The youngest to die was my baby cousin Bahaa, just 10 months old. He was killed alongside his siblings Jamal, aged six, and Ghady (10) on the third floor. They lived next to my cousins Ahmed (35) and Asmaa (34) and their three children – Muhammad (six), Alma (five), and Youssef (one). All five perished. A floor down, my five-year-old cousin Sila was the ninth casualty.
At the time, I was taking refuge in our shelter while attempting to cover and relay news to Western Media Outlets, where I work as a journalist. Reacting swiftly to the bombing, I rushed into the street to document the aftermath.
Amid the heavy smoke that lingered in the air, people desperately tried to rescue my surviving family members from the wreckage. A woman’s anguished cries echoed out: “They killed us, they killed us!”
In the midst of this chaos was my father, frantically searching for my younger brother Muhammad, who had momentarily gone missing at the onset of the bombing. I will never forget the terror in my father’s eyes at that moment.
My older brother Karam, who was supposed to be pursuing a doctoral degree in accounting, took our family car to drive the wounded to the hospital. Poor communication further complicated matters, contributing to the delayed arrival of ambulances.
This was just one strike. In multiple other bombardments carried out across the territory, a further 51 relatives of mine have died. This reflects the grim reality of life in Gaza, which can be ended in an instant.
Of the 27,000 people killed in the war, how many died in their own homes while surrounded by their loved ones? How many were the victims of Israel’s indiscriminate airstrikes? And just how much longer will this suffering and death continue?
I have already lost so much. It breaks my heart to see other families in Gaza meeting the same fate.
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