Unbelievable: I Am Still Alive
My name is Enas, and I am a Palestinian survivor of Israel’s aggression in Gaza. As I write this, I reflect on the ongoing genocide that has left my family and me forcibly displaced for the sixth time.
On May 7, the Israeli occupation ordered us to evacuate our home in Rafah for what they termed a “limited” and “precise” operation. The moment we left, it felt as though a glass shard had cut my throat, rendering me speechless.
After the evacuation order, we sought refuge with my uncle. On our way, I saw thousands of people lying on the streets, sleeping under the open sky. Some were lucky to have tents. Overwhelmed, I shut the car window, oblivious to the hidden fate that awaited us.
Three days later, we received another evacuation order, compelling us to move to Khan Younis. We were searching for safety, but there is no safe haven in Gaza. Like countless others, we had no choice but to set up a makeshift tent. I couldn’t bear the thought of our new home shrinking to a mere 4×4 meter area—our kitchen, bedrooms, living room, and bathroom all crammed into one small space.
I often thought that May, June, and July were the hardest months of my life, only to face yet another evacuation order. On July 25, our third displacement left part of my family stranded on the street. We moved to Al-Mawasi, but deep down, I felt it was only a matter of time before we faced the horrors of war again.
My intuition proved right. We witnessed unimaginable conditions; Israeli bullets flew overhead as we spent our last night in Al-Mawasi praying to avoid harm. An hour later, screams filled the air as we rushed to find a young girl with a head injury from an Israeli quadcopter’s bullet. This was in an area designated by the Israeli military as a “safe zone.”
We relocated again, this time to a relative’s land in Khan Younis. Before we could set up tents, my family managed to rent an apartment. Although we were grateful for the shelter, the strangeness of our surroundings felt suffocating. I couldn’t believe I was finally inside a room after three months of living in tents under the scorching sun. Everything felt foreign; it wasn’t my home.
An elderly woman, Om Nahed, who owned the apartment, offered my mother her oven for baking bread. The next day, while chatting as my mother baked, the old woman shared her grief. “One of my sons has been missing since last January, and one was killed while searching for his brother. This is all my story, dear.”
The horror was far from over. On August 28, at 11 PM, we found ourselves surrounded by Israeli tanks, with drones firing and bombs falling around us. For yet another time, the Israeli occupation claimed to have conducted an operation in the area. By some miracle, we survived that night.
On August 11, we faced certain death. In the blink of an eye, our rented apartment was torn apart by two massive missiles. The roof collapsed, and massive smoke enveloped the sky. We crawled through the rubble, managing to escape, but my sister-in-law was trapped. By a stroke of luck, my mother and a stranger pulled her out just in time. She was severely injured, suffering burns and fractures, but she survived.
The day after that harrowing escape, we shared our thoughts on what we would have done differently. My sister’s answer shocked me; she risked her life to save her two children moments before the second bomb struck. As my mother recounted how she rescued my sister-in-law, I couldn’t hold back my tears. “I don’t know how I gained the strength to lift the rubble off Nora’s body,” she said. “It felt like moving foam, not stones. I swear it’s a miracle.”
My three-year-old nephew, Yazan, now struggles to speak, traumatized by the experience of being trapped under the rubble. His innocent questions cut deep: “Shall we punish the Israelis for destroying the wall? I want to destroy their wall as they did.” He asks, “Where did they take Nora?”
I still can’t believe I am alive, surrounded by my family after surviving two devastating airstrikes. The horrific crimes I thought were distant realities became my lived experience. Despite all we have endured, the dream of returning home fuels my resilience amid the relentless Israeli aggression.
We may have lost much, but we refuse to lose hope. If I had a wish, it would be for an end to the genocide. My message to the free people of the world is to stand up for Gaza. When you stand up for Gaza, you stand up for over two million Palestinians denied their basic rights.
You can serve the Gazan people by marching in the streets, raising awareness about Palestine, supporting innocent civilians, condemning Israeli crimes against humanity, and boycotting Israeli companies and products that fund this genocide. Together, we can make a difference.
Source: qudsnen
