In Gaza, people do everything too quickly. We go to the toilet too quickly, fearing it will be targeted while we are inside. We do the work too quickly, fearing the offices will be targeted at any time. We distribute food and water quickly, fearing distribution points will be hit. We even pray too quickly, fearing we’ll be killed while praying.
I’m working in the office of the Palestinian Medical Relief Society, a Christian Aid partner. The office is receiving calls for help, writing reports and contacting suppliers. Teams on the ground are delivering the services – it’s like a beehive. Everyone is busy doing something. I’m so proud of all they are doing.
On Saturday [9 August], there was a terrifying explosion outside the office.
When the first missile hit, it was extremely loud and terrifying, and the building was shaking. I thought it was our building that was hit, and I wanted to evacuate. Then I looked from the window and saw a column of flames and smoke. Then, suddenly, another missile hit.
We closed all windows because the smell of gunpowder and dust was terrible. I wish I could also capture the smell.
We are all back to work, but our hearts are still beating fast. Staff are calling their families on their mobile phones to let them know they are OK, while continuing their work on the other phones.
There’s no time for grief or depression. Families are busy trying to protect themselves, or chasing aid or checking dead bodies in hospitals as they search for missing loved ones. Organisations are busy calling for support and monitoring aid distribution. People are taking the risk to open their small businesses to secure a few shekels to buy some bread and water. Families who lost their homes are too busy looking for safe shelters. We have stopped feeling anything.
After three days of sleepless nights, I fell asleep, then a massive explosion hit. The two seconds it took me to understand what was going on felt like forever.
This is the beach on Friday 8 August. Before the conflict it used to be crowded. Children used to enjoy the beach, but now it is associated with death.
The first thing I noticed the moment I stepped into the school that is now a UN camp were the crowds. I saw thousands of people staying there. Women stayed inside classrooms, young men were sitting in corridors, some playing chess or cards, older people were talking and drinking tea, children were playing in the playground … others just sat and gazed at the people around them.
I saw dignified people despite the great need, frustration and anger. I was inspired by how quickly children’s smiles returned as they went back to play football just a minute after a terrifying drone missile hit a place close to the shelter. I saw families who, despite their great need, insist on sharing the little food they have with others.
I asked a mother in one of the rooms whether she feels safe and protected in the shelter. She was about to answer, but instead just took a breath and decided to keep silent because she didn’t want to show her tears.
People in the shelter have very little space, very few choices, but very big hearts.
I have so many inspiring photos of children that I took in UN shelters. Kids told me about their big dreams. One girl wants to become a famous singer. A boy wants to become an astronaut. Another little girl wants to become a dentist, like her uncle. They have dreams and they want to realise them.
