I survived a massacre in the so-called safe zone

I’m crying as I write these words from inside a tent at Al-Mawasi camp, Khan Younis, recounting the harrowing events of May 5, 2024, in Rafah.

On the 24th of April I sent my cousin Mohammed US $5,000. He had made it to Cairo after October 7 and I had asked him to get my name on the Hala list, maintained by the organization that assists your exit from Gaza.

I wanted to leave Gaza and start a new life abroad; I had applied to many scholarships and received an offer to study at a university in Washington, D.C. My life had been destroyed here and I dreamt about bringing my family to safety once I had settled there.

Mohammed managed to get my name on the list; I felt lucky that my family was able to support me.

When Mohammed sent me a photo of my coordination registration certificate, I felt as if I was already in Washington meeting my professors. I wondered what I would say when I met them; should I just say hello even though I wanted to hug them?

When I told my mum that my name was on the Hala list, her face dropped; she couldn’t believe that I would leave her and my family in this genocide. I went to my room and cried, fearing I would never see my family again — my dad, my mum, my brother Abu Ahmed*, and the rest of my family. The possibility of leaving was now soured; I felt like I was betraying them. I wondered if I shouldn’t leave.

On May 4 I packed my bag with my university papers and other important documents such as my ID, birth certificate, university diploma, and transcripts. I was near the top of the Hala list and expected to see my name announced on their social media channels the following day.

I sat with my brother and told him, “I’ll be leaving Gaza in the blink of an eye, and I worry that I will never see you again, but I want you to stand by everyone in the family as I always did and I want you to be as strong as I know you are.” Abu Ahmed simply nodded and replied, “I will miss you.”

Leaving Rafah, but not for the U.S.

On the 5th of May, I woke up at 7 a.m. in my grandparents’ house. While I was in the bathroom, I received a call from my dad, who was at the gas station trying to get some fuel. He asked if we had seen the news that said we had to evacuate Rafah. I didn’t have access to the internet and everyone else in the neighborhood was still sleeping.

I opened the bathroom window and found the sky eerily silent. I responded to my dad, “Give me five minutes and I will get back to you.” Once I had internet access, it was indeed clear that we had to leave Rafah, especially the block I was in. I went outside and saw my neighbors stepping out of their houses, one by one. They looked at me — speechless — but I understood what they were saying: Rafah was the safe zone, wasn’t it?

Abu Ahmed was sleeping. I shook him awake and told him we had to evacuate. He asked, “But aren’t you leaving Gaza today?” I told him my dreams were now shattered, to which he simply replied, “Have faith in Allah, you will pursue your education.”

Later that day, Israel took control of the Rafah crossing, not allowing anyone to leave, and it remains closed as I write this story.

Returning to my room, I called my dad and confirmed we had to leave Rafah. He immediately came home and we began to gather our things. We called a small truck, packed it high with our belongings, and left Rafah with a stream of tears flowing behind us.

Abu Ahmed chose to stay in Rafah with two of my cousins to protect my grandmother’s house from being ransacked. To this day, I know nothing about him or anyone else in the family who stayed.

Are they alive? Abu Ahmed is my brother and my friend. I can’t imagine my life without him. Each night I imagine telling him how I am feeling, and I want to ask him back, “How are you, my brother?” I know we are both so tired.

Encounter with the tanks

After building our new tent-homes in the Khan Younis region of Al-Mawasi, my cousin Abu Khalied* and I decided to visit a friend who prefers not to be named. He was staying on his farm in the Al-Shakoush area, located between the Khan Younis and Rafah regions of Al-Mawasi. We reached our friend at 3 in the afternoon on June 27.

As soon as Abu Khalied and I arrived, we all agreed to cook some falafel. Our friend said, “Oh, it has been a long time since we gathered like this — before October 7.” We were happy and eager to spend the night together.

At 5:55 p.m., our friend went to collect some wood from the farm to use as fuel. Meanwhile, Abu Khalied and I prepared the falafel mixture, which we had mastered. I phoned our friend, “Hurry up, we need to start the fire.” He replied cheerfully, “The night is long, don’t worry, man.”

Moments later, Abu Khalied heard a loud noise outside. He immediately went to see what was happening. He opened the farm gate and was shocked: Two tanks were in front of the farm, just a hundred meters away.

“Get down now, now, now!” Abu Khalied shouted.

I soon realized it was the Israeli Occupation Forces (IOF) invading Al-Mawasi; this was completely unexpected. Instead of getting down, I stood up and wondered how the IOF could invade an area so quickly. Abu Khalied screamed at me again, urging me to get down. I finally did, and so did he. The tanks neared the farm and started bombing indiscriminately. Drones were flying above as we crawled into a small room at the farm.

From 6 to 11 that evening, we stayed in the room, crouching in a tiny corridor under a window, enduring what became a night of hell: bombing and bullets — the sounds of murder. We spent five hours trying to hide our limbs from the lights of the tanks and out of sight of the drones. We prayed to stay alive.

Then the IOF tanks entered the farm and I raised my head to look at them. “We are dead, we are dead,” I said to Abu Khalied. “Yes, we will be dead soon,” he replied. The IOF tanks began to flatten everything on the farm, before coming to where we were sheltered.

At 11 p.m., the IOF soldiers tried to enter the building we were hiding in. They began shelling the room we were in, suspecting someone was inside.

Everything around us caught fire, but we were untouched. We could barely breathe from all the smoke around us. I felt like I was going to die. We had to get out before we were burnt alive. Abu Khalied left first and could see that the IOF had moved on to the next farm, so I followed him out and we both made it to the northern neighboring farm.

We found the farm owners sheltering under a tree. Abu Khalied and I joined them. A few minutes later, the tanks passed by, just a meter away. We wondered if we were still alive or if we had died and we were now watching ourselves from above.

We decided to get out of the entire area; the tanks were on the southeastern side of the farm, so we needed to find an escape route on the northern side.

Recalling his own version of events, Abu Khalied said, “I stood up, determined to find the escape route.” But he could see nothing because of the smoke and dust. “As soon as I touched the northern wall, I felt a hole.”

I found some white clothes — three blouses — on a nearby clothesline to use as white flags to show we were just civilians. Abu Khalied and I jumped through the hole in the wall to a street where we hoped to find safety. I called back to the family who were sheltering under the tree. “Let’s go, let’s go,” I said, urging them to follow behind us. They eagerly followed, carrying two white blouses while I carried one. We all gathered and decided to move together.

As we were all running down the western street, heading towards the seaside, an old woman was shouting at us to stay alive. She gestured for us to look at the side of the street. When I looked, I felt a wave of despair. There were four dead bodies — martyrs — from the Jehish family. There was nothing we could do for them, so we continued running, now joined by the old woman.

When we reached the end of the street, we found ambulances trying to enter the area but unable to access it. Abu Khalied informed the nurses about the four dead people. They acknowledged the situation and waited for the best moment to enter, noting that ambulances were there trying to save those who were still sheltering in the area.

We then headed to our family in Al-Mawasi, barely able to speak. We couldn’t explain what had happened, even four hours after reaching the tents.

I called my friend who had been collecting firewood; he was safe. In fact, it was from my call that he learned an invasion was happening near his farm, so he stayed out of the area in a safe location.

This genocide may render us speechless, but it doesn’t destroy our dreams. I am still praying that I will be able to leave Gaza to start a new life and pursue my studies overseas.

*Names have been changed and faces blurred to protect privacy.

This story was first published by We Are Not Numbers.