Originally shared on rosalux.de
The genocidal war in Gaza continues unabated. Amidst displacement, destruction, tens of thousands of dead and injured and a man-made famine, the Israeli government announced the military takeover of Gaza City and declared the city a “combat zone”. Residents are unable to flee to safety because there are no safe places left. Until now, they had hoped that they would soon be able to return to their homes and neighbourhoods. That last bit of hope is now being pulverized.
This is also the case for Ali Abu Yassin and his family, currently living in the beach refugee camp (“Shati”) in Gaza City, one of the largest refugee camps in the Gaza Strip. Ali is a theatre director and drama teacher in Gaza. He has worked at the Ashtar Theatre in Ramallah since 2008, where he developed the Gaza Monologues, which have been performed worldwide and translated into many languages. The work of the theatre in Gaza and the stories of its young performers are the focus of the documentary film We Are Here: Young Gaza on Stage by Sabrina Dittus (Pepperlint Film), which was produced in 2016 in cooperation with the Rosa Luxemburg Foundation. We republish his text here in order to illustrate the desperate situation in which the people of Gaza find themselves caught.
All the residents of Gaza City are living in a state of anxious anticipation and mad waiting — wondering what awaits them and their city. Will we truly be able to evacuate to the south, or will we remain in our homes, unmoved even if they collapse over our heads?
The first time we were displaced, we believed we would return to our homes after a week or two at most. But we ended up staying away for 13 months, enduring unimaginable suffering during that time. Our return home after the truce was the hardest day I’ve ever lived. My family and I walked nearly 15 kilometres on foot, carrying heavy burdens that nearly broke our bodies. Near Carrefour, we collapsed on the ground, worn out from the intense exhaustion and severe thirst. We lay there for four hours, unable to move, with no means of transport available to take us the remaining short distance — no more than three kilometres — to our home.
That return felt like Judgment Day. Eventually, I called a friend, and he sent a 50-seater bus. There was no other transport available. As soon as the bus arrived, we got on it, and within seconds, every exhausted person around us climbed in, too, until it was packed to capacity.
We reached our house— and we still couldn’t believe we had actually returned. Coming back felt like an unattainable dream, like entering paradise. We couldn’t believe we were inside our home again. I found it mostly intact, except for the top floor which had been bombed and some items that were gone. But the house, like us, was worn out — covered in a thick layer of black dust. You couldn’t sit or touch anything.
I found my special bamboo chair, the one I always sat on and rocked in. I gently wiped the dust off it and sat down quietly, letting out a long, deep sigh, “Aaaah…”, which I repeated several times. Every family member laid back in a chair and let out their own version of that same sigh.
Now, the occupation is preparing to displace us again — this time to the south — and they’re clearly planning to destroy the city, just like they did in other areas: Beit Hanoun, Jabalia, Beit Lahiya, Rafah, and Khan Younis.
When I saw Jabalia for the first time after our return, I couldn’t believe it. The entire area had turned into a pile of rubble. It was beyond anything imaginable. I couldn’t sleep for a week, and the image has not left my mind to this day. Photos and videos are nothing compared to the reality.
It was literally unimaginable. Not a single house remained, not even a single wall left standing. Jabalia had become just a heap of stone — no streets, no features, no geography, nothing but destruction and the smell of death.
Will the same happen to Beach Camp (Shati Camp) as it did in Jabalia?
My head feels like it’s going to explode from all the thoughts.
After all that… how can I leave my home?
Give me a mind that is not mine, and a heart that is not mine, to convince me — or help me — to walk out of this house.
This is the home I spent my entire life building for my sons and daughters — a small homeland of their own. My wife and I scoured all of Gaza looking for the perfect tile colour for the apartment, the right countertop for the kitchen, the right ceramic tiles for the bathroom, and curtain colours that matched the tiles, and the sofa set for the guest room.
But forget all that — think of the memories:
The laughter of the grandchildren,
The first steps of Hamoud, Sham, and Soso,
The birthdays,
The barbecue nights,
Every New Year’s Eve with the whole family gathered on the roof, next to pots of basil and mint.
The weddings, the engagements, the celebrations.
The scenes of many films, series, and interviews that were shot inside this very house.
So many times, I turned the guest hall into a home theatre stage to rehearse plays at home.
My whole life is in this house.
The Al-Meshal Theatre was destroyed.
Now only the house is left.
It’s all I have — a small, 150-square-meter home in Beach Camp, three floors, with the third floor already bombed. Only two floors remain.
How can I leave it?
Lately, I spend most of my time embracing my house, gazing long at every detail, remembering all the years I spent working day and night to build and furnish this little homeland.
How can I leave it, knowing that if I do, they will destroy it —
and destroy the camp I spent my life in,
and which I love without limits?