By: M.Mortaja
Gaza War: The Forth Day – October 9, 2023, Morning was no different from the night. In truth, morning did not exist at all. The sun did not rise as it used to; instead, we woke up to the glow of fires that had not been extinguished since the first day.
The smoke was so thick that it covered the sky, and the sun disappeared behind a suffocating black veil. I could no longer distinguish between night and day—the only light that flickered was that of explosions and missile flashes.
I have a family. My wife was nine months pregnant, waiting to give birth at any moment, but what kind of life could begin amidst all this destruction? I had two little daughters who did not fully understand what was happening around them, but their eyes were filled with a fear that had no mercy for children.
Living with me were my seventy-year-old father, a man who remained steadfast despite everything, and my sixty-year-old mother, who tried to appear strong but collapsed in moments of silence. My sister, a pharmacist, did everything she could to help the wounded—running between injured people, administering first aid, comforting others—but her eyes carried an unspoken pain words could not describe.
I did not sleep that night. How could one sleep amidst the relentless sounds of explosions and bombing? I sat in the corner of the small room that housed us all, watching each other in silence. My mother held my father as if she were trying to shield him from the world itself. My wife clutched her belly anxiously, feeling the life that pulsed within her despite the death surrounding us. I heard her whisper prayers to herself, trying to hide the tremble in her voice. “Will we be okay? Will our baby be born safely?” I had no answer.
Outside, the street looked like a scene from a catastrophe movie. I no longer knew who had perished and who had survived.
The buildings that once stood tall had become scattered rubble, and burnt-out cars stood in the middle of the road, remnants of a battle that never ceased. People ran in every direction—some seeking shelter, some searching through the debris for survivors, and others simply running with no destination, trying to escape an inescapable hell.
I walked past Ahmed’s house—or what remained of it. A pile of rubble, twisted wires, and shattered furniture lay buried beneath the wreckage. From beneath the debris, a small hand reached out. I knew that hand. My body stiffened, my breath caught. I couldn’t step closer, couldn’t even whisper his name. I just stood there, staring, then forced myself to walk away without turning back.
At the hospital, the situation was no better. The hallways were filled with people waiting for treatment, but there were not enough doctors to attend to them all. Blood covered the floors, and the cries of the injured never ceased.
I saw a doctor sitting on the ground for a moment, wiping his face with his trembling hands before quickly standing up to continue working. There was no time for grief. There was no time for anything but trying.
Sister And Wife
My sister was there, exhausted from continuous work. She looked at me with red-rimmed eyes and said in a weary voice, “There are no painkillers, not even enough bandages. We’re trying to stop bleeding with whatever we have. People are dying in our hands, and there’s nothing we can do but watch.” I could not respond. I felt powerless in every part of my being.
In the evening, I returned to the home.
I looked at my mother, who tried to hide her tears, at my father, who stared silently into the void, at my wife, who held my hand tightly, seeking safety in my touch. My daughters were asleep, but their faces were not peaceful—even in sleep, fear chased them.
My wife murmured softly, barely audible, “I feel like I can’t take this anymore… Will we survive? Will our baby survive?” I did not know what to say. There was no promise I could make. I only tightened my grip on her hand and whispered, “We’ll stay together. That’s all I know.”
Outside, the sound of aircraft did not stop, and the explosions lit up the sky like the stars of war. I covered my daughters well, glanced at everyone, and then closed my eyes for a moment.
But I knew the worst was yet to come.
