The story of Muhammad and his family's suffering during the Gaza war
"I went to see my house, which is near the yellow line, but I found nothing but desert."
Peace be upon you. I am Muhammad from Gaza, 36 years old, a father of three children: Sila, 9 years old; Amir, 8 years old; and Alma, 4 years old. My life before October 7th was full of peace, comfort, and tranquility. Every morning I went to work feeling incredibly happy, as I had built a beautiful house to shelter my family and was paying off its debts. We were eagerly awaiting the birth of our daughter, Massa. Then the war began, and everything started to disappear.
Security, work, happiness, and peace vanished. The sounds of explosions and indiscriminate shelling began everywhere. The first truly difficult experience of my life was when my house was shelled while we were inside. My apartment was on the fourth floor. The feeling was indescribable—the sheer terror, fear, and helplessness in front of my family. We chose the western side of the house, as the shells were coming from the east. I was injured in my hand and face, and my daughter breathed her last in my arms. My wife's feet were covered in blood from the rubble, and the sound of our children crying was louder than the explosions. We were trapped until the shelling stopped for a moment, and we went downstairs where there were no ambulances or hospitals to treat us. We went to a nearby medical point on a cart. A donkey pulled her along, and we sought refuge in a relative's house. We went to bury the infant girl; she was only 33 days old. She was born in the war and died in the war.
After that, we began to flee from street to street, then to a burnt-out bus where I lived for three months. We returned to our home during the war and cleared the rubble after the army withdrew. But soon, a missile struck my brother's bedroom on the second floor, killing him, his wife, and their young son, Baraa, instantly. He left behind four orphaned children, leaving immense pain within us. The army returned, and we were displaced again, this time to the south, living in a tattered tent. As for the famine, imagine, dear reader, three months of surviving on mallow leaves without bread. The hunger gnawed at us for two years. We didn't eat vegetables, fruits, meat, eggs, or cheese; only lentils and herbs. We ran after food morning and night, and the sounds of my children's fear and hunger still echo in my ears. I could hear their moans. We found no one to help us or comfort us.
We saw corpses in the streets, being eaten by animals, and there was no one to care for them.
Half my family was killed, and we were displaced more than 15 times, each time with new suffering. Now I live in a small storage room that isn't big enough for one person. We eat, drink, and sleep in the same room, which is no more than 3 by 4 meters. Inside, we have the kitchen, clothes, bedding, and everything else. I went to see my house, which is near the yellow line, but I found nothing but desert. All the houses were destroyed, the streets were washed away, and the landscape of life changed.
I launched a fundraising campaign to restore some hope to my children, to find some clean food and clothes, and to improve our lives. No words can describe the suffering we have endured. An entire people was wiped out, and although the number of dead and wounded has decreased, the war is still ongoing.
You can donate to support Mohammad and his family via Chuffed.