I wrote this last night to the sounds of Israeli bombs falling on Gaza.
We are aware that our struggle with the Israeli occupation is a struggle for existence, and therefore all Palestinians must endure continuous Israeli attacks. But we hope and pray not to go through another attack now.
Images of the brutal 2014 attacks are still stuck in our memories and our broken hearts.
I close my eyes and see my neighbor sitting in front of the rubble of his house for days waiting for his sons, his wife and his mother to be pulled out from under the rubble after it was bombed. He refused to believe that he lost all of his family. I see my own house which has remained in place by chance after the four houses of my neighbors were bombed. The frightened looks of my sister’s children and their constant screams have been catching up with me tonight.
Last week, when I visited Khuza’a to establish our summer camp for girls, most of the talk there was about their memories of the Israeli attacks. They shared how they fled from their homes to be surprised that death besieged them from everywhere and how many members of their families they lost.
Perhaps the buildings were rebuilt and the streets were repaved in Khuza’a. Going there now you may not believe that this beautiful village was wiped from the earth four years ago. But when you talk to the people in Khuza’a you will discover that they can not move on from the Israeli attacks yet. You will be surprised that they open up their laptops, their mobile phones and their memories to enable you to experience a part of their suffering.
Many of the buildings that the Israeli army destroyed in its successive attacks have been rebuilt. But who will restore these broken hearts? Who will bring these people back to life after their lives were stopped in 2014? How will the Palestinians forgive the world all this ugliness and injustice?
All of the reconstruction of the facilities across the Gaza Strip is a failed attempt to conceal the effects of the Israeli attacks. These real effects have spread to our souls and we can not be cured.
Every sound of bombing brings me back to the tiring memories. I wake up in the middle of the night to write in attempts to offload my memory. I have written this at 3 a.m while the sound of bombing shakes the house and no one can sleep.