The air in Mawasi, Khan Younis, is thick with a silence which screams louder than any arm. It clings to everything — homes half-standing, roads gnarled and fractured as open wounds. Dust swirls around the ruins of what was once a neighborhood, the charred remains of stone walls jut out against the horizon like broken ribs. Beyond the horizon, the sea, though near, is distant — its salt-tainted winds sweep the land, but its calm offers no solace.
Astrid steps down from the truck that had carried her through the land border, her boots sink into the sand-coated earth. It is early morning, but the sun is hung low and pale with shades stretching over the tented shelters that dot the makeshift medical camp. She pulls her scarf tighter around her face, shielding herself from the coarse grains in the wind, but not from the stench of burnt metal and decay. The smell is everywhere. It is in the sand, the air, even the walls that are left standing — of past violence that seeps deep into the earth. This is Gaza, though it might as well be the moon, for all its foreignness.
A cluster of canvas tents and tarpaulin-covered structures, sagging under the weight of all it had witnessed, is the camp. It is a place where time, much like the lives living here, are cleaved in two —before the bombing and after. There seems to be no future for Mawasi, and for its inhabitants only survival. People move in a shadow of sadness, hunched, hungry, hurried, faces gaunt and hollow-eyed carry invisible burdens which decades of violence and broken ceasefires have inflicted and now made more poignant since the previoua october. The children — those left— still seek a semblance of lost joy as they play in the dirt. Yet they find it hard to laugh or chase one another as children should. Instead, they stack stones as if rebuilding worlds from the rubble that surround them.
Astrid had read about this war long before she had come here, absorbing the history in careful, detached doses — the Six-Day War, the First Intifada, the Oslo Accords. All those genocides, all those treaties, treated as though they were chapters with tidy endings. But here, there have had no neat endings. Just the unrelenting present, where past bled into future. She had studied the patterns of destruction, heard the political arguments from both sides, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of it. The constant hum of drones overhead, the tremor in the earth every time artillery fire hit a target, the shattered windows, the debris of minarets. History walks alive here, not as memory but as a daily, suffocating presence.
She set her bag down inside the small medical tent, her breath hitching as she catches sight of the makeshift beds lined up in rows. Most are empty now, though not for long. They never stay empty. The war has seen to that. The casualties come in waves, often without warning — shattered limbs, charred skin, eyes wide, petrified from phases of shock and pain. She would not forget the faces of those who will pass through this tent; lingering in the air like ghosts, haunting spaces between life and death.
Astrid’s thoughts wanders to the borders of this land — the walls that kept people in, the walls that kept help out. They were erected under the pretense of protection, but all they do is suffocate. The same walls that isolate Gaza from the rest of the world also divides families, separate children from their futures, and cage people in successive streams of flooding hopelessness. Here, every day is a negotiation with fate — who lived, who died, who stayed in limbo, waiting for rescue that never came.
Sky stretches endlesy, a canvas of pale blue streaking with the occasional smudge of black smoke. It is both vast and indifferent, offering no answers to the questions that hang in the air. How can this be allowed to continue? How has the world turned away for so long?
Still lost in thought and absorbing the surreal quiet that wraps around the devastation, she hears the sound of footsteps approaching. She looks up to see a man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, wearing a navy-blue vest emblazoned with the white letters “PRESS.” His face is framed by a short beard, and his eyes — sharp but tired — meets hers with a mixture of curiosity and recognition. He extended his hand.
“Ahmad,” he introduces himself. “With Al Jazeera. You must be Astrid.”
Astrid shakes his hand. “Yes,” she replies softly. “I arrived this morning. You’ve been reporting here long?”
Ahmad nods, glances briefly at the horizon. “Too long, perhaps. Not much has changed since I first started, except for the number of graves.”
His words are heavy, and they sink between them, momentarily silencing the space around them. Then, Ahmad gestures toward the camp. “Come, I’ll show you around. It’s not much, but you should know what you’re dealing with here.”
They begin walking, weaving through pathways between tents. Ahmad speaks as they moved, his voice both matter-of-fact and laced with underlying grief.
“The medical situation here is… desperate. There’s an outbreak of polio, and many of the wounded are developing sepsis because there simply aren’t potent enough antibiotics. Most of the supplies are blocked at the border, and the hospitals left standing are overwhelmed. The strikes on Gaza have turned it into a pressure cooker, and everyone is at the breaking point — physically and mentally.”
Astrid’s mind races, recalling the medical protocols she had studied for infectious diseases and traumatic injuries. But this wasn’t a textbook scenario. This was the convergence of medical disaster and political negligence on a scale that dwarfed anything she had ever encountered.
“How are people dealing with the polio outbreak? Like really.” She asks.
Ahmad sighs. “Most children haven’t been vaccinated. It’s spreading fast, especially in the overcrowded camps. There’s talk of trying to get vaccines in, but who knows when that will happen — if it happens at all. And with the lack of clean water, sepsis is becoming an even bigger problem than we thought.”
They stop outside a makeshift shelter, a tent larger than most around it. A few women seat at the entrance, eyes hollow, as if they have already given up on waiting for help. Ahmad points toward the tent.
“Many of the families here lost everything. Homes, relatives, futures. They’ve been pushed to the edge, not just by the bombs but by the weight of being forgotten by the world.”
Astrid nods, her eyes scanning the rows of tents. She feels a rising anger at the injustice of it all — at the indifference of the world leaders who give statements of “deep concern” but do nothing. Worse, some even agree with it. Each day the headlines shift, but here, nothing ever truly changes. She had seen the reports of the strikes of Yemen and Iran, the retaliations from Israel on Gaza and Lebanon, but being here, standing on this ground, it all felt more real and raw. Ahmad must have sensed her thoughts.
“The world is watching, but not really seeing,” he says bitterly. “Some politicians condemn the violence, but they don’t realize peace. All the while bombs keep falling. Iran strikes back, Israel retaliates, and we all know how this ends. Yemen, Lebanon, Gaza — we’re all caught in the crossfire of larger games. And the people here? They’re just…”
Astrid glances at Ahmad, noting the tension in his voice, the barely concealed ache and rage. She can understand it — this frustration with the destruction and inaction.
“The human cost is unimaginable.”
Ahmad stops in front of another tent, this one marked with a white moon crudely paint on its fabric. He looks at her seriously. “And that’s not even considering the psychological cost,” he said. “These children, for example. They’ve lost everything — and I mean everything. Parents, homes, their sense of security, their childhoods. You’re about to meet one of them.”
Astrid prepares herself, unsure of what to expect. Ahmad leads her into the tent, where a small figure seats on a thin mattress near the far corner. She is a girl — twelve, though she looked younger. Her dark eyes are wide and alert, but there is something hollow about them, a look of discontent and hopelessness forced upon her far too soon. Next to her, two younger children — barely toddlers — seat silently, leaning into the older girl for warmth and comfort.
“This is Amina,” Ahmad says quietly, crouching down beside her. “She’s been taking care of her siblings since the bombing two weeks ago. Their parents were killed in the strikes. She hasn’t spoken much since, but she keeps them safe.”
She kneels beside the girl, her heart clenching at the sight of this child, forced to bear the weight of responsibility that no one her age should have to carry. She glances at Ahmad, her mind racing with questions — about medical care, psychological support, what could be done to help these children. “How do we even begin to help?” she asks quietly, almost to herself.
Ahmad sighs, looking at Amina with a mixture of helplessness and admiration. “I don’t know. We do what we can. But the trauma these kids have suffered… it’s beyond anything we can fix with bandages and medicine. They’ve lived through hell. The problem is, they’re still living in it.”
In his words the truth is stark, reflected in the girl’s empty gaze. This is not about the physical scars — the burns, the infections, the malnutrition. It is the psychological damage, the trauma that would live on in these children long after the bombs stopped falling. She reaches out, gently touches Amina’s hand, though the girl does not react. “We’ll help,” Astrid says softly. “We have to help.”
Ahmad stands up, brushing the dust off his pants. “You’ll see more cases like hers. A lot more. And not just here in Gaza. The strikes in Lebanon are getting worse. Yemen, too. There’s no escape from this — this perpetual state of war. No one in the region is safe from Israhell.”
Rising beside him, her mind already spinning with the enormity of what lies ahead. Astrid is reinforced with the fact that there is so much to do, so much suffering to address, and the odds feel impossibly stacked against them. Yet, here she is, in the thick of it, and she knows there is no turning back.
Amina seats in the corner of the room, her eyes tracing the outline of the tent cracks as the light outside flickers against the concrete walls. Dust, always there, like a blanket no one asked for, settles on everything — on the metal cot, the chipped enamel basin, the corners of the thin mattress. She shifts, her body pressed against the cold floor, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, holding herself together. She is not sure how much longer she could.
The air in the tent is heavy, thick with unsaid words and wept and unwept tears. It smells of burnt wood and something else she unnamed, something sharp and metallic that clings to her skin. Outside, the distant sound of gunfire cracks like a cruel reminder that there is no escaping what has happened. What continues to happen.
Mama is gone.
Amina’s mind circles around the thought, unable to hold it still, unable to let it settle into anything solid. It fit through her brain like a moth, brushing against the edges, too quick to catch, but always there. She had screamed when it happened — she remembers that much. But now, in this quiet, it feels unreal, like it happened to someone else. How can it be? Mama’s arms, strong and brown, had held her just days ago. Mama’s voice, soft but firm, told her to be brave.
Be brave. As if it was something you could pull from the air, like dust.
Her fingers trace the rough floor beneath her, feeling the tiny grains of sand beneath her nails. Her brothers are asleep, their small bodies curled like question marks under the single blanket. She had told them to close their eyes. She had said it would be okay, but she didn’t believe herself. The weight of their small breaths on her shoulders feel like too much — too much for someone who is barely more than a child herself. But she is not a child anymore, is she? Not after the bombs. Not after the blood. Amina tries not to remember the flash, the red, the heat against her skin as if her flesh might melt like rubber.
She squeezes her eyes shut, willing the images to fade, but they never do. They are there, always, just behind her eyelids, waiting for her in quiet moments. She stands abruptly, her body moving before her mind catches up. The tent feels too small, too tight. She crosses it in a few quick strides and presses her face to her palm..
Outside, the streets of Mawasi stretched out, broken, jagged. A few children play in the dirt, their laughter sharp and incongruous against the sea of ruined buildings. Amina’s chest tightens. How can they laugh? Do they not know? But they did know. They know and still they laugh because what else is there to do? You have to fill the space with something, or it will swallow you whole. Her fingers press harder into the mat, leaving faint smudges. She recalls the last time she had gone outside — before the bombing, before everything. The market had been crowded, as usual. The sound of voices haggling over prices, the smell of ripe fruit, fish, and spices swirling in the air. Amina had been with her mother, her small hand tucked inside Mama’s. She remembered the cool feel of her mother’s palm, the way she had gripped it tightly as they wove through the bustling crowd. And then—nothing. Just the sound. The explosion.
Gone.
Amina blinks rapidly, her thoughts slip between memories and the present, never quite anchoring in either place. Her stomach growls, but there is no food. Not really. Just a few scraps of bread, some stale rice. She plans to give it to her brothers when they woke. They are too young to understand that the world had shifted, that everything is different now. They still ask for Mama sometimes, their eyes wide and confused, as if expecting her to walk through the door at any moment. Amina never had the words to tell them she wouldn’t.
Responsibility. The word tastes bitter in her mouth. She is twelve. Twelve is for playing with friends, for going to school, for worrying about homework and silly things. Not for this.
Not for holding the pieces of her family together with hands that tremble from hunger and fear. She glances at her brothers, still asleep, their chests rising and falling in the rhythm of dreams.
A flash of anger jolts through her, sharp and hot. Why is she the one? Why is it her who stays behind, who picks up the pieces? She wants to scream, to throw something, to hit something. But there is nothing. Only the walls, the floor of rough earth that floods sometimes. Only the broken world outside that does not care. Amina’s hands clenches at her sides. She hates herself for feeling it, for feeling anger instead of sadness. But there is no space for sadness now. Sadness is for people who have time. She has no time. She has to think, to plan. Figure out how to keep them alive. How to keep herself from crumbling under the weight of it all.
Amina blinks, returning to the present, the light shifting ever so slightly in the room. Her gaze lands on Astrid, who has been sitting quietly, her hands folded neatly in her lap, though her eyes betray something else — an unease, or perhaps hesitation. Astrid had been watching her for a while now, but in that quiet way of hers, like a bird perched on a branch, unsure whether to take flight or remain still.
Astrid’s lips twitches upward into a thin, uncertain smile when Amina finally met her gaze. She quickly looks away, her fingers tracing absent circles on the edge of her skirt. Her pale cheeks flushed just the slightest shade of pink as if caught in some private act of observation. She didn’t speak immediately — words, it seemed, had lodged themselves somewhere between her mind and her mouth, unwilling to cooperate. Amina shifted on the mat, feeling the weight of her thoughts cling like a second skin.
The silence in the tent stretches taut as the surface of a still pond that any movement might shatter. She opens her mouth, but no words come. She is too exhausted, too drained to say anything that makes sense. Astrid clears her throat softly, a nervous gesture, and forces herself to speak. “Are you… are you feeling better?” Her voice is gentle, almost a whisper, as if she fears breaking something inside Amina with her words. Her eyes flicker nervously toward Ahmad, who stands near the doorway, his face a careful mask of concern. The space between them feels like a chasm — vast, unbridgeable.
Amina nods slowly, still struggling to piece herself back together. She looks down at her hands, her nails chipped and her fingers trembling slightly. “Yes,” she said, though it isn’t true. Not really.
Though she does not seem convinced either, Astrid nodded in return. She shifts in her position again, her knees brush together. The awkwardness between them swells, thick and stifling, as though neither knows what to do next, or what is appropriate. There is a feeling that both of them are floating outside themselves, looking at the scene from somewhere far away.
Astrid wants to reach out, to place her hand over Amina’s, but she is stopped by an almagam of conditions. She imagines what it might feel like, the connection between them, the unspoken comfort that might pass from her skin to Amina’s if only she dares. But instead, her hand stays where it is, clenched tightly in her lap, her nails pressed into her palm. She cannot do it. Cannot find the courage to bridge that small gap.
Amina notices the tension in Astrid’s body — the way she holds herself stiffly. She can say nothing to ease the tension, to let Astrid know that it is okay, that there is no need to be so cautious. But she does not. The words never come.
Ahmad, standing silently in the background, watches, his presence spectrelike in the corner of the room. His hands are in his pockets, his face carefully neutral, but there is a deep sadness in his eyes, a resignation that hangs between them all. He knows, perhaps more than anyone, that there is nothing more he could do. His role here, whatever it had been, was coming to an end.
“I think,” he begins, his voice low and hesitant, “it’s time for us to go.” His words seem to land with a dull thud in the room, final and irreversible.
Astrid’s head snaps up, a flash of panic crossing her face before she hides it. She glances at Ahmad, her eyes wide, as if she wants to protest, to say something, anything that might keep them here just a little longer. But she cannot. She feels the same sinking dread that Ahmad did — the knowledge that their presence here, however well-intentioned, might be more burden than help.
“Yes,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She stands abruptly, her legs scraping against the dry earth with a harsh, grating sound that made her wince. Her movements are awkward, jerky, like someone trying to navigate through a dream they entirely are unsure they belong in.
Amina looks between them, the sudden shift catching her off-guard. Her chest tightens again, but this time, it isn’t the weight of memories or trauma — but the realization that they are leaving. That the small bubble of connection she feels, fragile as it is, is about to pop.
She wants to say something, to ask them to stay, even though she knows they cannot. Her mouth opens, but once again, no sound comes. Just silence, thick and heavy.
Astrid stands there for a moment longer, her hands fidget with the hem of her sleeve, unsure of what to do. There is something unfinished between them, something that neither of them know how to name, much less address. It lingers in the air, unresolved and raw.
“I… I’ll be back soon,” Astrid finally says, though the words sound hollow, like a promise she is unsure she can keep.
Nodding, Amina tries to believe it. She stands too, but she does not walk them to the door. She just stands there, rooted to the spot, watching as they make their way out. Ahmad gives her one last look, a quiet, lingering gaze that seems to hold all the things he cannot say.
The tent waves shut behind them, leaving Amina alone.
Iduoze Abdulhafiz is a poet, playwright, short story writer and philosopher. His works delve into themes of introspection and existential questions. In them, he explores profound emotions such as grief, longing, ecstasy, the divine, and other worldly issues.
He hopes that through his writing, he brings some form of satiety or a glimmer of light to the reader reading his work.
Many of his works contemplate issues of existence using metaphorical imagery and philosophical reflections. He has been published in the magazine Ekonkwe.
