Every night when I close my eyes, their faces appear. I say a silent prayer and ask for God to sustain them and save them for one more day. They are the faces of the children who have been killed that I will carry with me the rest of my life. And there are the faces of the children I see in my dreams who survived something so horrific and gruesome, not one of us could ever imagine or perhaps even survive it ourselves. I see those kids whose bodies are shaking from the shock of surviving a bombing. They stare at their hands as they shake uncontrollably. I see the ones with the empty eyes who have become orphaned in a split second. What will become of the 24,000 of them? I see the faces of parents screaming, covering their faces, raising their hands into the air. "Ya Allah!" they yell.
For anyone who has ever lost even one child, imagine losing all of them instantly.
When I close my eyes, I see Khaled. The man who the Western world would likely label as a terrorist because he has a beard, wears a keffiyeh, and a Dishdash. I see him hugging his favorite granddaughter one last time, Reem, whom he calls "the soul of my soul." He opens her eyes with his fingers, smiles at her, and hugs her again before laying her down next to her brother Tariq, and carefully wrapping her in plastic and then a white shroud. His voice reminds me of a dear Lebanese friend, and his eyes are, resembling so many of the Palestinians I have come to know and love. Khaled has spent his days since the loss of his children and grandchildren, helping Gazans who have been injured or need a hand. People seem comforted by his presence. He is a hero of Gaza and he humanized Palestinians to the rest of the racist world.
When I close my eyes, I see Sela. She is only three years old and wears a purple cast from the top of her hip down to her foot. She lost her mother and brother when they were bombed early in the war, and she is now 1 of the 24,000 orphans. She is living in one of the hospitals and I see the videos of her running through the halls and laughing. When boxes of toys arrived at the hospital, she opened them and squealed with delight. Then she began distributing them to other children who were shaking and curled up against walls. These are the children the occupation is saying need to die because they are all terrorists. None of them are innocent, I heard them say.
These are all beautiful children who are precious and loved deeply by God.
When I close my eyes, I see Wael Dahdouh. He is an older Palestinian man who has been the director and reporter for Al Jazeera Arabic in Gaza for 20 years. Israel does not allow reporters into Gaza unless they are imbedded with the IDF, therefore Palestinians have been doing the real reporting. They have been routinely targeted by Israel and 103 have been killed in this war alone. I believe Wael is to Gaza, what Shireen Abu Akleh was to the West Bank. Wael evacuated his family from the north of Gaza to the south at the beginning of the war, like they were told to do by Israel. Only a short time later, their building was targeted by bombs. His wife, 7-year-old daughter, 15-year-old son, and 8 more of his relatives were murdered. We watched live on television when they told him. He cried as he walked with his living son and buried them. He immediately went right back to reporting the atrocities in Gaza. On December 15, while Wael was covering the Haifa School strike in Khan Younis, they were hit by an Israeli missile. Wael was injured and taken to a hospital. While laying with an IV, he was informed that his cameraman, Samer Abu Daqqa had died from the strike. He immediately got up and we saw him walking behind the body of Samer carrying his IV bag. Wael immediately went back to reporting.
When I close my eyes, I see Motaz Azaiza. Motaz has become famous for photographing the war all over the entire Gaza Strip. He has 17 million followers on Instagram (more than POTUS), and his photography has been recognized by Times as one of the top 10 photos of the year. Motaz has done important work of photographing, documenting, and recording the war in real time. He has documented very clearly the Gazan genocide, and you can see how quickly he has aged in the last 2 months.
When I close my eyes, I see Tareq Abu Azoum a journalist who looks like he is not much older than 25. He speaks in perfect British English to us every night in our homes on the television, wearing his Press vest and helmet. He never changes his tone of voice and remains cool and calm as he gives a rundown of the horrific events of the day. I have no idea how he has survived this war with no injuries, and I worry one morning I will wake up and he will be gone. Tareq said on social media a few days ago, "At the bottom of our hearts lies our life. One that was dynamic, exuberant, and prosperous. Tough though it was, we still revered and honored it. Our life is literally paradoxical. Meaning, the mistakes we made, the anger we held, the arguments we had and the frowns we gave were all happy moments."
More than 20,000 Palestinians have been killed, not counting those still under the rubble, and 1.9 million more have been displaced in Gaza because of this war.
"Yesterday, we were missing freedom. Today, we miss love. I'm afraid of tomorrow for we will miss humanity." Mahmoud Darwish, famous Palestinian poet.
