« A fear like never before invades me » – Liberation

It costs me to write it, but I think life in the tents is not about to stop. Some of us, in a momentum of anger and refusal of the situation, had burned their tent, Believing that we were finally going to go home. But they are now back; They stand in front of us, not in the evacuation zones, but at the very heart of our own city. A Gaza! This vision that I hated, that I hoped never again, is our new daily life. At the end of January, we returned to Gaza To find our city in ruins. There are no more houses to take shelter, no more roofs to protect themselves from freezing cold or overwhelming heat. Only the sky remains as far as the eye can see and the earth broken under our feet. Children die – not figuratively, but literally – cold, sometimes hungry, and always despair, under the weight of an unbearable injustice.

During the days that followed my return, I tried to hang on to my daily rituals; Discover the streets, breathe the air that I know well, fill my lungs with the scent of my native land. This is my city; I know her, and she knows me. I started looking for the remains of a life that was once mine; The houses, the trees, the sea, the people, the few restaurants still standing, the taste of the dishes that I had so much dreamed of … But very quickly, the harsh reality of daily survival took over. There was no more water in the city. Of course, there wasn’t at home either. People, even children, had to transport the water over long distances, if they found them. We ration it, we saved each drop. We no longer had electricity or internet. We were cut off from the world and prisoners of endless suffering. Despite everything, we tried to adapt. We repeated that at least we were with us. And I hung up on these words that helped me overcome each test: time heals all injuries.

Then came Ramadan, the month of fasting and mercy, supposed to soothe our hearts. This time, at least we would not pass it into exile. We would make our rituals in our city, we would cook our Ramadan dishes that we love so much, despite the current seat. But early March, The roads were closedthe help suspended, and the food has started to miss. People began to store everything they found, dreading the inevitable shortages. We had already experienced this. We had learned. And yet, in the midst of all this, which hurt me the most was to be separated from my family. My dear mother, my sister, my brothers had stayed in the south, waiting to be able to return once they would have found a home. I was waiting for this day with feverish impatience.

What gave me the strength to continue was our work, our mission: to provide health care, both in the north and in the south. In the north, suffering was unbearable; The populations have survived the worst war horrors, and most health structures have been reduced to ashes. They faced war, famine and illness. Today, as always, the team of doctors of the world does their best to provide medical care services and mental health support to those who need it. Our team was dispersed: some in the north, others in the south.

Many of us, including me, have been separated from our families. Fathers far from their children, mothers separated from their parents. Move from north to south of Gaza is now the obstacle course; Control points, endless expectations, fuel shortages and the lack of vehicle made the movements almost impossible. Every day was a fight. The pain of separation and the lack of dear beings made our suffering even greater. However, we hung on to hope, convinced that healing was still possible, that things would end up improving. After all, we had survived the worst. There was surely only a last effort to provide.

But The night of March 18everything changed. We were awakened by the noise of planes and explosions. My heart stopped. Did I dream? Was it real? It could only be a nightmare, or perhaps the sequelae of trauma. At that moment, my daughter’s howls of terror broke my thoughts: « War starts again! » We still have to move! ” I tightened her strongly against myself, paralyzed, unable to understand what was going on. Has the war really started again?

We had been let glimpse of a glimmer of hopejust enough to believe that we could rebuild our lives, hold on and move forward despite everything. And then, suddenly, we were rejected in the dark. War. Again. Our greatest fear has come true. How can our hearts cure after that? We have never stopped counting the dead, the wounded, the missing. In just a few days, we find ourselves crying more than five hundred souls, And this figure only increases. These people headed for the rubble of their houses; Hung on to the dream of finding even a fragment of their life before.

But even this hope was too much. Once again, you can hear the cries of the bereaved: widows, orphans. We came back to that; Human beings cry their brothers and sisters, the heart taken of unspeakable pain. However, the loss does not leave room for mourning. You have to move forward, the sorrow on your back, while the drama takes place before their eyes, again and again. The newspaper titles confirmed my fears: the resumption of the war in Gaza. Negotiations have failed. The passing points closed, and the road between the north and the south again cut. New victims declared, and reports evoking an earthly invasion. Flashing evacuation orders on the screens, exactly as before.

March 19 was my birthday. This day has always had an important place in my heart, I liked to celebrate his joy, his gifts, these details which made him special. This year was different. It was not my first birthday in wartime, but I had hoped that it would be the first without war, without fear. Instead, he arrived accompanied by solitude and terror, without family or friends. It’s strange, the way life can transform your happiest days into your most painful memories. We returned to hear the heartbreaking stories from all over the Gaza Strip, to Rafah, this southern city that had housed us for months. After more than six months of siege, its inhabitants had finally returned, with the hope of rebuilding their lives. Doctors of the World reopened a clinic there to support them. But suddenly, they found themselves trapped. A new evacuation order. Again.

I heard of a mother desperately looking for her children before fleeing her house. She left before having been able to find her fourth son. By fleeing, she saw him lying in the street, bloody, lifeless. The broken heart, she said: “I found my son on the ground, a ball in the belly. I couldn’t take him. I couldn’t hug him. The tank was right in front of me. ” What comfort can heal such pain? What words can console a mother who could not take her dying child in her arms one last time? It is only by thousands. Elderly women are crawling to flee. Young chests are dragging their sick mother. Young children wear far too heavy burdens for their frail shoulders. The same scenes and the same suffering are repeated again and again in this endless war.

I now feel a fire burn in me. A fear like never before invades me. We are all lost, anxious, terrified. We do not know what awaits us. The resumption of war, travel and death, after all that we have endured, is a violent shock. It destroys our already fragile hope. He revives the anxiety of losing everything; Again. We have tasted security, even if it only lasted for a moment. And, I swear, it was a wonderful feeling. However, I cling to my faith, the one that protected us, which has instilled patience, endurance and comfort through this endless nightmare. I cling to the words of the Koran: « Allah may have a better future after that. » For the moment, at least, I’m still in Gaza. Yes, under the crash of the bombs, in the middle of the ruins, with the greater fear of losing everything again. But if there is a source of comfort, it is because I am always on my land. If I have to die, while it is here, to rest forever in your soil.