For Gaza survivors, war will last long into the future

Since the war began, work had become his life. Many of the people bombed were his neighbors, people he had grown up with.

Hatem Al-Atar, 25, was not married. His bravery was neither reckless nor born of ignorance. He knew he could die at any second.

“All the days of the war since October 7 until now they were difficult. Every second in this war was difficult. You could lose the life of a loved one at any moment,” Hatem says.

He is sitting in the civil defense office in Deir al-Balah with his comrades. They chat and check their phones. Each one is a survivor.

Ninety-four of his comrades died. More than 300 people were injured: almost half of the civil defense organization in Gaza.

For Hatem, death was as close as the explosion that knocked him down in a house near the Nasser hospital.

“There were people hurt and dead around the house,” he recalls.

“I went in to check if anyone was there, dead or alive. Once I did, a reconnaissance missile hit the house.”

Footage taken by a colleague shows him entering the building. A fire burns to the left of the painting.

Then there is a loud explosion, clouds of smoke, and a man staggers out, but it is not Hatem.

His friends go back inside and drag him outside. He is coughing and has to be held. But he survives.

Other people close to him were not so lucky.

On March 14 last year, at the beginning of Ramadan, he received a call at four in the morning from one of his brothers.

No one in wartime Gaza called at that time to give good news.

“He told me that our house in al-Bureij was attacked and that my father was killed.”

Hatem went to al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir al-Balah and met a family friend who directed him to the morgue.

“When I went there, my father was lying on the ground next to eight other bodies. They were my sister-in-law and her seven children! I was in shock.”

Still, Hatem kept moving, toward the site of the explosions, the collapsing buildings, the rubble where the dead and occasionally the living were buried. He took out bodies and body parts.

Then came the time when the shelling and shooting stopped.

The first night without air raids. It’s time to start thinking about something that was not guaranteed in the last 15 months: a future.

His thoughts focus on education and romance.

“With the agreement, I should think about what to do next. I will continue my university studies once the universities are open again. I am single but I will think about getting married.”

To try to tell the story of how the people of Gaza experienced this war, my BBC colleagues and I have relied on the tireless efforts of local journalists working on our behalf.

Israel banned foreign media from entering Gaza report the war independently.

Local BBC journalists have been on the streets almost non-stop for the past 24 hours capturing the mood in Gaza in times of ceasefire: a gunman standing on the Nuseirat road in central Gaza, shooting into the air; Hamas fighters and police are resurgent; a few meters ahead, another group of men shooting towards the sky; crowds gathered at street intersections and on street corners; a man kneeling and kissing the ground.

But all this occurs in a context of ruin. Trucks and cars roll by, loaded with people’s belongings. Some use donkey carts to transport possessions that have survived after their multiple journeys.

Today there are hundreds of thousands of trips in Gaza. In fact, some are already underway. Others exist in the imagination. They all have an address: home.

Professor Jumaa Abu Shiha arrives at what remains of his house in Nuseirat.

First of all, he states that the feeling of having survived is “indescribable.” He prays to himself: “God is the best arranger of our affairs.”

He repeats it as he goes from one ruined room to another. He is followed by his wife and several children.

The walls are down. The interiors are filled with machine gun and shrapnel marks.

Professor Abu Shiha describes how he built the house “block by block”, painted it and cherished the moment he brought his family to live here.

“I can’t find a house, I only see destruction, not a house,” he says. “I didn’t expect this. I expected to return to a house and find a place to shelter me and my children.”

She points to her daughters’ room and her sons’ room, so carefully decorated and now devastated. “The feeling is indescribable,” he says.

An enormous task of reconstruction remains ahead. The UN and aid agencies have reiterated accused Israel of obstructing aid flow; At one point, the United States threatened to halt military assistance to Israel unless more aid was allowed into Gaza. Israel denies restricting aid.

Aid trucks crossed the strip throughout the afternoon. Among them was a convoy from the Jordanian Hashemite Charity Organization, which we reported last weekon the journey from Amman to Gaza.

Forklifts transported tons of medicine and food to help the nearly two million displaced people in Gaza (approximately 90% of the population).

This help is tangible assistance. It can be weighed, counted, loaded and ultimately distributed. People can be fed and given medicine. But there is another challenge whose demands are immense and which will have a profound impact on the future of Gaza.

The war has created an unknown number of traumatized adults and children. We have recorded some of their stories. but we are aware of the tens of thousands more that have not yet been counted.

Children have faced acute suffering. According to a survey carried out with the caregivers of 504 children, for the British charity War Child96% of children felt that death was imminent.

The interviews also found that 49% had a death wish. Our journalists have often heard young survivors say they wish they could join a deceased mother, father or sibling.

Ten-year-old Amr al Hindi was the only survivor of an Israeli attack on the building where he lived in Beit Lahia last October. Our local colleague filmed Amr in the hospital right after the attack.

The ground around him was covered with wounded people. A woman was sitting with blood coming out of her ear. Nearby a man had just died.

“Where’s Sheriff?” Amr asked repeatedly. A nurse told him that Sherif was fine. “I’ll take you upstairs to see it.” But Sherif, his brother, did not survive. Neither did his other brother, Ali, nor his sister Aseel, nor his mother and father. The whole family was gone.

Just after the ceasefire agreement was announced we returned to see what had become of Amr al Hindi. He lived with his grandparents and it was clear that they loved him with love and tenderness. The boy had three of his toes amputated after the bombing, but he was able to walk normally.

Amr sat on his grandfather’s lap and looked directly into the camera. He was still and serene, as if he were watching from behind a thick protective screen. He started talking about his brother Ali and how he had wanted to go to Jordan and study to be a doctor.

“I wish to be like Ali. I want to fulfill his dream and travel to Jordan to become a doctor,” he said. But during the last words the tears began to fall and she broke down sobbing.

Amr’s grandfather kissed him on the cheek; He said “honey” and patted his chest.

At this moment it is understood that there are many wars here.

Some who have paused. Others who, for the survivors, will live long into the future.

With additional reporting by Alice Doyard, Malaak Hasona and Adam Campbell.