Today we’re sharing with you the second episode of Nour’s diary, our psychologist living in Gaza. In this one, she relates the following days and weeks of October 7th and the first bombings.
First episode : her memories of the pre-October 7th period : “The simple life we cherished so much has completely disappeared”
Djéné Diane, press officer in charge of institutional communication
Refugee, Displaced, besieged; too many labels that I hate have been assigned to me and my people
Now I daily introduce myself as “displaced,” though I wonder why I haven’t yet been called other names: martyr, wounded, prisoner. Nonetheless, I expect these titles at any moment.
Many questions invade my mind: Do you know what it’s like to compress an entire life into a single bag? Or the endurance required to survive for months in a tent? And the most pressing question: When will death cease ?
Looking back at the days following October 7th, I recall nothing but fear and bombings. My family and I were constantly fleeing death. Those days and nights are unforgettable; the sounds of bombings were relentless. We would clutch our children, desperately seeking safety. There was no hiding place, and we didn’t know if we would witness another morning.
I vividly remember the heartbreak upon hearing that my family’s home was bombed on October 9th, entirely the first days of the war while we slept on the floor of Al-Shifa Hospital, it is near my house, we used to run there whenever the shelling intensified or nearby houses were threatened, along with hundreds of others, believing it would be a safe shelter. I cried intensely over the loss of the house that was our security, filled with childhood memories, gatherings, love, laughter, our belongings, clothes, childhood photos and everything.
Heartbroken, we walked for hours in the sun
Al-Shifa Hospital was the largest medical complex in Gaza. As I sat there, I also recalled how just a few days ago, we used to come as Médecins du Monde (MdM) Mental Health team for our psychological interventions. Just a few months ago, we conducted training for the medical staff, including doctors, nurses, and psychologists, to integrate mental health into the hospital, especially the emergency department. We were seeing satisfactory results, I remembered our professional discussions with the staff and I wondered how things got us here !
The news continued with reports of entire residential neighborhoods being destroyed: the homes of our families, neighbors, colleagues, and friends. We consoled ourselves by saying that material things could be replaced, but the important thing was that we still had each other. However, fear consumed me; the fear of loss. I looked into the eyes of my loved ones, saying farewell, not knowing if I would see them again.
The night of October 13th, on the hospital floor, we received orders for forced evacuation to the south. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. What was happening? We were exhausted, sleep-deprived for several nights, we spent hours discussing where to go, and what to do. With broken hearts, we walked for hours under the sun. Those were some of the hardest hours of my life; we could barely walk from the heavy crying. I hugged my sister, trying to comfort her, and watched our children dragging their school bags devoid of books, containing only a few pieces of clothings. We could only carry some clothes and essential documents—which is a ready-to-go bag in every Gazan household. Thousands of us were heading south, visibly weary. We walked aimlessly, not knowing where we were going. The children cried, and we tried to soothe them while we ourselves couldn’t comprehend what was happening. My husband told our children it was only a matter of a few days, then we will return.
During our walk, I remembered similar scenes from a Palestinian series we used to watch about the Nakba in 1948, telling the story of our grandparents’ forced displacement. Now, nine months after our own displacement, the haunting question remains: Will we return to our city, or is it the same scenario of our grandparents who are still waiting to return? Yet, I continue carrying the keys of my house wherever I go, just like our grandparents did.
I dialled their numbers dozens of times, but Maisara didn’t answer
People were displaced to various places, my family and I moved to the Middle area, in Deir al-Balah, guests at the home of an old friend, the bombing and destruction continued intensely. We waited for our turn to die, get injured, or lose someone. Alongside fear and loss, we lived under extremely harsh conditions; Some of us stayed as guests with others, some in schools or tents, lacking basic necessities. We had to start from scratch, trying to secure food, water, clothes, mattresses, electricity, bathrooms, hygiene, and medicine.
We tried to keep checking on our loved ones to see who was still alive despite the cut off all communication networks and internet and isolating us from the world. These simple details fade amid the death and destruction; it’s another major war people are fighting. Every day brought new challenges, new loss. I couldn’t bear what was happening to us, feeling helpless, witnessing massacres in neighborhoods and hospitals.
The weight of loss can be overwhelming and haunting
I lost my friend Lamia on October 14th; she was a wonderful psychologist. Then we lost our colleague Maisara Al-Rayyes on November 5th. Dr. Maisara was a kind, supportive, and educated doctor within Médecins du Monde. On both of these painful mornings, the days of Lamia and Maisara’s martyrdom, I kept trying to call them, dialing dozens of times, hoping someone would answer. That day, like every day, we had a morning security check-up with the MdM team, but Maisara didn’t respond, we later learned that Maisara family’s house had been directly targeted, and their bodies remained under the rubble. I clung to the hope for days that they might be rescued alive, praying day and night. In psychology, this is called the denial phase, the first stage of grief; a natural temporary defense mechanism where we reject and deny the loss due to its difficulty and disbelief. To this day, I fear not receiving an answer when I call someone.
I cannot describe how much my heart aches with longing for my country and everything it holds. I miss Gaza, I miss our homes, streets, beautiful mosques and minarets, bustling markets, centers and libraries. I miss the sea, its sand, delicious fish, the corniche, hotels, and cafés. I miss our gatherings and laughter, the children’s laughter and Eid celebrations, and old markets and the jasmine trees, the olive and figs trees in our garden, the midday noise in our streets, the neighbors’ gatherings, our traditional dishes, I miss our loved ones, friends, their eyes, laughter, and presence.
