresh wave of panic. There was no time to think—we had to move immediately. We grabbed whatever essentials we could. I carried my two daughters, helped my parents and sister get out quickly. My wife, in her ninth month of pregnancy, held my hand tightly, as if trying to steal reassurance that I didn’t have.
We headed to my wife’s uncle’s house, which was not safe in itself, but it was an escape from one reality to another. The house was packed with displaced people, their faces weary, their eyes filled with fear and uncertainty. Children huddled in corners, clutching onto their mothers, while elderly relatives sat in silence, too drained to speak. The room buzzed with whispers of the latest news—who had lost their home, who had lost their lives. We sat in a corner, searching for any sense of stability. My mother whispered prayers under her breath, and my father sat silently, watching the window as if waiting for something unknown.
My wife
As the hours passed, sleep became a distant dream. My wife shifted uncomfortably, struggling with her heavy belly, trying to find a position that would ease her pain. Every few moments, she would sigh, her face contorted in discomfort, but she remained silent. She didn’t want to burden anyone more than they already were. I wanted to comfort her, but what could I say? Even words had lost their meaning in times like these.
When morning came and nothing had happened, we realized the threat was false. The house next to ours still stood, untouched. We returned home, but there was no relief—just another layer of exhaustion added to our already battered souls. Our house felt different, smaller, colder. We walked through the rooms, touching what remained, wondering how long we had before the next night of terror.
That day, I noticed something even more terrifying than the bombings and destruction: the markets were beginning to run out of supplies. The shelves were emptier than the day before. The lines were long, and people’s faces were filled with worry. The bakeries had stopped producing bread in full capacity, and people fought for what was left.
mercy of hunger
I didn’t want my family to be at the mercy of hunger, so I decided to buy enough provisions to last two months. The war showed no signs of ending soon, and we needed to prepare for the worst. Rice, flour, canned food—anything non-perishable that I could find—I bought in bulk. Prices would only skyrocket in the coming days, making every purchase feel like a race against timeEvening
That evening, as my daughters played quietly on the floor, oblivious to the weight of the world crumbling around them, I sat in front of my phone, staring at a list of debts I had accumulated over the years. Before the war, debts were just numbers to be dealt with in due time. Now, they were unfinished business that might outlive me. I no longer thought about the future as I once did—now, calculations were different. I sent a message to my relatives outside Gaza, listing all the debts I owed, asking them to settle them if anything happened to me. It was the hardest decision I had ever made, not because I feared facing reality, but because I knew that in this war, anything was possible. Death was closer to us than ever before.
That night, I sat beside my wife as she finally fell asleep, her breathing slow and heavy. I watched my parents resting against the wall, their heads drooping from exhaustion. My sister, the pharmacist, had spent the day treating minor injuries in the neighborhood, sharing what little medicine she had left. She was awake still, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.
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