Palestinian author and editor Atef Abu Saif—who since 2019 has also served as the Palestinian Authority’s minister of culture in the West Bank—was visiting the Gaza Strip when Hamas launched its Oct. 7 attack, and when Israel then launched its military response on the territory. Saif took shelter in the Jabalia refugee camp in northern Gaza, where he began writing daily diary entries documenting his experiences with friends and family there. Surviving airstrikes on the camp, he recently fled Jabalia to the south. He spent two days in Khan Younis, before moving to Rafah, where he has spent the past week.* Slate is publishing three of his diary entries from the days ahead of his move to the south, the second of which is below. You can read the first entry here.
Sunday, 19 November (Day 44)
Four dead bodies lie on a donkey cart in front of me. The bodies are obviously still bleeding, as the patches of red in the white sheets covering them seem to be widening as I watch. A young boy urges the donkey to speed up. Usually we have to stop and stand still, out of respect, when we see the dead; we might take off a hat or lower our heads. Now dead bodies are commonplace; people die every minute, and the passing of a coffin or a barely wrapped dead body draws no attention at all.
The mother of Majid [a friend’s brother], who passed away three weeks ago in an Israeli jail, says grimly: “Lucky for some.” She’s referring to the fact that these people’s parents will be able to bury their children. She desperately wants her son’s remains to be brought back to Gaza, shown some respect, and buried in the land that was his home. For most of those dying in Gaza, there isn’t the dignity of a proper funeral either. There are no cars working anymore, few horse-and-carts, and practically no ambulances to bring the dead to their final resting places. Most streets are unpassable now, with the rubble and debris spread across them all. A horse-and-cart is your best chance.
The sounds of ambulances’ alarms have slowly ebbed away in the cacophony of noises you hear during attacks. And it’s probably for their own good. Ambulances have increasingly become targets in the land offensive. Many have been hit and numerous paramedics killed or injured. More and more things disappear every day in Gaza; now it’s the ambulances. Their sound in the night used to keep us company. At least someone was trying to do something. Now no one moves in the darkness. Wounded people are left for their destiny. Many people could be saved in these situations if they’d gotten to a hospital in time, if the hospitals weren’t targets, and the ambulances likewise.
A man rides a horse toward me with the body of a dead teenager slung over the saddle in front. It seems it’s his son, perhaps. It looks like a scene from a historical movie, only the horse is weak and barely able to move. He is back from no battle. He is no knight. His eyes are full of tears as he holds the little riding crop in one hand and the bridle in the other. I have an impulse to photograph him but then feel suddenly sick at the idea. He salutes no one. He barely looks up. He is too consumed with his own loss. Most people are using the camp’s old cemetery; it’s the safest and although it is technically long-since full, they have started digging shallower graves and burying the new dead on top of the old—keeping families together, of course.
Faraj [a neighborhood friend at whose house the author has spent much of the war] has finally decided to leave for the south. This morning he packs his clothes and papers and announces to the rest of us that he’s heading to Rafah to join his wife and kids. He has arranged with his neighbor to take the risk together. Around 9 a.m., a three-wheel bike arrives to take them to Salah al-Din Road [the Gaza Strip’s main highway]. He leaves me the keys to his flat along with the offer that we can carry on staying as long as we want. He has asked his nephew to take care of his mother; he has now moved in, with his wife, to the first floor to look after her. Many people have made the same decision in the past couple of days. When he leaves, [my brother] Mohammed and I start to talk about who else has left and who’s preparing to leave. Many cars inch along the street below brandishing white flags at the end of sticks poking out of windows. Some people travel on bikes or carts. Many just walk.
My brother-in-law Maher calls me to say a shell hit the roof of their building in the night. The water tanks are damaged and the glass in the solar panels is shattered. The whole family is terrified and think they need to leave. Most people in Tal Azzatar [a section in the Jabalia refugee camp] are thinking the same, Maher’s sisters and their families likewise. My sister Eisha has asked him to seek my advice. “What does your father think?” I say. His father, a well-known headmaster in a camp school, reckons they should wait a couple more days. “What for?” I ask. There’s no answer. I can only assume it’s to make sure all other options have been fully explored.
The attacks last night took out a number of mosques, among them the enormous Khulafa Rashideen, the Haifa Mosque, the Mohammed Mosque, and the Kassam Mosque. Only a handful of mosques still stand.
Many houses in Tal Azzatar and “Block 5” of the camp were also attacked. We saw rings of fire all night. Thousands more will soon be joining the exodus of the previous days.
The camp shrinks every day. Over the past three nights, the Israelis have attacked the western flank of Jabalia, starting with Saftawi, then Falouja, the eastern side, especially Tal Azzatar, and northern parts from the Beit Lahia Projects to Fakhoura. This has all resulted in everyone retreating to the very center.
In the news, the Israelis talk about the need to evacuate all of Jabalia. For us, it is not that we’re stubborn; it’s that the unknown of living on the road, or in camps in the south, seems worse than just waiting until they fully occupy the place. Inevitably though, people get scared. No one looks forward to the journey. You’d be lucky to find a car or, more likely, a cart to carry you and your belongings to the Kuwait Junction on the Salah ad-Din Road, but from there onward, you’ll have to walk. It’s there that your journey to the south really begins. Yesterday, the Israelis closed the Wadi checkpoint at around 12:30 p.m. So this morning people are setting off very early, aiming to arrive at Kuwait Junction before 7 a.m. or 8 a.m. You need to get everything ready, otherwise you might have to come all the way back.
After the damage to their roof, Eisha seems terrified. Other parts of their building were also hit by flying debris, it turns out. Everything is damaged. Now she has neither water nor solar power. As I sit writing this in Faraj’s living room, I can hear the children playing in the street below. A girl’s voice says, “Lord, I want truce.”
Correction, Nov. 30, 2023: Due to an editing error, this article’s introduction originally misstated that the author had left Gaza through the Rafah border crossing into Egypt. He had not.
