Clinical nutritionist Mohammed Hamad lives in Gaza with his family. Activist journalist Jude Alexander has been in regular contact with him throughout Israel’s genocidal war. You can read their other articles here and here.
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I woke up at 6.40am, on July 28 to a series of texts from Mohammed: “We miraculously survived a bombardment,” he said. “Many are wounded. The tents were damaged. A man was killed.”
Unfortunately, this is part of being friends with someone in Gaza. They are always in peril and devastating situations like this one are a reality. Peace and safety are considered merely “negotiable” for highly-placed people without empathy.
We had a flurry of texts back and forth.
Mohammed told me that at 7.50pm Gaza time, a man was walking past his tent, talking on his mobile, when a reconnaissance missile amputated his hand and killed him instantly. It was a small rocket, apparently, but the sound was, nevertheless, very loud.
We are not identifying him out of respect for his family’s privacy, and to avoid repercussions.
The man who died was an educated person, with a Master’s Degree in Education. He taught children, including Mohammed’s kids. He was their schoolteacher and also taught them about the Qur’an.
Everyone who knew him spoke about his kindness and generosity. He didn’t have extremist views. Mohammed didn’t know him terribly well, but according to his neighbours, he was not a military man.
The missile exploded about two metres from Mohammed, who was out the front of his tent talking to his brother-in-law and nephew. They survived because an olive tree and some temporary structures protected them from the blast.
Mohammed ran out immediately to check on his kids, who were about 20 metres away. He found the man who had been walking past just a moment before. He was torn apart,so Mohammed brought a blanket to cover his body, and called an ambulance.
Mohammed’s brother in law and nephew had minor injuries. They were taken to the hospital, where they underwent X-rays and medical examinations, and were thankfully later discharged.
Mohammed said others were also injured, including a woman from a neighbouring tent and two children who were passing by on the street. Even a cat belonging to one of the displaced families on the land was injured.
He said: “My children can't sleep, everyone is scared, the smell of blood and gunpowder still fills the air, the tent is destroyed, the water barrels are punctured, supplies and clothes are torn, everything is in chaos here, and we are still in shock.”
I asked after his heart (Mohammed has a heart condition, described in Gaza: 47 days in a chicken coop). “The intense smell of blood, fear, and shock caused my heart to race and my blood pressure to rise,” he said. “I took medication immediately and felt a little better.”
“We still haven't been able to sleep,” he added. I checked — it was 1:30am Gaza time.
“Mate, you need to sleep,” I thought.
“I think you have one of those long shifts coming up,” I texted. “You’ll have to get up in the morning and be strong for your wife and kids.
“Tell me five thoughts that won’t leave you alone.”
Mohammed’s five thoughts were:
1. We were on the brink of death — our survival was nothing short of a miracle.
2. My mind is still preoccupied with those who were killed and wounded, especially my loved ones.
3. I wonder how long we will live in this fear and uncertainty.
4. I think about the suffering we endure, the suffering of those around us, and the destruction we witness.
5. I pray for safety and peace, and for a future where we do not live in fear.
Then he added, “It’s no longer a safe place, and I can’t protect my family and children. I feel helpless.”
I had absolutely no idea what to say. In the end, I said: “I think the man who died, if he was sitting next to you, would definitely agree with you that this world is not safe and that you may not be able to protect your family and kids. But that from where he is standing with Allah now, there is great safety.”
Mohammed said he thought he could sleep after our conversation. I hope he did.
I left him and staggered off toward the coffee shop. I’d gone into shock. My body didn’t want to move. It was weird to emerge from my flat out into the Sydney winter sun, and the leaves stirring on the trees and the pigeons wandering in the carpark and no bombs or explosions anywhere.
I got a coffee and started walking around the block. It felt brilliant once I started moving, but I was physically weak and leant on the traffic pole while I waited to cross at the lights.
On the other side of the block, I stopped and burst out laughing. The total inadequacy of me, without any appropriate training at all, trying to help a person in an active war zone, hit me.
I walked around the block, got another coffee and walked around the block again. I took photos of everyday things in case Mohammed needed further distracting— a building in need of repair, a coffee shop, some swirly spray paint on the ground. I don’t know how the photos were supposed to help. I just thought that perhaps I could take Mohammed to Australia for a minute, and give his brain a rest.
That night I tried to sleep, thinking about Israeli artificial intelligence selecting who is going to live and die.
How can any of us sleep?
[When I interview people in difficult circumstances and ask for their time and energy, I always give the reader a chance to support them. You can donate to Mohammed’s family at: chuffed.org/project/179610-every-day-is-a-fight-for-survival-be-the-reason-we-survive-today. A share of the proceeds will also go to the family of the man killed.]