What Happens Next?

When the first blast sounded, on Saturday at just past 11 a.m., I hardly took notice. I was at work in my office on the second floor of the Palestine Tower in Gaza City, where I write for the local newspaper. Large explosions had been increasingly rare since Hamas and Israel struck their ceasefire pact six months ago. Still, I decided to stay put and keep writing. By the time the second bomb landed, moments later, I knew something serious was happening. The whole office broke into a panic. I ran as fast as I could, shouting to my colleagues to leave the building.

The streets outside were packed with terrified people. I could hear a cascade of Israeli bombs falling in the distance. Mothers rushed to the nearby kindergarten and pulled their kids out of class. The scene was so chaotic that I thought Hamas might be losing its grip on power. I ducked into a shop. I began to worry that the Israelis might target the Palestine Tower, where Hamas keeps its media office on the third floor. I tried to call family members on my cell phone, but the lines were jammed. Finally I heard the news: dozens of Palestinians had been killed. I knew then that the Egyptian-brokered peace talks had collapsed.

I rushed to the nearby police headquarters. Smoke was still billowing from the destroyed building. It was full of bodies. The injured called out for help. A man with a short beard, wounded but barely alive, gasped for breath. Rescue workers and private citizens pulled the wounded from the rubble and packed them into ambulances and cars. But the large number of injured made their job difficult. Finally, an angry policeman shouted to us to leave the place, warning that the planes might return. I began to think again about by family. I tried my wife again, but still couldn't get through.

I hopped in a taxi and headed home. Thousands of frightened students were in the streets. On the way back I couldn't help thinking about the awful situation I am living in with my family in Gaza. According to local polls, nearly half of all Gazans want to emigrate. So do I. Why stay here among the war and killing? I don't want my kids to go through the same things I have. My wife has always refused to leave. In the car on the way home, I resolved to discuss it with her again.

As soon as I arrived home and opened the door, my kids rushed toward me. They covered me with kisses. My 10-year-old, Abdullah, described how he dove to the floor with his classmates at school after hearing the blasts. My 12-year-old daughter, Aseel, was embarrassed because in the rush to leave her classroom, she had lost some of her textbooks. When she passed the smoking police station on the way home, she said she thought she was going to die. The experience seems to have been hardest on my oldest son, Hosam, who is 14. He just sat in front of the television all day, glued to the news reports. He refused even to come to dinner. My wife and I have tried to talk to him about what he saw, but he stops after only a few words. I'm thinking about taking him to a mental-health clinic. But frankly we all need psychiatrists.

I tried to do some reporting, but couldn't help thinking about what we might do in the event of a ground invasion. What would happen if militants launched a rocket from nearby our home? I went over in my mind how we might stockpile food, water and other necessities. I thanked God when the electricity failed. At least we didn't have to watch any more TV. We sat in the dark, telling the children stories about their childhood to distract them. It worked--for a couple of hours. Eventually, we got tired and went to bed, but my kids insisted on sleeping in our room.

My wife and I stayed up talking about the situation. It had never been like this before. We are paying a price in this crazy war, and nobody in the civilized world cares. But at least the chaos has finally motivated my family to do one thing. As the bombs sounded in the distance, I finally convinced my wife to leave Gaza.

© 2008