“Isn’t It Time to Halt the Gaza Genocide?”

Ahlam al-Aqra’, 49, a dedicated mother of four, a lawyer with the Legal Unit at the Palestinian Centre for Human Rights (PCHR), and a Ph.D holder in International law, has endured unimaginable hardships amid the relentless conflict.

No words can adequately express the dread and fear that surrounds us. As I pen these lines, the sound of heavy shellfire and warplanes fill the air. The stench of death pervades and the constant fear of losing loved ones haunts me. Safety and security have become distant memories, with death looming as a horrifying daily routine. Each morning, I express gratitude for the gift of life, even as it is marred by sorrow and grief. Despite the artillery shells and missiles fired by Israeli tanks and warplanes at civilian homes, my family and I remain unharmed—yet the fear persists.

The events of October 12, 2023, are etched in my memory. At around 22:00, while I was in the living room of my home in the al-Saftawi area of northern Gaza, discussing the tragic fate of my husband’s niece and her family—who were all killed in a brutal bombardment—we were abruptly interrupted by a deafening explosion. A red flare lit up the sky, followed by a shockwave that reverberated through the area. We fled in a hurry, taking my 20-year-old daughter, Dima, and my 10-year-old son, Mohammed, with us to my brother’s house nearby. There, 33 of us—my parents, my sister and her family, my brothers and their families—had sought refuge from the unrelenting bombardments.

The night was filled with the nonstop sounds of sirens from ambulances and fire engines, attempting to rescue those trapped under rubble and transport them to hospitals after an airstrike hit a house. Late into the night, we learned via a Facebook post from the Israeli Occupation Forces’ (IOF) spokesperson that residents of northern Gaza and Gaza City were ordered to evacuate southward.

The realisation that this war was unlike previous conflicts hit us with full force. The intensity of bombing and the staggering casualties and destruction in Gaza suggested that this would be the most brutal assault Gaza had ever faced.

After much deliberation, we decided to evacuate to a friend’s house in the al-Nussairat refugee camp in central Gaza. After several attempts, we secured 4 cabs for our journey. At 05:00, we returned to our house to gather some belongings. As I stepped out, my life seemed to flash before me in a series of haunting images. It was a gut-wrenching moment as I gazed at the walls of my home, feeling as if I were saying a final goodbye to the life we once knew. The fear that we might never return gripped me, mingling with a desperate hope that we would find our way back and keep our loved ones safe. The scant clothing we managed to pack for each of us was a poignant symbol of my inner hope—that this displacement was only temporary, and that soon we would be reunited with our home and our old lives.

Forced Displacement

By approximately 08:00, we began our forced displacement journey southward. We squeezed into the cabs. My family and I, including my parents, husband, and two children travelled together to Salah al-Deen road. Throughout the journey from the al-Saftawi area to al-Nussairat refugee camp, my 80-year-old mother wept, overwhelmed by fear for her children and grandchildren, haunted by the dread of never being able to return to her home. Her anxiety was compounded by the painful echoes of 1948, when she had already been forced to leave everything behind.

Upon arrival at our friend’s house, we were warmly welcomed. We soon were divided into two groups: some went to my aunt’s house in Rafah, while the rest stayed in al-Nussairat. The parting from my brothers, their children, and my parents was one of the most painful experiences. We wept together, fearing it would be our final farewell. My son clung to his cousins, expressing his fear and saying, “Take care of yourself.”

My sister’s family and mine stayed in the al-Nussairat camp. Within hours, other relatives and friends began arriving at the two-story house. We lived with 30 others on the ground floor while the rest occupied the upper floor. Fear etched itself into our faces, and we tried to reassure each other that this nightmare would soon end and we would return home.

The first night was among the hardest. We crammed into a 3×3m room with 14 other people, including women and children. I struggled to sleep, tormented by the fear that a shell might fall on us at any moment.
The following day, we anxiously awaited any news of a truce or ceasefire. Instead, we were met with the grim reality that death was stalking every corner of Gaza and destruction was all-encompassing. As the days dragged on, the relentless cycle of death, devastation, and despair continued. The suffering and grief were overwhelming, and I found myself unable to bear the news any longer, fearing it would only deepen the pervasive dread already consuming us. Despite my efforts to shield others from this crushing reality, the fear had firmly taken hold of our hearts.

One day that is etched into my memory with painful clarity was when a nearby bombing illuminated our home with a terrifying red glow. My son erupted into hysterical screams. I hugged him and he cried out, “My Dad, my dad went out, I need him”. We rushed outside to find his father. When my son finally saw him, he began to scream again, pleading with him not to leave. After that, my son started to vomit from fear.

It is a harrowing experience to know that the family’s primary provider has gone to the market for essential supplies, only for that place to be bombed with no means of communication to confirm his safety. Each moment stretches into an agonising eternity. This has happened to me several times, each incident plunging me into a profound nightmare of potentially losing someone I love.

Attempts to buy bread often ended in frustration. We resorted to cooking and baking bread over a fire, a laborious task that took hours. By late November 2023, flour was scarce in al-Nussairat camp, and a 25 kg bag cost 700 NIS. With only 10 kg of flour left, my husband and others were forced to mix it with ground corn, which is used for animals. Convincing my child to eat the corn-mixed bread was heartbreaking. He initially refused, but hunger and lack of alternatives forced him to eat it. As a mother, witnessing his struggle to eat was a very painful moment.

Our suffering continued, with intense bombings causing widespread casualties and destruction, even in areas deemed safe by the IOF. The constant fear of not being able to contact my family due to communication blackouts was overwhelming. When connections were restored, the news was often devastating, revealing that friends or relatives had been injured or killed. Basic necessities are scarce—no safety, no water, no food except for preserved canned goods or food tainted with the toxic smell of smoke. This war has driven us back to a primitive era.

In an effort to alleviate the overwhelming pressure on both myself and my 10-year-old son, I provided him with a sketchbook and pen, hoping that drawing and writing might offer some solace. His first drawing was deeply unsettling, he depicted a tank firing at people and another tank demolishing a house. These images starkly reveal that his thoughts are consumed by the chaos of war. Yet, amidst this turmoil, he also shared a moment of peace—describing a rare outing to the Deir al-Balah market with his father during a brief truce. He recounted the joy of buying a ball and other simple items.

The afternoon of November, 15, 2023, remains a particularly painful memory. My 80-year-old aunt, who had been with us, died due to a lack of medication for her lung condition, which was not available in pharmacies. The Ministry of Health (MOH) was not able to distribute medications due to the state of emergency. We struggled to arrange an ambulance through heavy bombing to take her to Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital. The following day, finding a grave amid the many casualties was a challenge. We managed to bury her in al-Bureij cemetery, with only a few of her sons present to say their final goodbyes. I recall her hopeful conversations about reuniting with her grandchildren and cooking for them once the war ended.

Every day brings a new, harrowing story—news of people we know being killed, families erased, and shelters turned into graves. The illusion of safety in southern Gaza has been shattered as thousands of civilians seeking refuge have perished. In al-Nussairat refugee camp, where we sought refuge, daily airstrikes continue to claim lives and destroy homes. Death haunts us relentlessly, turning every corner into a battleground. The claim of ‘safe zones’ by IOF in southern Gaza proved false, as airstrikes continued to strike even those areas.

As the world celebrated New Year’s Eve, I received the heartbreaking news that our home in al-Saftawi had been destroyed by the IOF. I tried to remain composed, but the loss overwhelmed me. The dream of returning home seemed to vanish at that moment. Instead of contemplating a return, I began to think about living in a tent—wondering how long we would remain displaced.

My mother’s fear of never returning home has come to pass, as all residents of northern Gaza have been rendered homeless. No one can forget their home, the place where they spent their entire lives. Every photograph of my child taken in our home is a cherished memory, forever etched in my heart.

I strive to stay strong, trusting that God has better plans for us and is merciful to His servants. In these dire circumstances, we must call upon the international community to act urgently to end this genocide against over 2 million Palestinians.

As I write on the 121st day of the war, amidst ongoing truce talks, I see hope in the faces of those displaced with me. They believe that, even if their homes are destroyed, they will eventually return to rebuild their lives. The time has come for the International Criminal Court (ICC) Prosecutor and the international community to address the atrocities committed by the IOF against Palestinian civilians.