The Israeli plan — pushing all those in Gaza towards a camp at Rafah’s ruins — yep, that’s the latest. But wait, let me backtrack. I grew up near Gaza city, five minutes from the beach. The view from our rooftop? Waves crashing, a lullaby of sorts. The place used to be pretty posh, too, with all those fancy hotels and resorts.
War hits, and I’m zigzagging all over — north, west, east — no place to call home ‘cause Israeli forces keep shifting where they strike. It’s like they’ve drawn this invisible line in the sand, dividing everything into “North Gaza” and “South Gaza.” But here I am just moving around, like we’re playing some grim game of tag.
Then there were these leaflets raining down from planes. “Head south,” they said. Yeah, right. Dad called that out as a con. The south didn’t seem any safer. We stuck it out up north, against the grain, I suppose. Before October 7? We wandered freely, north to south, no big deal. But say no to moving south, and suddenly, bam, checkpoint city. Starvation became the go-to move to force folks south. Some left, with their hunger gnawing too loudly to ignore, but we held our ground in stubborn refusal.
Odd memory: one Ramadan, oh boy, got myself poisoned. Scavenging what? Weeds — and meanwhile, the south was buzzing with supplies. Harsh doesn’t cover it. Hunger and exhaustion were our constant travel companions as we skirted bombed-out streets.
People we know fled south thinking it was safe. Then Rafah, boom, gone. Israeli forces came sweeping in with destruction in tow. Survivors? Stuck in central Gaza, roadsides turned campgrounds in shabby tents. Trying to head back north across Netzarim — forget it. Omar Marouf, a spry 22-year-old, tried. And now? Crickets. Did he make it?
And let’s talk aid. Shortages everywhere, a cruel joke. In line for scant rations? Better watch for airstrikes. Katz brands Rafah a “humanitarian city.” Yeah, sure — sounds like a bad punchline to those of us here.
I tossed a question to my granddad about this so-called plan, remembering stories he shared about 1948’s Nakba. “Grandpa, is Katz’s proposal a prison within a prison?” His answer? Spot-on. “Already caged, my dear,” he said. Death in every nook as long as occupation shadows us.
The neighboring countries, like Egypt? Not rolling out welcome mats. Treating Gaza folks as patients — maybe. Residents? Nope.
This grand scheme feels like a twisted arm play against Hamas, squeezing them to give up demands for Israel to walk away from the Morag axis. Meanwhile, people grow weary, hoping against hope for a pause, a breath. A ceasefire? This bare sliver of peace feels like a last-ditch act before it all crumbles.
But let’s face it, who knows what tomorrow holds? Clinging to this fragile dream of a truce is all we’ve got. The world feels heavy. Fingers crossed.
