Tribune News Network
Doha
Life in Gaza shakes to its own rhythm, where two million hearts beat within an open-air prison of 365 square kilometres.
Ghazal Othman, a Palestinian alumna of Qatar Foundation’s Hamad Bin Khalifa University, narrates her personal experience and writes about what daily life in Gaza is like
Can you imagine what life in Gaza is like?
To live in Gaza means forgetting that you are alive, and if you have dreams, those dreams won’t come true until the soul rises.
To live in Gaza means organising your life around the limited eight hours of electricity you have per day – from planning your meals, laundry and cleaning to charging your phone and even scheduling your showers.
Living in Gaza means having the risk of water shortages. Why, you may ask. The water supply in Gaza is closely tied to the availability of electricity. While the standard daily allocation is 100 litres, individuals are considered fortunate if they can access 60 litres daily. Unfortunately, some are left with as little as 30 litres per day.
Living in Gaza means not experiencing safety. Your life is like a tightrope walk, and personally, I did not truly understand the meaning of “safety” until I got a scholarship in Doha. It was the first time I experienced this feeling. The sound of planes in Qatar always brings me back to Gaza, making me forget for a moment that I am no longer there. My heart races and I am frozen in place and disconnected from reality for a few seconds. This sound has become etched in my mind, forever linked to the fear of war and death, as in Gaza, the only planes in our skies are those that shatter our dreams at the push of a button.
To live in Gaza means you have to think carefully before entering and exiting. My friends here in Doha may spend their weekends returning to their homeland and visiting their families for four days. But if I think about seeing my family in Gaza, it could take the entire four days just to get in and out, with the possibility of spending a whole night in the car. We feel like strangers in our own homeland, and we are all considered suspects.
How can it be otherwise when we are from Gaza which represents resistance?
Living in Gaza means that you are more likely to lose your loved ones. The blockade imposed by the Occupation not only restricts the movement of healthy citizens but also shows no mercy to the patients.
My mother, Fatina, did not die of natural causes in 2008; she was killed by the Israeli Occupation. If the Occupation does not kill you with a bullet, it offers you many choices of death.
She was suffering from kidney failure and she was not allowed to travel abroad for a kidney transplant. My siblings and I often thought about the celebration we would have for her when she came back healthy.
However, her spirit, worn out by illness for eight years, couldn’t endure any longer. She waited for a month to get an exit permit through the Beit Hanoun checkpoint (Erez) located to the north of Gaza, which is meant for a few categories to exit, including “humanitarian cases” as they pretend. On the day the Occupation granted her a permit, she was already in a coma and died.
Gaza didn’t give me much, but it gave me everything it could. I have not been much proud of it like I am now. Yes, it is not the most beautiful, the richest, the most prestigious, the largest or the safest place, but it did what even the most beautiful, the richest and the largest could not do.
Gaza, which does not even represent a speck on the world map, managed to teach us lessons in freedom and dignity. It amazed the most powerful countries with its ability to defend itself with the simplest resources and it made them think of ways to get rid of it.
You take much from us, beloved Gaza, yet in the name of love, we willingly offer our lives as a token of devotion, understanding that sacrifices must be made.
