When you are a prisoner, God forbid, you can anticipate when your jailer will show up. You, probably, can stand, walk around the cell, and sit however you want.

One late night, my family and I were pushed from an open-air prison deeper into a darker, hidden one that no one knew about.

It all started with a peculiar bullet sound. I thought it was normal since we are caught in a war zone. But the following vague IDF announcer's voice and the unrelenting loud explosions of bullets drowned my thoughts of what is normal. 

Little did I know that the sound of that bullet would open the doors of hell all over our neighborhood. 

The voice came closer. “Al-Shifaa is in our hands. You’re under attack. Don’t leave your houses.” The Israeli spokesperson arrogantly ordered. My head started spinning, and my body crumpled up. My strength fell apart as if someone emptied my blood and poured a weak poison instead. I felt stirrings of fear, dangled my head, and, unconsciously, burst into tears in front of my family for the first time.

Everything sounded normal seconds ago! How come they are here? They cannot be here in a moment without anyone feeling it! It’s only 2 a.m. How come! How come! 

Frozen in our spots, huddled together in the narrow corridor of our house, we waited for eight agonizing days. The pale light of the phone screen was our only source of light.

For eight long days, we dared not walk or move more than was extremely necessary. Fearing the Israeli soldiers would hear us, sense us, we spoke in hushed murmurs. A single sound in such moments could mean the difference between life and death.

Beginning each day with a sleep-deprived body, covered with flying wooden doors or shattered glass became our habit back then. Choking on my thoughts and having scores of brutal scenarios of my family or myself being killed or injured fighting in my head was my hourly routine. 

During this time, the air was suffocated with never-ending thundering sounds of trucks, microphones, blasts, armed clashes, missiles, the Quadcopter wings buzzing and shooting, and executions inside the hospital. These sounds were shifting, and sometimes, most of them came together. Like venom, these sounds seeped inside my blood and nerves and paralyzed my whole body. 

Burning souls and houses

Sometimes, I would creep in to witness what had happened when I heard a bomb explode or another loud bang. And then I wish I hadn’t: How can one cope with witnessing whole buildings from their neighborhood being set ablaze before their eyes, thinking of their neighbors who will return to see their houses, memories, and everything that belonged to them vanish so effortlessly. With a button click! 

Is there anything that eases the stabbing pain of seeing your neighborhood's memories collapsing like sandcastles in front of your eyes? There's nothing you could do. If you go out of your house, they will either shoot, arrest, rape, or order you to go to the south. I can’t let any of those things happen to my family or myself. Once this bitterness colonized my whole body, I’d start thinking about when the fires would reach my house, my family. 

My Spiritual Cure 

The draconian invasion of Al Shifa Hospital and its vicinity was heavier on my chest than the rest of the 355 war days.

I lived through several wars before, and I’m living through this genocide, but nothing was like living through this invasion, for death was always a breath away. My nervous system was alarmed every second of the day. 

Fear has paralyzed me. Only the last verse of Al Baqara came to my aid: 

{لا يكلف الله نفساً إلا وسعها لها ما كسبت وعليها ما اكتسبت ربنا لا تؤاخذنا ان نسينا او اخطانا ربنا ولا تحملنا ما لا طاقة لنا به واعف عنا واغفر لنا وارحمنا انت مولانا فانصرنا على القوم الكافرين.}

{Allah burdens no soul beyond its capacity. To its credit is what it earns, and against it is what it commits. “Our Lord, do not condemn us if we forget or make a mistake. Our Lord, do not burden us as You have burdened those before us. Our Lord, do not impose on us more than we have the strength to bear; and pardon us, and forgive us, and have mercy on us. You are our Master, so help us against the disbelieving people.}

My amulet it was—consoling me, calming me down, and reassuring me that I could handle this. Weren’t I able to, I wouldn’t be in such a situation.

To the larger prison:

An incendiary bomb exploded in our home. We left after the fatigue of putting out the fire for 3 hours started to take over our fasting bodies during a day in Ramadan.

“It's bad if we stay, and it's bad if we evacuate. So, let's try to fetch this shred of hope to survive,” my mother bitterly said.

She walked towards the door and had a peek at the street. The tanks weren't close. So, she told my siblings and me to go first and then, in line, my uncle's heavily pregnant daughter-in-law, her child, and my cousin. After them, my uncle’s elderly wife leaned on my mother and walked together. And my father, disabled uncle, and his son were the last to walk. 

Finally, we were out to the larger prison. In our first moment in the street, a bomb fell into the next building. 

Throughout our displacement route, I kept imagining us being hit. The bombs were so close, and I couldn’t imagine that we could make it and survive. I tried to breathe out fear but inhaled the smoke of the Israeli missile instead. Those bomb sounds didn’t feel like parting with us, either.

After making it through a few blocks, seeing other Gazans in the street was surreal. 

It felt like we were on a separate planet. How are these people walking normally? Aren't they afraid? How are they in the streets? How can they chat so normally? I felt like a big, immovable rock was lying on my chest. How do they laugh?

In those eight days, we had forgotten how our facial expressions work. On those eight days, we weren't walking around the room as we wished, only in particular, almost hidden places. Wherever we were, entering the bathroom after nightfall was heroic. In those eight days, we realized that life without safety is a temporary death.

Haneen Alisawi is a writer based in Gaza. You can find more of her testimonies and writings on We Are Not Numbers.