Memoirs from Gaza.. “That's my younger sister sleeping in a mass grave”

3:00 am: The bombing

They were all asleep when, at three in the morning, Israeli occupation planes brought the house crumbling down on top of their heads, reducing three floors to rubble in an instant.

In just a few moments, we lost every single person in the house. Right in the center of the city, three floors collapsed, taking the lives of everyone inside, a total of twenty-six victims, mostly women and children. Among them were my sister Shaimaa, her daughter Marwa, and her husband, all killed by brutal Israeli bombardment.

They were all asleep when Israeli occupation planes brought the house crumbling down on top of their heads, reducing three floors to rubble in an instant, and taking the lives of all 26 residents, mostly women and children, my sister and her daughter included

6:00 am

Due to communication challenges, we received the news at 6:00 am. My brother and I rushed to the site, and stood helpless in front of the wreckage that looked like it needed divine power to help clear. From that very first moment, I knew there was no hope; that no one could have survived. The strike had crushed the floors onto one another. Civil defense teams searched for any noise, for bodies, for any sign of hope among the ruins. But there was nothing there except an overwhelming helplessness and the smell of death.

9:00 am

We waited until 9:00 in the morning when a bulldozer arrived and attempted to dislodge the rubble. After hours of careful and grueling work, they unearthed the bodies of five children, and transported them to Nasser Hospital. The bulldozer continued working until it could not go on anymore. The enormous wreckage could only be removed through specialized machinery.

From that very first moment, I knew there was no hope; that no one could have survived. The strike had crushed the floors onto one another. Civil defense teams searched for any noise, for bodies, for a sign of hope among the ruins. But there was nothing there except an overwhelming helplessness and the smell of death

11:00 am

By 11:00 that morning, paramedics and civil defense personnel were at the scene. Everyone anxiously awaited the arrival of "al-Baqir", which took a long time to finally arrive. Al-Baqir started expertly removing the collapsed ceilings and walls, in a process that took four hours.

3:00 pm: To the mass grave

By 3:00 pm, a somber reality had set in. Twenty-six bodies were pulled out from under the ruins. No one had survived. Ambulances transported the bodies to the hospital, where they were checked on, identified, documented, wrapped, and prayed upon in the hospital courtyard. They were then loaded onto an open truck, taken to the graveyard, and finally, buried in a mass grave.

It was the first time I saw my father cry. When he saw his daughter and granddaughter, their broken bodies lying there, he wept like a child. He had been with them that night, and as he was leaving, his two-year old granddaughter clung to him, saying, "Bye bye, Ziddo!". He repeated this phrase over and over, at the hospital, graveyard and on our way home

My mother... The grandmother who was left broken

The truth of the matter is that they were all asleep, and they remain that way. My sister Shaimaa was the last child my mother bore. As the youngest, she was my mother's most cherished and spoiled child – the closest to her for the last 21 years. A short life, as that of her granddaughter Marwa, who hadn't yet reached the age of two. The news of the loss broke my mother, yet in front of anyone who looks, she stands proud, stronger than a mountain – resilient, patient, composed, always praying, and full of grace. She stores her tears for the coming winter, when no one will be able to distinguish them from the falling rain.

My father... "Bye bye, Ziddo"

As for my father, it was the first time I saw him cry, in the hospital, upon seeing Shaimaa and her daughter, their broken bodies lying there. He cried – wept like a child. He had stayed up late with them that night, and when he was leaving the house, his granddaughter Marwa clung to him, telling him, "Bye bye, Ziddo! (Jeddo)". My father kept repeating this phrase over and over again at the hospital and the graveyard and on our way back. He was in a horrified state of shock. I feared that he would lose his mind, when I realized how deeply attached to them he was, and how they were the central focus of his busy life.

I left Shaimaa 11 years ago as a 10-year-old child. Upon returning to Gaza, I found she had married and had a daughter who was our pride and joy, a short-lived happiness that culminated in a long day on the beach on the Friday preceding "the war". The war devoured what little life remained in this small, besieged land

I am displaced from my own story as I tell the stories of others

As for me, I left Shaimaa eleven years ago as a ten-year-old child. Upon returning to Gaza, I found she had married and had a daughter who resembled her remarkably in both appearance and spirit. She was the joy that greeted me upon my return, and made us happy, a short-lived happiness that culminated in a long day on the beach on the Friday preceding "the war". The war that devoured what little life remained in this small strip of land that has been besieged for these last seventeen years.

I haven't cried for my sister, her daughter, or her husband yet. Not a single tear has fallen. Immediately after the burial, I became preoccupied with reporting people’s stories of displacement, from the north of Gaza to the south, my own story forgotten in the midst, as if I didn't have one of my own. I am displaced from my story as I tell the stories of others

I haven't cried for my sister, her daughter, or her husband yet. Not a single tear has fallen. Immediately after the burial, I became preoccupied with reporting the stories of people who were displaced from the north of Gaza to the south, my own story forgotten in the midst, as if I didn't have one of my own. I've become displaced from my own story as I tell the stories of others.

* The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author’s and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Raseef22