To see or not to see

When I was six, my brothers would snatch me from the ground and swing me onto their shoulders while running to the sea. I’d jump up and down while holding tight on to their hair or, when they had their heads shaved, on to their jaws. They’d wait for a big wave and dive under it with my cheek glued to their head. 

After that initiation loosened my grip, they’d help me float on the water supporting me until I became a skilled swimmer. 

Growing up, I watched parents teach their kids how to swim in the Gaza Sea, thinking back to when my brothers taught me. It often reminded me to use the same tricks with my nephews to help them love the sea, so I tell them “This is water and shampoo, this is a cold vast bathtub that tickles your body,” and they enjoy it. 

Nothing heals me as much as the idea of the unshackled Gaza Sea, a sanctuary filled with memories, emotions, and aspirations—a vital part of me. It treks with me as if it’s an invisible bracelet I wore since I was in my cradle .

Family day trips to the beach, especially on Fridays, became cherished traditions. Swimming wasn’t just a skill but an invitation by the sea into the joys of life. We used to go with many cousins from the morning till midnight. We shared delicious meals such as Manaqeesh for breakfast, Maqlouba and Dawali ¹ for lunch, ice cream for dessert, endless laughs, and so many long hours swimming together while chatting about our lives. 

We celebrated every occasion by the beach so much so that if the sea could speak, it would sing the Dal’owna ². It would dance with the stomp of our feet, and interlace her hands with ours while we formed a Dabka circle.

Dr. Refaat, my favorite teacher and guide, used to invite us to go to the sea whenever we accomplished an achievement in our jobs. When we wanted to say goodbye to a friend who would be traveling, he would ask us to organize a small trip to the sea making sure there was delicious food and some card games that he would surely win. 

During the genocide, I tried to feel like a productive human, especially after working hard to have a decent life before it began. So, I decided to teach some speaking and academic writing courses. Once the courses were over, I ran purposely to tell my students that we would celebrate our small graduation beside the sea! No border on earth could contain their happiness.

There is nothing scarier than a Gazan having nothing to lose, so we make our way to the sandy sanctuary no matter what kind of death is facing us. When we arrive, we see many people just staring at the water as if they’re bleeding their unspoken words with their eyes. The sea understands all the unsaid things too. I also saw many fishermen use their bare hands and simple fishing nets after the Israeli bombs had burnt their small boats which were their only source of income. As each of us loses ourselves inch by inch, we are consoled by the fact that the sea will be the only part of us that will endure. 

Witness to Genocide

I thought about changing the sea’s name to “Hope” because as much as the sea heals, it does hurt too, exactly like hope. The first red line that was drawn at the beginning of the aggression was the road by the coastline as if to scar the earth with division. That road was strewn with the bodies of those fleeing to the ‘safe zone’ south of the new separation line. 

A few weeks later, hundreds of men, women, and children trudged through the beach sand, where the aid packages were dropped, hoping to secure a handful of flour for their families. In one single night, over 100 starving people lost their lives in what would come to be known as the “flour massacres.” It felt like a kilogram of flour had become more precious than a human life. As the waves crashed along the shore, the sea stood a silent witness to the daily Israeli massacres that ravaged the people of Gaza. And even now, there are still bodies missing—lives lost whose final resting places are unknown, adding another layer of grief to our heavy burden.

Two of our neighbors were killed in the flour massacres. One of them was almost 15 years old. He told his mother that he would go and bring some flour to feed his family. He came back to his mother in a white shroud after being killed by a bullet in his neck; a thin layer of flour covered his face and body like dust. I still remember his face, and I still remember his mother’s screams when she knew her son was murdered. When small amounts of flour were allowed into Gaza City, his mother refused to eat the bread saying with a fading voice: ‘I cannot eat my son’s blood.’ 

And what about Hope?

Through the endless chaos I’m forced to endure daily, I pull myself together and head to the beach. This sea hears what I can’t understand myself. This sea takes in my wilted eyes. I find myself staring at it as if I’m in that scene I witnessed a few days ago with my students.

Gaza’s sea has watched me swimming, jumping into its waves, since I was a little child. Now, I am a young lady born in a city of grief/loss, running breathlessly to the sea, for its misty air to somehow tidy up the mess inside.

Each wave hugging the shore brings a new breath of hope to the city. It reminds us that there is a calm deep serenity after the harsh crash of chaos. I believe this genocide will end, and so will the occupation, each a wave in the history of our land. I will come and celebrate my survival on the beach where the water knows me very well. I will bring my friends who will survive with me, and we will eat some Maqlouba together. Children of the sea, it knows us and we know it.  

¹ Dawali is a dish made of vine leaves stuffed with a mixture of rice, fresh parsley, mint, and tomatoes. It has different variations and names across the Levant. 

²Dal’owna is a folklore levantine song composed in different tempos that go with the folk dance of Dabka.

About the author

Asma’a Abdu, 24, is an English literature graduate from Gaza. She has worked as project coordinator at the UCASTI.