Boom, boom, boom. The sound will be stuck in my mind forever. It has ruined my life and shattered my heart, depriving me of everything I own.
It is accompanied by a sadness that has paralyzed my thoughts and blinded me from seeing any glimpse of hope on the horizon. The funny and optimistic person I once was has turned into someone melancholic and bleak that I hardly recognize.
It happened when I found myself surrounded by smoke and black dust.
Boom, boom, boom. My home collapsed over my head within a matter of seconds.
My family and I had been huddled together in the basement of our home, our hearts beating in sync with every explosion outside. My little brother, Osama, clung to me tightly. His eyes were searching for solace from me.
Time lost its meaning as we were besieged in a dark and confined place. When the bomb hit us, the continuous bombardment became something like a cruel symphony as dust saturated the air, making it difficult to breathe. My mother, who was a source of steadiness and strength among us, broke down, certain that we wouldn’t survive and would be buried under the rubber of our home.
The Israeli shelling targeted every single house in our neighborhood, ripping through the air and finding concrete, metal, and flesh, shortly followed by the sound of screams outside. All we could do inside was pray for the bombardment to end.
When the morning came, the bombardment started to recede. We thought for a minute that the hellish nightmare was over. We sent our brother, Yaseen, to check the situation and see if there was any possible opportunity to evacuate the house. When he came back, the despair was written on his face. He informed us that the tanks had surrounded the entire area, and Israeli snipers were deployed on the rooftops of neighboring buildings. The only thing that awaited us outside was death, so we stayed in the basement.
My grandmother said that the basement would be protected from the shelling. Her words relieved my heart because we used the basement in previous wars as a shelter from the bombardment. But this war was different from any war that I or even my grandmother had witnessed.
Part of our basement was targeted by a shell. At that moment, I couldn’t hear or see anything but my mother, who was covered with dust, calling our names to check if we were okay.
Then, I started hearing the voices of the rest of my family, reassuring me that they were alive. My father made his way to the door and opened it with difficulty, asking us to follow his lead into the danger that was awaiting us on the other side.
When we finally emerged, the level of destruction shocked us. Shrapnel and broken glass were everywhere, cutting our bare feet as we stepped over them. We ran under the shadows of tanks, the fear controlling every inch of our bodies.
My mother clung to my little brother’s hand desperately. Most people had trusted the Israeli claim that civilians would be granted safe passage through the “humanitarian corridor,” but I did not. Something inside of me was telling me that they were going to target it at any moment. We continued on our path, looking for a safe place as a temporary destination. One of our neighbors suggested the school as a safe place. He stressed the fact that such a place was a civilian institution protected by international law.
My father was convinced by his suggestion, so we all decided to go there. When we reached the school, we sat in the schoolyard, crowded with thousands of displaced people with hardly any amenities. At that moment, I burst into tears. I felt myself in a swirling storm of chaos and destruction, and then I saw my mother stepping toward me to wipe my tears with her soft hands. Her beautiful smile cured my pain, reassuring me. She told me that everything would be okay.
The silence did not last for long. This time, the school was targeted with seven shells. Panic spread like wildfire as we felt the vibrations of the earth trembling beneath us. I lost my family.
I was surrounded by blood and body parts. I was looking through the dead bodies to see if they were among them. Then, I heard a scream full of pain. This voice was known to me. It was my little brother, Osama, crying out, “my mother was injured by shrapnel!”
I followed the echo of the voice until I found him with the rest of my family. I saw the tears running down their faces. My mother was on the ground, bleeding. I ran toward her unconsciously, held her hand.
“You’ll be alright, Mom,” I said. “We still need you. Don’t go.”
The color drained from my mother’s beautiful face. Her heart stopped beating, and she closed her eyes forever.
The shells continued to fall around the school. One of our neighbors told us that the tanks were very close to the area, and that it would be impossible to carry my mother and evacuate. We tried to call the Red Crescent several times, but no one responded. Yaseen wiped his tears, and said, “My mother carried me in her womb for nine months. I won’t leave her.”
He stood up, carried my mother on his shoulder, and ran out of the school.
We were holding a white flag all the way. It didn’t stop the soldiers from targeting the streets we walked across. The bombardment escalated and covered the whole area. My brother suddenly stopped, and my mother’s body fell to the ground. He was unable to continue carrying her, too young and too small. My father came up beside him. “We are halfway there. We can’t leave her now.” He took her left hand, and I held her right hand. My brothers held her legs. We all carried our mother the rest of the way until we reached our relatives’ house.
My mother was lucky. She had the privilege of being buried in a way that preserved her dignity as a human. We were so proud of this achievement, and we remained faithful to her and her memory.
Even though we survived the bombardment, it found its target. The savagery of the war burdened our hearts and souls, but amid the pain, I saw a glimmer of resilience in the eyes of my family. We would rebuild, we would heal, and we would remember my mother forever.
