I’m still alive. Gaza is no longer Gaza.’
by Atef Abu Saif, October 30, 2023
Atef Abu Saif is the author of six novels and since 2019 has been minister of culture for the Palestinian Authority in the West Bank. Abu Saif was visiting family in Gaza, where he grew up, when bombs began to fall Oct. 7 — in retaliation for Hamas’s surprise attack earlier that day that killed 1,400 Israelis. He began sending voice notes to friends abroad, describing the fraying texture of everyday life, creating a diary of life under siege.
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If the Washington Post link works for you, you can see entries from roughly three weeks, from Oct. 7-26. Otherwise, here’s the first day’s entry and the last part of the entry for Oct. 26:
Saturday, Oct. 7
I never could have imagined that the war would begin while I was swimming. I had risen around 5:30 a.m. Today is going to be a good day, I’d thought. I’d have a swim, then take a shower in my flat in Saftawi, near Jabalya, the refugee camp where I was born and spent most of my life.
At the beach, tiny fishing boats headed toward shore after a night at sea. There were four of us: my brother Mohammed, my 15-year-old son, Yasser, my brother-in-law Ismael and me. I was visiting from the West Bank and planned to be around for only a few days. Yasser had asked to accompany me: He missed his grandparents.
We drove to the northern end of the beach, parked on the main road, then walked down onto the shell-flecked sand. As usual, Israeli warships squatted on the horizon.
The sea was so inviting. Ismael and I stripped down to our shorts. Yasser took photos; Mohammed chain-smoked, the way he always does in the morning.
Suddenly, explosions sounded in all directions, the rockets tracing lines across the sky. It’s a training maneuver, I thought, and carried on swimming. It might last an hour or two, I told myself.
I swam back to shore, calling on Ismael to come with me. He shrugged as we made our way out of the water. I shouted to him that it didn’t seem to be stopping. Suddenly, everyone on the beach began to run. “We have to get out of here!” Mohammed shouted. Explosions rang louder and louder. Ismael and I ran barefoot, carrying our clothes and shoes close to our chests. Everyone around us was doing the same.
When we reached the car, I hit the accelerator before the others had even closed their doors. I drove like mad, as people leaped in front of our car, hoping to get a lift. We stopped and let five men pile into the back. We sped off again, honking to clear the way. I turned to Mohammed: “Where is Ismael? Did we leave him to the rockets?”
Mohammed laughed. “No, we left him to the sharks.” He had told Ismael to go on: His house wasn’t far from the beach. Mohammed’s shark joke didn’t make me feel any better.
For hours, no one knew what was going on. Then the news trickled in. A friend, a young poet and musician named Omar Abu Shawish, had been swimming, just like us, in the sea in front of Nuseirat Camp when he and a friend were hit by a shell from a passing warship. They were reportedly the first two Gazan victims.
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Thursday, Oct. 26
Today, the death toll in Gaza stands at more than 7,000, almost half of them children, according to the Gaza Health Ministry. On the news, a boy who’s been rescued from the rubble by an ambulance team says to the paramedic, “Thank you, ambulance, we love you!” Then, under his breath, he asks where his mother is.
As I wash the plates after supper, I wonder whether we will have dinner tomorrow, or any sleep tonight, or any water in the days to come.
(Monday, Nov. 6
According to Reuters, Gaza death toll tops 10,000; UN calls it a children's graveyard.)
