Gaza War: Day Nine – October 15, 2023
By the ninth day, time had lost its meaning. Morning blended into afternoon, afternoon into night—each hour indistinguishable from the next. Sleep was a luxury we no longer had. The cold October nights crept in, and with no blankets or beds, the chill felt sharper than ever.
I had no place to sleep, not even a patch of ground to lie on. and spent the entire night sitting on a plastic chair, my back aching, my body begging for rest. tried to close my eyes, but the discomfort and fear made it impossible. Around me, others were sprawled across hallways, corners, and stairwells, seeking rest but finding none.
The school we had taken refuge
The school we had taken refuge in was more crowded than ever. Hundreds of families packed into classrooms, corridors, and even the yard. The air was thick with heat, dust, and the scent of unwashed clothes and tension. Babies cried endlessly. Mothers hushed them, exhausted beyond words. Everyone was running on survival mode.
By this point, I had given up trying to find comfort. Instead, I searched for small signs of stability—maybe a familiar voice, a calm moment, a quiet breath. But even those were rare. I watched my daughters try to play, to smile, to hold onto a piece of childhood that was rapidly slipping away.
My youngest looked up at me and asked, “Baba, when are we going back home?”
I had no answer. I wanted to say “soon,” but even lies began to feel too heavy to carry.
That day, the hardest part wasn’t the bombing or the hunger or the cold—it was the waiting. Waiting for news. Waiting for a change. Waiting for something to bring back a sense of normal. But deep inside, I knew: this displacement might not be temporary. This school, once filled with learning and laughter, had become something else entirely—a shelter of uncertainty, a pause between one trauma and the next.
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