through the storm

a family's struggle for survival

This past weekend, Israeli forces hid in humanitarian aid trucks to infiltrate the Nuseirat refugee camp in Gaza. They opened fire on the starved population, killing over 220 Palestinians and injuring over 400. They retrieved four hostages and are celebrating this massacre as a “rescue mission.”

So far, more hostages have been killed rather than rescued by Israel’s military operations in Gaza. You may remember in November there was a temporary ceasefire in which 105 hostages were released in exchange for Palestinian hostages who have been detained for years in Israeli prisons without trial. This indicates that Israel’s supposed objective of hostage retrieval could be achieved through diplomacy and not mass murder.

But Israel’s objective is not hostage retrieval. The objective is genocide, and the hostage crisis creates brilliant PR cover, allowing the media to run footage of returned hostages, while Israel’s indiscriminate murdering and wiping out of Palestinian families is a mere footnote, at best. This tactic keeps the focus on October 7th and the hostages. But this ongoing violence did not start in October, it started in 1948 with Israel’s founding as a settler colonial state, or in 1917 when the Balfour Declaration was issued, or in 1897 at the first Zionist conquest—long, long before the formation of Hamas. Israel is and has always been the aggressor, the oppressor, the occupier. At this point, after nearly 250 days of genocide, being ignorant of these basic facts is not only willful, it is racist and violent.

This week, I am sharing an account from Gaza written by my friend Yasmin who is my former student at the Gaza Sky Geeks Code Academy. A former English teacher, Yasmin went on to teach the Code Academy course. Now, Yasmin and her family are enduring genocide. This is their story—the story of millions of Gazans who are being repeatedly, forcibly, and violently displaced, witnessing massacre after massacre along the way.

I am in awe of Yasmin for being able to write in such abysmal conditions. I am both proud and humbled to partner with her as a storyteller and vehicle for the truth of what is happening in Gaza.

These times are devastating, but giving up is not an option. Some days, solidarity is a quiet practice— one where we simply listen and make space in our hearts to hold and feel the pain of another. I share this account not to instill despair, but to ignite a transformative spark, one that moves you even just a millimeter more towards taking action for the people of Palestine.

Yasmin’s nieces and nephews.

Through the Storm: A Family's Struggle for Survival

We evacuated to Khan Younis in December 2023 and stayed there for about a month. During our stay, we couldn't use our phones for two months because there was nowhere to charge them.

Every night, we could hear the sound of gunfire. We knew that staying in Khan Younis was dangerous, but no place is safe in Gaza and we had nowhere to go.

One night, I woke up to the sound of clashes. I saw my worried father trying to wake my brother to decide whether it was safer to stay till the morning or leave immediately.

My father ventured his head out of the tent and saw that the people in the surrounding tents were running and leaving for the Khan Younis Training College, a UN institute housing more than 40,000 displaced people from around the Gaza Strip.

Two days later, the college was besieged by tanks, and bullets from the clashes were falling inside the campus, killing many people. The administration room was turned into an operations room, and the garden was turned into a graveyard.

We heard about a person who was using the bathroom; when he opened the door, he was shot in the belly and died.

Additionally, two kids who were in the corridor were shot dead by stray bullets.

Another story, and certainly not the only one, involves a woman who was shot in the head. It's a tragic example of how they were callously toying with people's lives.

Our stay in the college was scary, horrendous and horrifying.

We heard that they withdrew, so some people went back to their tents to retrieve clothes and other belongings. We needed clean clothes and other necessities from our tent, so my brother, my two sisters, and I went to retrieve them. My brother advised us to move quickly and return the same way, suggesting that running would be better. When we reached our tent, we were startled to find a tank very close by. My sisters asked if we should go back.

Despite the danger, we resolved to press on. Desperately needing to retrieve clean clothes and other essentials from our tent, we ventured forward. Suddenly, a tank fired a missile close to us, narrowly missing us thanks to God's mercy.

We began searching for our belongings frantically, with my brother growing increasingly nervous. He urged us constantly to finish as quickly as possible.

It took us nearly three minutes to gather our belongings and bring clean clothes for our nephews. We left the tent in a hurry, running. As we ran out, the gunfire clashes started again.

A day later, due to our intense hunger and lack of food, we decided to bake bread on our own. I helped my mom in making the bread, while she and my brothers went to a nearby baker on campus to bake it. Meanwhile, I went to pray Dhuhr (midday prayer). While in the process of baking, a building of the college which was nearby to the baker was targeted by an airstrike, resulting in the deaths of 100 people. At that moment, I was in prostration during my prayer, and I heard the explosion. I fervently prayed for protection for all of us, and for everyone in Gaza, from such horrors.

I was terrified by the situation. Unsure of whether my mom and brothers were still there, I heard from terrified people that those who were killed were in pieces. I witnessed people crying in fear, running frantically in all directions.

I went to search for my mom and brothers, only to learn later that they had fled, leaving the bread behind.

In the evening, we heard that the IDF had found someone seeking refuge in the college and, upon encountering him outside, they beat him severely and nearly to death. They instructed him to go to the people in the college and tell them to evacuate. They said the deadline was until 5pm the next day.

As people began to evacuate, my family decided that we would leave first thing in the morning because traveling at night was too dangerous. Many others decided to wait till the morning.

In the morning, we were surprised to hear soldiers on the tanks using speakers to call out to people in Arabic, saying "اخرجوا حفاظاً على حياتكم" which translates to "Leave for the sake of your safety."

I saw people running in fear. The college had both a back door and a front door, with a considerable distance between them. I stood there in shock, observing the chaotic scene unfold. I saw people running towards the front door, only to be confronted by IDF soldiers and tanks. They then turned and ran towards the back door, but were met with the same obstacle. In desperation, they ran back towards the front door. I witnessed groups of people running back and forth between the front and back doors, their movements fueled by fear and uncertainty.

I heard the rumble of the tank treads as it approached. Thoughts raced through my mind—perhaps the tank would smash through the walls and invade the campus, maybe even killing us or taking the rest as prisoners. The sound of the tank's engine was the most terrifying noise I could imagine.

Of course, with the tanks taking over the roads, there were no cars available. If you were evacuating, you had to walk. This posed a significant challenge, especially for my two married brothers who had young children, the oldest being only 9 years old. It was a daunting task to consider how the children would manage to walk such a long distance.

As we walked down the street, I noticed elderly people barely able to walk, each step a struggle. There were also handicapped individuals, some in wheelchairs, with their families facing difficulty moving due to the rubble and shrapnel littering the streets. Witnessing their struggles amidst the chaos was heartbreaking. Silently, I prayed for them, wondering how they would manage such a long journey.

During the evacuation, individuals were only allowed to carry a backpack and their identification card.

As we walked, I noticed my mom was not with us. Was she among the 40,000 people evacuating? With no means of communication, unable to call, one of us went back to see why she was delayed and to assist her. The rest of us stayed in the street, waiting for their arrival.

Staying in the street was indeed dangerous, with nothing between us and the tank. My nephew, Yamin, voiced our collective concern, asking, "And now how are we supposed to live?" An old man answered, "That's a good question, ask them."

When my mom and the rest of our group arrived, we continued walking. After hours of walking, we encountered a group of tanks and IDF soldiers. Upon seeing the tanks, people began reciting the Shahadah in case these moments were their last: "I bear witness that there is no god but Allah and that Mohammed is the messenger of God." People were frightened, fearing that the soldiers might commit mass murder. I also recited the Shahadah, but I wasn't afraid. Perhaps I was numbed by shock.

There was a sniper on top of one of the tanks, aiming his weapon directly at our heads.

There was a group of soldiers on top of the tank, shouting at the people, mocking them, and throwing spiteful remarks in Arabic, "You're abandoned. You're alone."

There was another checkpoint, and after walking for another half an hour, we reached it. At this checkpoint, they announced that women and children could proceed, while males above 18 were required to wait.

I proceeded with my mom, sisters, sisters-in-law, their kids. However, we waited for my dad and brothers to arrive before continuing our journey to the south, either towards Rafah or Deir al-Balah. We couldn't proceed without them, as there were no means of communication. If we went without them, they wouldn't know where we went. So, we had no choice but to wait.

As I walked, I noticed blood streaks on the bag I was holding. I wondered where they could have come from. Then, looking at my hand, I realized it was because I was clutching a heavy bag.

We kept walking from 8 AM until 10 PM without any food.

My feet grew sore and developed wounds. Due to malnutrition, they took a long time to heal.

We sat on the sidewalk, starving and trembling from the cold. My niece, Razan, was suffering from the cold and ended up vomiting on the road, with a high fever. She desperately needed to rest, but we only had our backpacks. So, I placed my backpack on the ground, allowing the child to sleep on it.

Beside me sat Abdullah, my nephew, looking very depressed as he rested his face in his hand and stared into despair. When he noticed me looking at him, he said, "Look at my shoes, they're filled with dust. Dad bought them just a week ago." In response, I said the  Arabic word “فداك”

"فداك" is an expression in Arabic that conveys deep empathy and sympathy. It roughly translates to "I would sacrifice myself for you" or "May I be sacrificed for you."

We waited for hours in the cold. As we sat there, we could hear the sound of gunfire. What was happening? Were my dad and brother okay? We didn't know, but we sat there, frozen with worry.

Abdullah interrupted the silence, asking, "Aunty, are we going to die?" I reassured him, saying, "No, we are not going to die. Who said that?" However, as I uttered those words, gunfire erupted. It seemed to occur every five minutes. Were they carrying out executions in the open? We did not know.

The sound of gunfire grew closer, prompting people to move further away. However, they only moved a short distance, still waiting for the rest of their family members to arrive so they could continue walking.

My brother Basil finally arrived after three hours of waiting. We were overjoyed to see him, and his kids seemed to revive after seeing him, having been in shock.

We waited for another four hours, and then my youngest brother Mahmoud, who was only 17, finally arrived.

As darkness fell, the kids started to fall asleep, but we continued to wait for my dad and two more brothers.

Then the weather changed, and a winter storm blew in while we were still on the sidewalk.

The storm intensified, and the rain poured down on us, soaking us and our bags. The flood in the street swept away the bags and drenched our belongings in water. The clothes we risked our lives for became useless.

I was hugging the kids, tears streaming down my face as I trembled with fear. The children were crying too, overwhelmed by the storm and the uncertainty of our situation.

The storm persisted for an hour, leaving us with wet clothes, shivering as the cold wind whipped around us. We also had a nephew with us who was only 5 months old and another niece who was a year and a half, adding to our concerns for their well-being in such harsh conditions.

Finally, my two brothers arrived, providing some relief, but we continued to wait anxiously for my dad.

An hour later, my dad finally arrived. My brothers quickly found a truck to carry us to Rafah.

As the truck drove on, the cold air whipped around us, causing us to shiver uncontrollably. Amidst our discomfort, I stumbled upon a wet blanket in my belongings. Knowing my sister Lina's susceptibility to cold, I draped the blanket over her, hoping it would offer some protection from the chilling winds, despite its dampness.

When we arrived in Rafah, we sought refuge in a mosque, where we slept on the mosque rugs. My mom, who began to suffer from back pain, found it uncomfortable without a pillow or mattress.

We then relocated to a tent in Rafah, where we stayed for four months. Eventually, the IDF called for evacuation, and now we find ourselves back in Khan Younis.

Here is a GoFundMe for Yasmin’s family. Please support them. The funds will be used towards getting her family out of Gaza when the Rafah border crossing hopefully reopens. And if the border remains sealed, the funds will be used to survive day-to-day life in Gaza, where daily necessities have become scarce and expensive.

If you decide to contribute to Yasmin, I encourage you to match your donation with a contribution to another family on this vetted list. Not everyone in Gaza has the ability to eloquently document and get their story out to the world—they are no less worthy of our support. We amplify and honor Yasmin’s strength by offering support to another family whose story is going unheard.

Many details of Yasmin’s story break my heart and fill me with anger. One detail that lingers in my mind are the taunts of the Israeli soldiers, mocking Gazans by telling them that they are abandoned and they are alone.

If that scene fills you with disgust and anger, sit with those feelings. And then, let them move you towards action. Donate, organize, amplify Palestinian voices, counter false and misleading narratives, educate yourself, and join communities that are taking an active stance against this genocide.

Do what you can, even if it feels insignificant, to create ripples of hope for the people of Gaza that affirm that they are not abandoned and not alone.