A father’s radio, a mother’s reassurance – and then, in an instant, darkness and pain. This is life under Israeli attack
In the heart of Gaza City, my father clung to the radio, yearning for news that might signal a ceasefire amid another relentless night of bombardment. Attempting to instill a semblance of calmness, my mother assured us that the morning of December 7 would bring respite. Little did we know, the day would unfold in ways we could never have fathomed.
After surviving a harrowing night of bombings, I connected with my news desk in Doha, only to find myself joining my 65-year-old father, Rafik, in listening to the news, expecting updates on the ongoing crisis. Unbeknownst to us, the unthinkable was about to occur.
In mere milliseconds, the world plunged into darkness. The morning’s radiant sunshine vanished, replaced by an engulfing blackness. My two-year-old son Rafik, my wife Asmaa, my father, mother Nadia, and my sister Fatma—all were thrust into a realm of dust, smoke, and fire.
Amid this chaotic scene, pain surged through my body as I found myself trapped under the weight of a collapsing ceiling. Frantically, I called out the names of my family, desperately seeking a response. Silence prevailed, and I eventually succumbed to unconsciousness.
As I regained awareness, muffled voices reassured me of my survival. A stranger attended to my injuries, emphasizing the importance of not moving. The confusion lingered as I grappled with the aftermath—two hours buried beneath the rubble, with neighbors working tirelessly to unearth us.
While the air strike spared our lives, it wrought havoc on our sense of normalcy. In that fleeting moment, the mental wounds were sown—wounds that would accompany us, shaping our daily existence for a lifetime. The miracle of survival stood juxtaposed with the profound alteration of our lives, marked by enduring trauma and the indelible scars of that tragic December morning.
