*over-crowded living, Gaza City, Gaza Strip, Palestine
The above photo isn’t even in one of Gaza’s numerous refugee camps, invariably aptly described as “squalid, over-crowded, under-serviced (or not at all) hell-holes”–not reflecting their inhabitants but rather the impossible standard of living in the camps.
It is a district of Gaza City, families piled upon on another in cement buildings. The house I live in isn’t much different: blistering in summer and numbing in winter, no-frills all around, lucky to have water (albeit water stored in the massive water tanks ubiquitous throughout occupied Palestine), surrounded by other like-constructed concrete ovens.
When drones hover over homes, TVs go fuzzy and even cell communication is affected, not to mention the more obvious disruption of one’s psyche. They’re flying overhead quite a bit these days, along with the standard IOF warplane fly-overs.
The Zionists have been bombing Gaza the last few days, Israeli warplanes not only buzzing and terrorizing us but unleashing their death kisses as well. This early morning’s bombings *only* resulted in various injuries, including at least two children. Only, no deaths last night, just lots of nasty, flesh-tearing shrapnel. A few days earlier, after killing 6 Palestinian members of resistance, Israeli soldiers fired on a funeral for some of the martyred, Ma’an reports.
M, one of Emad’s sisters, sees me looking at Twitter and asks about it. I explain, when Israel bombs, many Palestinians with internet and electricity report it right away. Gives me a sense of whether the fleet of warplanes I was watching from the roof just before coming downstairs to newly-returned electricity have attacked somewhere new or not. Even from the roof, when the Israeli planes attack Rafah or Beit Hanoun in the north, we don’t hear always hear: depends whether the chugging of generators drowns out sound or not. When it’s central Gaza we do hear, and often feel, it.
That’s why we came here today, M says. She was frightened, she points to her 2.5 year old who hasn’t been around in this prison on earth long enough to have lived through the 23 days of incessant, terrifying bombing, but who nonetheless knows that the deafening explosions equal death. They’ve been bombing the last few nights, she wakes up screaming.
It’s not quite 11 pm, I’m no longer on the roof and because of this feel more cut off than before, under the thump of our functioning ceiling fan (we have electricity tonight; last night no, hence the roof) which while providing a nice white noise to sleep to also blots out sirens and far-off bombings. I won’t be surprised if tomorrow the twitter feed reels off descriptions of the evening’s attacks.
When the bombs do fall, they are precise, yes, but not “surgical”… they can reach—injure and kill—anyone in the tightly-packed area invariably surrounding their target, as with just one recent example.
By the way, some of the twitter searches that come up with Gaza news are: #Gaza and #GazaUnderAttack