On October 6, a day before the anniversary of the war on Gaza, people living in Jabalia—a densely populated refugee camp in northern Gaza—woke up to sounds of intense bombardment. It was the day Israel launched its third ground offensive on Jabalia since the Gaza war began a year ago.
“It feels like the early days of the war,” says Sameeha, 33, who lives in a four-storied house in Jabalia, during a telephonic conversation on October 6. The bombs were going off somewhere close by. “Every time you hear the sound of the bomb and feel the intensity of its vibration, it is a near-death experience,” she adds.
Stuck in the house along with Sameeha, who worked as a math teacher before the war began, are her four children, her parents, her brother Eissa Al-Aswad, 27, and other 27 family members. They all lived in different parts of Gaza, but due to constant shelling and displacement, all have now taken refuge in this house.
Sameeha informs that the Israeli Army asked them to flee to designated “safe zones” in Southern and Central Gaza after it began the renewed ground offensive. “But no place in Gaza is safe, including the so-called ‘safe zones’. So, we stayed here. We can die anytime, but where do we go?” she asks.
In December 2023, Sameeha and her family had to flee from their home due to incessant bombardment. They took refuge in an UNRWA school. For 12 days, a classroom was their sanctuary. It was from this shelter that her husband was taken by the Israel Defense Forces (IDF). He remains missing to date. Samiha is unsure whether he is alive or dead.
“The children keep asking about their father. Now they know he might never come back,” she says.
In a series of text messages exchanged after the Israeli airstrikes on Jabalia began, both Sameeha and her brother Eissa shared stories of struggle, uncertainty, hardships and faint hope.
Eissa is a photographer. These days he manages his finances by working for several media and civil society organisations. He spends most of his time travelling on foot for assignments due to inadequate transportation. Many roads are impassable, rendering cars useless.
“We often can't complete assignments on time. The day ends, and I’m left searching for stable internet and electricity to send photos and videos.”
“One of the most distressing photos I clicked was of children being pulled from a bombed house,” Eissa recounts. “The mother had mistakenly carried another child, thinking it was hers. When she saw her son, she exclaimed, ‘I thought you were dead, thank God, my son.’ Her scream was filled with pain.”
These assignments take a toll on his emotional health, but he looks forward to coming back to the house after signing off for the day.
Eissa says the adults in the house, in very rare light-hearted moments, tell children to put fingers in their ears, close their eyes and pretend the war is over. They tell them to imagine that there are no explosions, no dust in the sky is blocking the view of the sun.
These moments are rare. The conversations, however, have died down. Whenever all of them are together, they no longer talk about careers, weddings, or TV shows. All they talk about is the war and hope that it ends soon. “We discuss what would be the first thing we would eat after the war gets over. What would we do?”
And then the reality hits. “If not by bombs, we will surely die of starvation,” Sameeha says, adding that they don’t get enough food in North Gaza. The food aid they receive is insufficient, consisting only of canned peas and beans in limited quantities. Her four children long for meat, chicken, fruits and vegetables.
Sameeha tells them they will enjoy these luxuries “in paradise.”
“The children now innocently ask, ‘When will we go to paradise?’ They want to eat good food, play with their friends again and most of all, sleep without the frightening sounds of explosions.”
With no major source of income, Sameeha makes desserts at home and her children sell them to make ends meet. She prepares sweet pastries with flour, sugar, ghee, and cocoa powder. Finding ingredients is difficult; some come from market shops, while others are from aid. Without gas, she relies on making them over an open flame.
On occasions, they also remember family members who lost their lives. In December last year, a few days after the family was forced to take refuge in the UNRWA school, they were told that they could return home. They packed mattresses, bags and everything else they had brought with them.
Sixteen minutes into their return journey, Israeli missiles hit Jabalia camp’s residential blocks. Eissa's brother and cousin were caught in the strike. His cousin Mohammed Al-Aswad, 20, was killed. “He was a kind man and had a good reputation. We all loved him,” says Eissa. Mohammed’s father was looking for a bride for him. The young boy was excited about that.
Eissa’s brother, Ramadan Al-Aswad, 31, was severely injured in the same strike. A large shrapnel entered his abdomen and left him semi-paralysed. He has two children—a son, 10 and a daughter, nine. With no hospitals, health centres, or medications available, they are unable to get him treated.
Despite everything, they don't want to leave Gaza. “We will rebuild our homeland and hold onto it, when the war is over; if it is over,” Sameeha says.
The latest airstrikes have made people anxious. According to the local reporters, Israeli forces have inflicted massive damages in Jabalia. Entire neighbourhoods have been wiped out. Most homes are gone. “The streets are strewn with rubble and demolished buildings. Words fail to describe the devastation,” says Sameeha.
Israel has destroyed hospitals, schools and residential areas, claiming Hamas was operating under them but providing no proof of its claims. Eisaa and Samiha claim that before October 7 last year, Hamas was active in northern Gaza. “But since that date, we haven’t seen any Hamas. Any claims about Hamas’ presence here are just excuses to kill us,” Eissa says.
Jabalia, which does not exceed 1.4 square kilometres, is the largest of eight refugee camps in the Gaza Strip. Before the war, it housed over 116,000 people who were officially registered with UNRWA.
Palestinian refugee camps like Jabalia’s were established in 1948 to temporarily house families expelled from their homeland in the war that created Israel. The event is known to Palestinians as the Nakba—or “catastrophe”.
Eissa says life in northern Gaza these days is harsh. They have no electricity, so most household tasks are done manually. They assist their family with domestic chores like cooking and washing clothes by hand, in addition to fetching water from distant places, which they carry themselves.
Twice a week, Eissa and his relatives trek to distant water sources, shouldering heavy loads. “We go to collect water from faraway sources, which makes those days extremely difficult and exhausting,” Eissa says. Night offers no respite. “Finally, we try to sleep on time, but the sounds of explosions keep us awake,” he says. Eissa’s house is now filled with dust, smoke, and signs of burning, and the walls are crumbling, as a result of frequent bombings.
The Al-Aswad siblings have no hope in neighbouring Arab countries. Samiha says: “It makes us feel sad that Arabs aren’t doing anything, but Allah will save us. Faith keeps us strong. Faith keeps us alive.”
Since our last telephonic conversation with the siblings on October 6, Israel has cut off north Gaza, preventing any aid from going in, as it stages major ground and air assaults and has killed hundreds in the last weeks.
Amid the ongoing siege, hundreds of Palestinians are fleeing northern Gaza, but Eissa’s family chooses to stay.
“We are still alive,” he says.
