It was six in the morning on Saturday, October 7, 2023. Still half-asleep, I called out hoarsely to my sisters, Enas and Remas, who were sleeping in their beds beside me: “Wake up—you have school.”
We didn’t know it then, but that day would change everything. Horrific events across the border in Israel would spark a war that felt like a gateway to hell itself.
I went back to sleep, not too concerned about whether my sisters got up. My university classes started later, at eight. Suddenly, the sound of rockets firing jolted me. At first, I wasn’t sure if I was still dreaming.
Soon, we were all wide awake. We tried to reassure ourselves that they were just test rockets that would land in the sea, so we didn’t pay much attention—until the noise grew too loud to ignore.
Rumors began to spread: maybe a top Hamas leader had been assassinated, or maybe Hamas was attacking Israel. Everyone was guessing, waiting for any confirmed news.
My uncle and his family arrived, still in their pajamas and clearly shaken. They live near the Israeli border and had fled in terror, their clothes disheveled, their faces showing the strain of interrupted sleep and panic.
Videos started appearing on social media showing Hamas fighters storming into Israel and taking dozens of people back to Gaza. We couldn’t grasp the scale of what was happening.
Then the Israeli response began: intense bombing in all directions, our house windows shaking, our hearts trembling with them. The sounds of ambulances, aircraft, and children crying filled the air.
We’re used to war, so as always, we started packing our belongings. Thinking we wouldn’t be gone long, we only took the clothes we were wearing, one extra set, and our most important documents, stuffing them into school bags.
By Friday, October 13, the bombing in Beit Lahia intensified. Leaflets were dropped, ordering us to evacuate. At first, we were afraid and hesitant to leave. But later that day, while preparing Thai food for dinner, the Israeli army began dropping smoke bombs until the city was shrouded in smoke. Panic spread among our neighbors; everyone started fleeing their homes, leaving everything behind. We left in our car, taking my grandparents and our family of seven, and headed south for the first time.
We had no idea what awaited us. We thought we’d be back in two or three weeks.
We never expected to face dozens of wars instead of just one.
The second war was finding a place to stay. With no specific destination, we kept moving south, our emotions swinging between fear, loss, and uncertainty. We ended up in an apartment in Deir, where we lived for three months, sleeping on the cold floor without blankets or bedding. Other struggles followed, like securing water and food, and the short-lived tents we had to call home.
Despite following evacuation orders and heading south, nowhere felt safe. Not a day passed without explosions, warplanes roaring, or shells and bullets from Israeli naval boats. We constantly imagined waking up to the apartment wall collapsing on us. I had visions of surviving alone in the rubble, screaming for my family with no answer. We wrote our nWe wrote our names on a piece of paper and kept it in our pockets. If the house was bombed and we were killed, that slip would act as an identity card if our faces were unrecognizable.
When the danger grew closer, we moved to live in tents in Rafah. It felt a little safer than staying in an apartment, and at least the nightmares stopped. For the first week, we were almost happy, pretending it was our first camping trip in the rainy winter. But we had no idea how hard it would be to find water and food, or how bitterly cold it would get. We were always getting sick.
My younger brother Ibrahim and I caught Hepatitis A. We suffered so much that at times we felt close to death. There was no medicine available. All we could do was follow strict hygiene measures to protect the rest of the family from getting infected.
When the ground invasion reached Rafah, we moved from place to place, living in tents. It’s hard to put into words what it feels like to be forced to live like that. Only someone who has gone through it can truly understand.
We had to stand for hours and walk long distances to find clean water and safe food. We endured scorching heat in the summer and freezing cold in the winter. On top of that, we dealt with insects, rats, and stray animals. Our education and healthcare—our most basic rights—simply disappeared.
While we were displaced in Khan Younis, my grandmother fell ill. She fought the sickness for weeks, but it was too much for her. She spent a week in the hospital, but the treatment wasn’t enough. With so many people needing care, dozens were dying every week—and my grandmother became one of them.
Losing her was incredibly painful. She was like a second mother to me. She had lived with us since I was born and took care of us while my mother was busy with her studies.
After her death, we tried to build a life in the south, since there was no hope of returning north. My father and uncles began planting crops, which made us feel a little like we were back home in Beit Lahia. It gave us a sense of purpose and a small feeling of security.
Then, in January 2025, a ceasefire was announced. I’ll never forget the joy as people returned to the north. Almost everyone went back on the first day, many without taking much with them. Some were so excited they burned their tents, thinking their suffering in the south was over.
We returned to Beit Lahia. Sadness filled every corner—the destroyed houses, the dry fields, the silent streets telling those who returned what had happened after they were forced to leave.
We started trying to rebuild. We cleared away rubble and stones, set up tents beside our ruined homes, and planted new greenery to break up the gray and give everyone hope that life could bloom again. But that hope didn’t last. The war returned and burned everything once more.
Fear and anxiety came back as we moved from place to place again, surrounded by explosions and death. I lost my dear uncle Bahjat. He was killed by a tank shell while he and my father were collecting our belongings from an old shelter. Two weeks later, we were displaced again and rented an apartment in Gaza City.
This siege was even worse than the last. We began to suffer from hunger, which led to widespreadHundreds died – children and the elderly. We would share a single loaf of bread among all of us, and sometimes, when there was no bread to be found, we went to bed hungry, trying to ease the hunger by drinking water that was often contaminated.
Amjed Tantesh, Malak’s father, embraces the tree he planted before the war in Beit Lahiya after discovering it had grown. Then, unexpectedly, the plan to occupy Gaza City was announced, forcing us to evacuate to the south once again.
When the ceasefire was declared this week, the streets erupted with whistles and cheers. Everyone began jumping and dancing with joy, hoping this time the war would end for good. But fear lingers that it might fall apart at the last moment, so they brace for the worst to avoid being crushed by despair if it fails.
I think back to my life before October 7th: going to work to teach girls how to swim, then celebrating my cousin’s wedding, where we all gathered happily, dressed up and wearing makeup. I remember my university, where I spent only a month. I remember my grandmother and my uncle Bahjat, whose deaths we sometimes envied. I’m sure all the people of Gaza have similar memories playing in their minds: family meals, friends – many now gone – the simple, everyday moments. We all wonder if we’ll ever have the chance to live like that again.
Frequently Asked Questions
Of course Here is a list of FAQs about a young reporters twoyear ordeal in blockaded Gaza designed to be clear concise and in a natural tone
BeginnerLevel Questions
1 What is the blockade of Gaza
Its a longstanding restriction on the movement of people and goods in and out of the Gaza Strip imposed by Israel and Egypt It severely limits access to essentials like food medicine fuel and building materials
2 Why is Gaza called the gateway to hell
This phrase is used to describe the extreme hardship of life there Due to the blockade frequent conflicts poverty and a collapsed economy daily life is a constant struggle for survival creating a feeling of being trapped in an inescapable desperate situation
3 What would a reporter even do in Gaza for two years
They would report on daily life under the blockadedocumenting the humanitarian crisis the resilience of ordinary people the impact of conflict on families and the political situation Their goal is to bring the worlds attention to a story that is often overlooked
4 Was it dangerous for the reporter to be there
Extremely Beyond the obvious physical dangers of a conflict zone reporters face immense psychological stress the risk of being caught in crossfire and potential restrictions on their work and movement
IntermediateLevel Questions
5 What are the biggest daily challenges for people living in Gaza
The main challenges include a severe lack of electricity contaminated water high unemployment limited healthcare and the constant psychological trauma of past wars and the threat of future ones
6 How does the blockade affect children in Gaza
Children grow up knowing only confinement and conflict They suffer from malnutrition trauma and a lack of opportunity Many have their education disrupted and live with the constant fear of violence which has a profound impact on their mental health
7 What kind of stories did the reporter likely focus on
They would have moved beyond just the politics of the conflict to humaninterest stories a doctor working without reliable power a family rebuilding their home for the third time students trying to study by candlelight and fishermen prevented from going far to sea
8 How do reporters get in and out of a blockaded area
Its very difficult The main points of entry are tightly
