i am alive, or maybe I am not. Who knows
I am alive, or maybe l am not. Who knows.
One of the many airstrikes today across Gaza hit our neighbor's house. Many of my neighbors were killed and injured.
When it happened, I was sitting in the street, having coffee with a friend. When I heard the strike, I thought it was beyond the yellow line. Almost immediately, my mother called, terrified, just to make sure I and everyone else were safe.
Less than an hour before the airstrike, I had walked past the house that was hit. Ciela, my sister, and her husband had passed by it less than ten minutes earlier.
I wasn't sure I would make it home alive. The sky was full of drones and F-16 warplanes. While I was on my way back, more airstrikes hit nearby. Even after I got home, they continued. I have been literally waiting for my own. Does anyone know how many people have been killed since the so-called ceasefire?
Now, every sound | hear feels like an airstrike coming straight at me.
One of my colleagues told me last night that this genocide didn't end, and never will. It was acceptable for hundreds of thousands to be killed or injured, so what difference would it make if hundreds more, or even thousands, were killed?
My friend Moaz, who was having coffee with me, told me not to be too anxious. He said death is better than this life. He told me he isn't afraid of a missile falling in front of him. He's used to running toward bombed houses, carrying dead bodies and pieces of them, without fear or hesitation.
I told him that I'm used to treating those bodies, but I still feel fear. I still worry.
Before the strike, Moaz started singing, and I sang with him. We were singing for life, for love. In a single second, everything changed. Al we could talk about was death and genocide.
I don't know if Moaz and I will survive this.
But it would be nice if we do. Because tomorrow morning, we are going together to the camps to distribute the winter clothes we prepared today, for cold children, before the rain comes. More airstrikes as I am sharing this.
