Our Homes: Marwa Abuaita (Part 2)

The fourth entry in the column Our Homes, written by Sebastian Elder.

This entry is Part 2 of Marwa’s story. For Part 1, click here.

Photography by Marwa Abuaita

Except, what her eyes revealed told the beginning of a new story. The first in a series of unforgivable crimes: a massacre had rendered the entire street unrecognisable, destruction the likes of which she had never before seen. In that moment, Marwa's powerful perception manifested as a harrowing premonition: "I knew when I saw that street, I knew deep down every street in Gaza was going to look like that…”

“Of course now, I have seen worse.”

What was already a restless sleep was broken definitively by orders to leave during the night. By morning, they decided that their only sliver of safety lay in the uncertainty of the South.

“My mom went to the market and bought shoes for everyone. We bought some food for the road and some winter clothing for Lana, who was one and a half at that time. We were planning to get South on foot, so we tried to lose as much weight as we could…everyone left behind some of what little clothes we had brought and my brothers and sister left behind their laptops. Now we realize how dumb that was, but fear doesn't allow you to think right.”

In their collective effort to lighten their load, Marwa was forced to make a brutal decision; her beloved cat, Sukkar, was left behind. And so began their 15 month journey into the unknown - away from home, the pursuit of a fraught horizon, impelled by the restless jaws of destruction upon their heels. The extended family was 12 members strong, and every bit diverse as it was determined, learned and loving:

Mohannad, Marwa’s brother, and father of young Lana and Atheer, was a nurse studying German, with the hopes of one day going there to work; his wife, Sahar, an IT technician who had been working for a humanitarian organisation prior to the unprecedented violence; brother Mahmoud, a talented carpenter who, in his free time, would craft beautiful wooden toys for Lana; Ali, Marwa’s father, a retired paper archives manager for the police department who’s pension had supported their family for over a decade; his wife, Inam, bright, kind, and the beating heart behind the building of their family home; Marwa’s sister, Mena a 10th grader passionate about space, with ambitions of becoming an astrophysicist; Mayar, another sister three years younger, who dreams one day of becoming a teacher; brother Momen, a computer engineer and movie lover, also forced to part with his computer; and finally Marah, Marwa’s eldest sister, three years into her English literature degree. Ordinary people, extraordinary capacities, on the precipice of abnormal adversity, they took to the streets by foot.

Even when an entire city is plunged into panic, random acts of kindness never completely disappear; a truck driver encountered Marwa’s family and offered them a ride. They had no address to give him, for they knew not where they were going - only that they were leaving. Two more vehicles aided their journey South, until they were able to follow a crowd towards a refugee shelter in Khan Younis. A former teacher’s office became the roof over their head, so small they had to sleep with their legs bent. Backpacks - once a universal trademark of education - offered the only possible protection from the cold school floor. Long nights turned into weeks, which worked their way into months, and although neither complete comfort nor peace were ever on offer, Marwa’s family fought to make it work; they bought mattresses and pillows, sheets, clothing and cookware, married strength with grit, willing the unforgiving walls around them into the impressions of a harbour. So too did the other sixty thousand in the suffocating vicinity, penned in under the watchful eye of both their oppressors and the world. Externally, an ‘issue’, a number, something to be ‘solved’. But on the inside, a collection of universes, each mourning the loss of its epicenter. Whatever solace Marwa and her family were able to conjure came crashing down once more, three months in. Each detail of that day is etched deeply into her memory with a painful clarity:

“We thought this shelter would never be ordered to evacuate. But it was. And that was a very very difficult day. First the shelter was surrounded for 3 days. No one could leave. We could see the tanks from the windows and they targeted a few places inside the shelter killing a dozen people who were buried inside. We thought they would surround the shelter till we starved to death or they would come inside and start killing, kidnapping, and raping people like they did in Al Shifa hospital. Luckily they didn't do any of that. They ordered us to evacuate… We started crying thinking we'll have to go sleep in the street with absolutely nothing. That we'll have to buy everything we need again which was impossible because the more people were displaced, the less things were available to buy and the more expensive they became. That day I felt so helpless and hopeless. We were crying over losing our mattresses and kitchen ware, that's how vulnerable and stranded we were. Thankfully, drivers from Rafah heard of the evacuation and started coming to the shelter to evacuate people. We found a minivan, and my father paid him 1000 NIS to convince him to take us over other families who were just as helpless as us. We took almost all our stuff. Which was a struggle in itself - the shelter was huge. And the van was parked away from the shelter and couldn't get closer. So we had to carry our stuff from the second floor down and all the way to the van. This was made even more difficult by the crowds of panicked families who were running around trying to evacuate. And the thieves who stole the huge water tanks of the shelter. To steal them, they had to empty the water on the ground in our way, making it muddy and extremely difficult to walk on, especially when carrying heavy things. It took us 5 hours to get our stuff down to the van (my arms were hurting me for a week after that and I didn't carry nearly as much as my brothers did). When we loaded the van and squeezed ourselves in, the army started targeting the shelter and the families with gas bombs. People who left were coming back saying the army ordered them to go back. We were devastated; ‘What do we do now?’. The driver who was from Rafah said he would go home and couldn’t stay with us till tomorrow. If we stayed, we couldn’t be sure to find another car tomorrow. So we decided to leave. The driver was taking another road avoiding the tanks but there was still a very huge chance we would be targeted for disobeying orders. Thankfully, we weren't.”

They arrived in Rafah with nowhere to go. As nightfall and exhaustion crept upon them, their only choice was to sleep on the street, wholly at the mercy of the rumbling sky. A friend of Mahmoud’s who had heard of their situation called to offer their family a tent. And so, once again, it was a small act of kindness that stood between Marwa’s family and imposed, incomprehensible peril:

“That night, it rained like no night before.”

Even the fleeting respite of sleep was out of reach. With winter in full swing, water crept in through the sides and the roof of the tent, dripping down onto the exhausted souls. When sunrise finally came, they learnt what had happened back in Khan Younis; a bus full of fleeing families was crushed by an Israeli tank, killing everyone inside. Others were taken hostage, and many more stripped of their belongings - infants, mothers and the elderly ordered to walk the five mile journey to Rafah with nothing. A twisted air hung over Marwa and her family that day; an amalgamation made up of relief, for what little they had clung on to, of devastation, for all that had been lost, and of dread, for what was to come. For an instance, the instinct to survive took precedence over contemplation. As though tireless, they bought wood and canvas and created a tent on the beach. Exposed to the elements, unbearably hot days were replaced by freezing nights, whilst rain would intrude upon their sleep and mandate repairs the following day. But nothing pierced more fear into their hearts than the incessant detonations that ripped through the darkness, their sound shattering its silence.

When news came that Rafah was next, they packed up their lives once more, stepping away from whatever tiny hope of repose they may have uncovered, and headed for Deir Al Balah. Upon arrival, they worked together again to create themselves a shelter, one which, this time, would protect them for an entire year. Birthdays, anniversaries, seasons, and more, came and went, all beneath a veil of uncharted hardship. Nonetheless, Marwa’s valor stood the ultimate test. She - alongside a remarkable group of peers and professors - refused for their studies to be compromised. Even without reliable access to connectivity, electricity or even just silence, she persevered with her lectures, studied as long as she could, and in May, began her hospital placement.

“I did it because staying in the tent thinking of everything that has happened and [was] still happening was making me very depressed. I wanted to fill my time with something else to think of, and do something that's like my old life. I also wanted to help.”

And although the newfound sense of purpose was a welcome distraction, Marwa was also taking a step deeper into the heart of atrocity. Her placement should have been ‘bedside oriented’, meaning relevant to the subject they were studying, involving investigations of individual cases, patient history, diagnoses, treatments, and so on. Instead, she entered chambers of chaos, shadowing frantic doctors who were cruelly overstretched. Marwa was also exposed to unforgettable scenes of heartbreak:

“There wasn't one day at the hospital where there wasn't a grieving family or a crying parent or child covered in blood and rescued from under the rubble. So many people chose to make their tents on hospital grounds, thinking it keeps them safe, making the hospital even more crowded and more sad. I was living in a tent and I hated seeing tents because it just made me think of how difficult and unfair life is. I'm still glad I could help in any way.”

To get to her placement in Al Nusiert, Marwa would take a 30 minute ride on a donkey cart and walk the second half of the journey through Al Nusiert market. Once, as she was preparing to set off, she received a message from her professor saying that he was unable to attend that day. Marwa, therefore, stayed back. Half an hour later, the sounds of bombing ravaged through the air. When her family turned on the radio, they learned that the noise was coming from Al Nusiert; a massacre had claimed the lives of over 200 people in the very market where Marwa should have been.

“And that was just one day of my rotations in 3 different hospitals.”

When the ceasefire began in January, the owner of the land upon which Marwa’s family tent was situated asked them to leave. They decided to return North, towards Gaza city - towards home. Nothing could prepare them for the moment they first laid eyes on their family home. Where those proud walls had once stood - the sanctuary of a lifetime of memories - lay gray, lifeless rubble. And although they had known this reality already, they wept. They wept for the loss of a dream. They wept for the loss of a future. But none more than Inam, Marwa’s mother.

“It took her and my father 30 years to finish it. And she tells me she remembers every step of it, from buying land, to building, to choosing the tiles and the furniture. She can remember details about building our house from 30 years ago like it was yesterday. It took her 30 years to get to her dreams, and it was taken away in seconds.”

The remnants of Marwa's home - her father Ali's Plants. Photography by Marwa Abuaita.

Today, Marwa and her extended family are living at her uncle’s home in the North of Gaza. For over a week, they worked nonstop to repair the damage that had been inflicted. The effort was a monumental one, but it brought about the relief of no longer having to live in the unforgiving confines of a tent. With their future in Gaza stolen, Marwa has led an incredible effort to raise funds to move her extended family to Canada. And while the prospect of peace and stability is something they have longed for for what must feel like an eternity, they carry open wounds in their hearts, ones which Marwa fears may never heal.

“The pain of losing the only home you have ever known is something you can never overcome… We're not leaving our home. We have already lost our home, and what we are leaving behind is merely the ruins. No matter where we go or settle, no place will be like home. I, for instance, will never have a childhood bedroom or street to go back to. My mother won't get a chance to build another home for her family. I'm sure we'll be happy in Canada, but home isn't something you can replace.”

Exemplifying her extraordinary resilience, just over a month ago Marwa completed her 4th year medical exams, grasping an incredible feat from the palms of oppression. I cannot help but feel inspired by her. Never before have I encountered such wisdom, intelligence, sensibility and bravery, bundled inside someone my own age. These are the qualities of a hero. They are the matter that make up the handful of individuals who have changed our world for the better. But right now, Marwa does not need to be a hero. She needs her home back. She needs her life back.

Instead, as I write this, Marwa and her family are in immediate danger. After breaking the ceasefire continuously, Israel - with both implicit and explicit support from governments around the world - has decided that the genocide must go on. That more children must die. That more homes must be taken. Her uncle’s home has been placed on an “evacuation” map, meaning the exhausted family, with just weeks of rest from their 15 months of trauma, are staring down the barrel of displacement once more. While the past, present, and future for Marwa and her family are deeply complex, the reasons for this are not; Israel believes Palestinians should not exist, and your government supports them because it is financially beneficial to do so. If you believe in democracy, there has never been a more imperative moment to fight for it. If your rage is not compulsive, I question not your politics, nor your motivations, but your morality. To quote author Omar El Akkad:

“One day, when it’s safe, when there’s no personal downside to calling a thing what it is, when it’s too late to hold anyone accountable, everyone will have always been against this.”

Thank you for reading. If you have any comments, questions, or even someone you think might be interested in an interview, feel free to get in touch. Also, below is Marwa’s Instagram and a link to her appeal:

Email: sebelder03@gmail.com | Instagram: @seb.elder | Marwa (Instagram): @marwa_3eta

Click here for Marwa’s appeal