Gaza Diaries: updates on the ground from our Arabic team
by Respond Crisis Translation team members in Gaza
March 27, 2025:
Like sheep in a pen, we await our slaughter. We know we are sacrifices, yet we mimic the language of life in Gaza.
Like sheep in a pen,
We know we are sacrifices,
But at the same time, we eat, we drink, we gain a little weight.
We strive to find what the streets offer...
We wander aimlessly, searching for street vendors.
We count the remaining coins in our pockets... and settle for a few tomatoes, cans of beans, or macaroni for the little ones.
There's no harm in the sheep mimicking the curse of life.
We struggle daily, clinging to life, then we return to the remnants of houses and tents, rejoicing in our meager spoils.
--
Or perhaps we are like cockroaches, deserving to be crushed,
Or like ants, swarming over a piece of sugar,
Or like frightened sheep when the dogs bark at them, they scatter in panic in every direction.
Or like mice in a trap.
Or we are the lab rats,
--
How dare I?
Of course We are not animals; for animals can be seen and heard;
they possess rights and places to live.
And we are not numbers, for numbers have value,
But we... invisible entities, marring the beauty of this modern world
We are everything but nothing of value ..
--
I look at my face in the mirror and I don't see it.
I no longer see my features.
I no longer have a face.
We have become nothingness. Yet we still suffer in this so-called civilized world that denies us even the mercy of a swift end, by allowing us to die all at once, rather, watches us being killed bit by bit ..
March 16, 2025:
I now know well which tuk-tuk is best to take me from "Tabet al-Nuweiri" to "Nabulsi Junction" on Rashid Street. "Nabulsi going... Nabulsi going..." I cling to the iron bars, resembling a fence, behind the driver's seat, where he secures the gas cylinder with a rusty iron chain.
I grasp my backpack with all my might, pushing my body backward, afraid of slipping. Slipping is embarrassing and frightening, but the fall has already begun a year and a half ago.
Today, a young girl and her elderly father couldn't find space on the tuk-tuk that would take us. Several tuk-tuks stood by, carrying dozens of passengers.
I made room for the girl to sit beside me, squeezing myself close to the rusty bars, clutching my bag. The girl was whispering to her father, or perhaps her words reached me as a whisper due to the wind and the engine's noise.
Her eyes looked terrified, and I heard her say, "Don't be afraid, hold on to me..." When I asked her, it turned out the man was starting to slip. He kept repeating, "Don't worry about me, Dad, are you sitting comfortably?" I told her I would ask the driver to stop the tuk-tuk so he could adjust his seating, but she said her father had managed. He was holding onto her hand, and with the other hand, he gripped his bag and belongings.
Often, passengers offer other passengers their arms or shoulders to hold onto, fearing they might fall. With the tuk-tuk moving on the rough, unpaved roads, I find myself shrinking more each time, asking women/girls to lean on me and hold onto my arm so they can sit comfortably. In fact, some women offered me the same, even initiating by placing their arms around my shoulders and smiling.
When I catch a glimpse of the sea from the road, I find myself thinking about the quiet details of our daily lives—the ones we’ve been too ashamed to speak of for almost a year and a half. All our pain now seems to stem from the fractures this war carved into us. There was nothing before it, and nothing seems to follow.
Everything seems trivial compared to the genocide Joy feels like a luxury, while hardship has become routine, and the sadness feels endless. I want to scream, to laugh, to cry, to talk about anything but the war... yet everything else feels meaningless next to this overwhelming grief.
February 24, 2025:
So many hands touch you—some rough, others unclean. Women set buckets, containers, even children in your lap. Occasionally, a back bumps into your face; the man it belongs to turns to apologize. 'It’s okay,' you say. 'No problem…' I whisper to myself.
Will feminists categorize what's happening as one of the crimes of sexual harassment? Or is the situation different?
I count the passengers in the cart. It was my first time to use this type of carts; an innovative means of transportation similar to a tuk-tuk, but it's not an independent vehicle like a tuktuk, rather a cart pulled by another cart. The driver can load four or five passengers in the front cart, usually a car, and twice their number in the rear cart.
The woman next to me pushes me to take up more space to sit on the edge of the iron cart, so I find myself moving my body away and quietly pulling my legs in. The woman carries bags and gallons, scolding her son to hold onto the edges of the cart more firmly, fearing he might slip.
My eyes drift toward the devastation lining both sides of the road. I notice new paths carved out, already surrounded by wild weeds. The greenery spreads, lending the scene a fleeting sense of joy. Then I spot a single well-paved road—and I know it’s the Netsarim road.
A distinctive landmark catches my eye on my left, the ramp designed to accommodate wheelchairs going up and down the sidewalk. I used to see it every day when I walked towards Soul Restaurant and Al-Bahhar towards the Saaba'taash roundabout.
I now know that one of these small roads, where weeds grow, is the road to our house in Al-Zahraa City, and I wonder, "Which one of them leads to the house?"
I ache for the rubble of our home—the one we’ve only seen in photos sent by friends. Deep down, I feel the war isn’t over… because I haven’t yet stood there and cried for it with my own eyes.
The man sitting in front of me looks at me, I quickly wipe my small tears, wanting to hide the shame of my heart, which has shriveled from the cold and sadness. Perhaps he is now, at this very moment, sitting holding his mobile phone, writing about the girl he met in the cart who was looking at the devastation and crying for many homes.
I grip the sides of the cart, afraid of falling, I cry and laugh, I rub my hands, and my fingers hurt from the cold and clinging to the cart.
I finally jump out of the cart and ask the driver, "Where are we?"
The rain starts to fall, so I adjust the hood of my sweater over my head, and I start walking to arrive before the rain intensifies.
I return to a house, finally.
I return every day—but pieces of me stay behind, caught between the wheels of carts, beneath the feet of those passing north and south, or slipping from me bit by bit as I quietly fall apart along the road.
