An eyewitness to extinction: Life and death in occupied Gaza

For the past 38 days, we have endured the unrelenting, suffocating aggression of life under Israeli occupation.

Each night, I find myself questioning whether this is a nightmare, but sadly, it is not.

My beloved friends, the pursuit of my dreams, and the beauty of the places I once cherished have all been reduced to ashes.

What was once a city filled with vibrant colours and hope has been plunged into a dark, oppressive gloom.

This is the grim reality that we have become accustomed to since the commencement of the brutal Israeli siege on our city.

"We've lost dear friends and neighbours in the blink of an eye during recent massacres. Entire families have been wiped out, dreams shattered, and stories left untold. They are not just numbers; they are lives extinguished in the most brutal way"

Don't we have the right to live in peace on our land? To enjoy our lives with our families and friends, to pursue our dreams and celebrate our achievements?

What is our crime? Is it the act of defending our homeland? Choosing resilience over surrendering our sacred land to those who have no rightful claim to it?

From colour to ash

Since October 7, our days have been marred by the horrifying actions of Israel. It has transgressed every boundary by committing acts of genocide and massacres against the people of Gaza.

The situation has grown even more dire. It's nearly impossible to endure the heart-wrenching moments that we face daily.

For 38 consecutive days, we have had no access to clean drinking water.

We must rely on our neighbours who have a limited supply for the entire neighbourhood.

Everything around us is constantly bombarded, and safety is a distant memory. Our basic needs are being denied, even food is scarce. If it's not the bombs that threaten us, it's the spectre of starvation.

Bakeries have become targets

Even the bakeries, a lifeline for our community, have not been spared from the destruction. My father would wait in long queues each night at the only remaining bakery in our camp, risking his life amidst the ominous sounds of missiles.

Then, one tragic night, my mother's pleas for him not to go were justified as the bakery was obliterated by Israeli warplanes.

Lives were lost, and the loaves of bread were stained with the crimson blood of the martyrs. It was a new massacre that unfolded before our eyes.

The people in our camp erupted in cries of despair as they discovered the extent of the casualties and the grim scene of dismembered bodies. I shuddered, imagining what would have befallen my father if he had been there just minutes earlier.

My eyes filled with tears as I heard the approaching ambulances and witnessed the heart-wrenching scenes of the martyrs. The only bakery in our camp, a symbol of sustenance, vanished in the blink of an eye.

In our daily lives, there is no respite. Electricity is a luxury we can't afford, forcing us to gather our batteries and charge them using solar panels. Some days, we resort to candlelight, a stark reminder of our desperate circumstances.

It's a constant reminder of how miserable and unbearable our situation has become, but we know that others are even worse off, living in the streets without shelter, exposed to the biting cold as winter approaches.

The darkening sky over Gaza

Despite residing in what is supposed to be a safe area according to Israeli occupation directives, we are not exempt from the horror. We hear the screech of missiles above our homes, followed by deafening explosions elsewhere.

We've lost dear friends and neighbours in the blink of an eye during recent massacres. Entire families have been wiped out, dreams shattered, and stories left untold.

They are not just numbers; they are lives extinguished in the most brutal way.

The smog resulting from the relentless bombardments engulfs our homes, making it difficult to breathe. The once-blue sky has turned into a black expanse shrouded in foggy smog. Phosphorus bombs, a prohibited weapon, are used mercilessly by the occupation forces, with no accountability for their actions.

Families on edge

Even now, the haunting wail of sirens disorients me, the thunderous crash of missiles near our home tests my resilience, and the crimson glow of impending danger paints a bleak picture on my windows.

Like every family in Gaza, we have emergency bags ready, filled with essential clothing and documents, prepared for sudden evacuation.

We huddle together as a family bound by fear of the unknown, our prayers intertwining with the relentless stream of breaking news.

This is Gaza, a place of bitter existence, where each day brings us closer to the brink.

We confront the spectre of death daily, burdened by an unjust oppressor, an inhumane and merciless state that suffocates us, stealing innocence and joy from our children, and silencing the once-joyful birdsongs outside our windows.

Eman Alhaj Ali is a Gazan-based journalist, writer, and translator from the Al-Maghazi Refugee Camp

Follow her on X: @EmanAlhajAli1