Gaza War: Day Ten – October 16, 2023
It no longer felt like a count of time — it was more like a weight. Each day added another layer of exhaustion, of despair, of numbness. We were no longer reacting to the war. We were surviving it, minute by minute.
The school was now bursting beyond its limits. New families arrived constantly, carrying the same wide-eyed fear we had brought with us days ago. Every inch of space was claimed. Even the stairwells were crowded now. Some people camped outside the gate, hoping that someone inside would leave — or that a miracle would make more room.
I started my day as I had the last few — stiff from sleeping on a chair, my joints sore, my muscles tight. I hadn’t changed clothes in days. None of us had. Even water, the most basic need, was a luxury. Clean water was scarce, and so we rationed every drop. Brushing our teeth, washing our hands — these were no longer daily habits, but wishes.
But what struck me most that day was silence.
silence
Not the kind of silence that comes from peace — but the heavy, suffocating kind. The silence of people who had nothing left to say. Mothers no longer whispered to their children. Children no longer asked questions. Even the crying had lessened. It was as if we all agreed, without speaking, that there was no energy left for words.
I found myself walking the school halls, checking on my family, trying to seem calm. My wife sat quietly with the other women in the overcrowded classroom. My mother and sister stayed close. My daughters stuck to my side more than ever. I could see it in their eyes — they were afraid to let me out of sight.
We still had no answers. No news from those who stayed behind in Gaza City. No idea when—or if—we could go home.
That night, I sat on the same chair, in the same corner, staring at the same cracked wall. But for a brief moment, I caught the sound of my daughters laughing softly, whispering to each other in the dark. It was faint, but it reminded me that we were still here.
Still human. Still holding on.
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