Part of the Series
Struggle and Solidarity: Writing Toward Palestinian Liberation
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I’m always consumed by the same question: How will this endless, brutal spectacle of killing finally end?
Will it be like a movie — justice prevailing, liberation won, goodness triumphing over evil?
Will the ending even be worthy of the horrors we’ve endured? Or will it all fade away in an open-ended scene, full of unknowns, unanswered questions, and the absence of closure?
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Will I make it to the final scene? Or will my story be abruptly cut short, lost before the credits even roll?
But this isn’t a movie. This isn’t a nightmare I’ll wake up from.
This is Gaza.
And this is our reality — where every day, our lives are silently severed, not even properly documented in the ledger of Israel’s war crimes.
On June 8, Israeli forces bombed the core internet infrastructure in both the north and south of Gaza. The Strip went dark. We were cut off completely. No messages in, no messages out.
Here, we’ve become experts in sensing when something monstrous is coming — when death lurks under the stillness.
Our minds raced, our bodies — exhausted, broken, starved — could barely keep up. Every possible ending ran through my head: Would we be massacred quietly, all at once? Would we be erased without anyone ever knowing? Does the world even realize we’re vanishing? And if they do, do they care enough to stop it? Will they ever try to wipe our blood off their hands with real action, not hollow statements?
It didn’t end with internet blackouts. Israel jammed all telecommunications. For us, the internet wasn’t a luxury — it was a lifeline, a way to transfer funds during the liquidity crisis, a fragile system holding back hunger.
When even that collapsed, desperation surged.
Crowds gathered at what was called a “humanitarian aid” point in Gaza — praying, not for salvation, but for a box of food. But the gates were shut. And above, Israeli warplanes circled. Without warning, they opened fire. Snipers targeted anyone who dared raise their head. It was like a game — a deadly squash match. Dozens were killed. Hundreds wounded.
Some bled to death on the ground because every call for help was met with the same cold, mechanical response: “No network. Please try again.” But there was no “again.” Only death. Slow. Certain. Inevitable.
One survivor said he heard voices from the drones above: “We told you not to come.” That same day, Israel’s military spokesperson posted on Facebook that the distribution point had been closed. No explanation. No apology. Just a death trap dressed as relief.
Instead of food bags, people were shattered. Torn apart. Their remains brought back home in plastic bags.
That very evening, our neighbor’s home was bombed. Their screams haven’t left my ears. We tried calling the fire department, the ambulances — anyone. Nothing.
So we ran barefoot into the inferno, trying to pull them out with our hands. But one by one, their voices faded. And then, silence.
Explosions thundered in the background. We huddled together, not just out of fear — but because it was the only thing left to do. My heart thudded painfully. My mind was blank, numb. My frail body couldn’t bear more. But I couldn’t stop thinking of the people who’d just died — unseen, unmourned. It could have been someone I loved. But I couldn’t even check my phone to know.
Even mourning is a privilege denied to us.
Another airstrike.
I curled up in the corner. And a voice inside me whispered: This is the last fall, Hend. You’re going to die in limbo.
Two days passed. Nothing changed — except our deepening isolation. Hunger became background noise. We’ve learned to live with gnawing emptiness. But we cannot live without connection. That fragile internet line — it’s our only thread to the rest of humanity.
Nearly two years of televised carnage. Still, the world can’t name it. Genocide. Democide. Deliberate starvation. Systematic annihilation.
It’s all been documented — war crimes, crimes against humanity — coldly and clearly. Yet no sanctions. No accountability. No international court willing to enforce its own laws. No Geneva Convention. No ICC. No ICJ. Nothing but silence.
And so the question remains: Are we still pleading — after all this — to be seen as victims? To prove that our blood is not less valuable? That our children deserve to live, just like yours?
If no one is listening, maybe we should stop screaming. Maybe we should keep the last shred of dignity we have — turn off the cameras — and let the world go on, uninterrupted.
But that’s not what we want.
We want to be seen as humans — not corpses. As dreamers — not headlines. We want you to pressure your governments to end this slaughter — not to sip your coffee and scroll past another mass grave.
This is not “too political.” This is your humanity on trial. Gaza is the litmus test. How you respond will define your legacy.
At 3 am on June 14, a phone rang. It felt like a bomb in the dark. We had no cell service — so how was this happening?
I feared it was the Israeli military — an order to evacuate. But it wasn’t.
It was my sister, Intimaa, calling from abroad. “Are you okay?” she asked. Her voice cracked with fear. “I’ve been calling nonstop.”
Then she shared news I hadn’t heard: “Israel attacked Iran. Twenty commanders killed. Tehran is in ruins.”
She went on: “The Sumud Convoys — the ones meant to break Gaza’s siege — were blocked by Egyptian forces. Hundreds of activists arrested. Some deported.”
Then the line went dead.
That brief call brought no comfort, just more evidence that the world is burning. But still — her voice. Her voice was life.
I lay awake, watching the dark sky erupt with bombs.
I used to believe in those convoys, filled with a thousand people who traveled from across North Africa to try to make it through the Rafah crossing. But they were met with batons and detentions — not solidarity. And, Israel’s assault on Iran was a tactic — to distract, while they accelerate our annihilation.
The journalists who once told our stories are gone — killed or silenced. The massacres are hidden behind fake aid and polished lies. The struggle here is unbearable.
And yet, the sun rose again. I told my family about Intimaa’s call. Their eyes went blank.
So much horror, and we — trapped, starving, displaced — stayed in place.
We passed the news on to neighbors, like stories passed in ancient times. No phones. No news bulletins. Just mouths, and voices, and pain.
My father, determined, charged a single battery through a flimsy solar panel — just to turn on our battered TV. We watched images of Tel Aviv and Tehran — but not a word about Gaza. Not a breath about the massacre at the aid point. Not a whisper about our dead.
We — who are bleeding — were watching another conflict unfold, as if we had already died.
Eventually, workers from the telecom company managed to negotiate access to fix the broken lines. They risked everything. One technician lost his leg to an airstrike.
But on June 15, the internet returned. And with it, a flood of messages. Relatives checking in. The simple miracle of: “You’re still alive.”
It didn’t last. By June 16, the connection failed again. And this time, Israeli forces struck the main service point. Another blackout. Another gag order by bombs.
The telecom company sent a message: “We’re doing everything we can.” And they were — working under death’s shadow.
On June 18, my mother was washing dishes when an airstrike hit our neighbor’s house.
She saw a man fly into the air — and crash to the ground. He died instantly.
She screamed. She still can’t stop trembling. His family is still buried beneath the rubble.
No rescue. No equipment. No time.
And so I write this, in the hope that you are reading it. If you are, then I’ve broken through the blackout — for just a moment.
The silence isn’t accidental. It’s strategy. It’s the tool they use to erase us quietly.
Being Palestinian from Gaza means carrying trauma as identity. And we carry it always — inside and out. From this genocide, from 1948, from everything in between.
Nothing will ever truly heal us. But if our voices still reach you, maybe we haven’t been completely erased.
Not yet.
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