We carried my mother’s body many kilometers so that we could bury her – Mondoweiss

Boom boom boom. This sound will remain in my memory for a long time. It ruined my life and shattered my heart, stripping me of everything I had.

This is accompanied by sadness that paralyzes my thoughts and prevents me from seeing the slightest glimmer of hope on the horizon. The fun and optimistic person I once was has turned into a melancholic and gloomy person I barely recognize.

This happened when I found myself surrounded by smoke and black dust.

Boom boom boom. My house collapsed on my head in a matter of seconds.

My family and I were huddled in the basement of our house, our hearts beating in time with every explosion outside. My younger brother Osama clung to me tightly. His eyes sought comfort from me.

Time lost its meaning as we were surrounded in a dark and closed place. When the bomb hit us, the constant bombardment became a kind of cruel symphony as dust filled the air, making it difficult to breathe. My mother, who had been a source of stability and strength for us, broke down, certain that we would not survive and would be buried under the rubber of our home.

Israeli gunfire targeted every house in our neighborhood, tearing through the air and finding concrete, metal and flesh, and soon there were screams outside. All we could do inside was pray for the bombing to end.

When morning came, the bombardment began to subside. For a moment we thought that this hellish nightmare was over. We sent our brother Yaseen to check the situation and see if there was any possibility of evacuating the house. When he returned, his face was full of despair. He informed us that tanks had surrounded the entire area and Israeli snipers had been placed on the roofs of neighboring buildings. Death was waiting for us outside, so we stayed in the basement.

My grandmother said that the basement would be safe from shelling. Her words brought me relief, because in previous wars we used the basement as a shelter from bombing. But this war was different from any war that I or even my grandmother had witnessed.

Part of our basement was hit by a shell. At that point I couldn’t hear or see anything except my mother, who was covered in dust and calling our names to see if we were okay.

Then I began to hear the voices of the rest of my family, reassuring me that they were alive. My father walked to the door and opened it with difficulty, asking us to follow his example into the danger that awaited us on the other side.

When we finally emerged, we were shocked by the level of destruction. Shards and broken glass were everywhere, hurting our bare feet as we stepped over them. We ran in the shadow of the tanks, fear controlling every inch of our bodies.

My mother desperately held my little brother’s hand. Most people trusted Israel’s claim that civilians would have safe passage through the “humanitarian corridor,” but I did not. Something inside me told me they were going to attack at any moment. We continued our journey, looking for a safe place as a temporary destination. One of our neighbors suggested school as a safe place. He emphasized that such a place is a civil institution protected by international law.

My father was convinced by his suggestion, so we all decided to go there. When we reached the school, we sat in the schoolyard, crowded with thousands of displaced people, with barely any facilities. At that moment, I burst into tears. I felt that I was in a swirling storm of chaos and destruction, and then I saw my mother approaching me to wipe my tears with her soft hands. Her beautiful smile soothed my pain, calming me down. She told me that everything would be fine.

The silence didn’t last long. This time, the school was hit by seven rounds. Panic spread like wildfire as we felt the ground shake beneath us. I lost my family.

I was surrounded by blood and body parts. I was looking through the bodies to see if there were any among them. Then I heard a scream full of pain. This voice was familiar to me. It was my younger brother Osama who shouted, “My mother was injured by shrapnel!”

I followed the echo of the voice until I found him along with the rest of the family. I saw tears flowing down their faces. My mother was lying on the ground, bleeding. I unconsciously ran towards her and grabbed her hand.

“Get through this, Mom,” I said. “We still need you. Don’t go.”

The color drained from my mother’s beautiful face. Her heart stopped beating and she closed her eyes forever.

Bullets continued to fall on the school. One of our neighbors told us that the tanks were very close to this place and that it would not be possible to carry my mother or evacuate. We tried calling the Red Crescent several times, but no one answered. Yaseen wiped his tears and said, “My mother carried me in her womb for nine months. I won’t leave her.

He stood up, took my mother on his shoulder, and ran out of the school.

We held a white flag the whole way. It didn’t stop the soldiers from attacking the streets we were passing through. The bombardment intensified and covered the whole area. My brother suddenly stopped and my mother’s body fell to the ground. He couldn’t carry her any further, he was too young and too small. My father appeared next to him. “We’re halfway there. We can’t leave her now.” He took her left hand and I held her right. My brothers held her legs. We all carried my mother the rest of the way until we reached our relatives’ house.

My mother was lucky. She had the honor of being buried in a way that protected her human dignity. We were very proud of this achievement and remained true to her and her memory.

Even though we survived the bombing, it found its purpose. The brutality of war weighed on our hearts and souls, but amidst the pain I saw a glimmer of resilience in my family’s eyes. We would rebuild, we would heal, and we would remember my mother forever.