(shared by a friend in Gaza)
I began my journey on the Day of Arafah, June 5, 2025, to reach the relief aid center in the Rafah area.
We started walking on foot from the Al-Azhar area in western Gaza after Maghrib prayer that day, filled with hope that we would find any means of transportation to take us south along Al-Rasheed Street — be it a three-wheeled motorbike (tuk-tuk or tricycle) or a cart pulled by animals, since vehicles are prohibited from using that road. But unfortunately, we found no means of transport of any kind. And so, our exhausting journey continued on foot from western Gaza City all the way to the "Fish Fresh" area at the far southwest of Khan Younis — the launch point toward the American aid center GHF.
We arrived after a long trek that lasted from 7:30 p.m. on Arafah night until 2:30 a.m. on the first day of Eid al-Adha. As soon as we arrived, a new chapter of suffering began — after walking more than 35 kilometers over eight hours — where we had to move cautiously toward a mosque in the area called the Muawiyah Mosque. We stayed there, waiting for the checkpoint to open so we could enter the aid center.
When we arrived, we realized we had to try entering. We approached the Israeli checkpoint, hoping it would be open and we could get food. But we heard an Israeli loudspeaker announcing that the aid center was closed and no distribution would take place, and we were told to return to our homes.
Those with prior experience told us this was an Israeli tactic to reduce the crowd, demoralize people, and encourage them to leave — so we shouldn’t go. And indeed, that’s what happened.
We returned to our gathering spot near Muawiyah Mosque and sat down until we decided to try again and approach the Israeli checkpoint. Slowly, we moved forward — we were over 5,000 people. As we neared the checkpoint, the Israeli loudspeaker called out again, saying, "Go back, the center is closed," and they began to insult and curse us. Then they said they would shoot in three minutes if we didn’t leave. But before they could even finish their warning — and before we could move — they started firing directly at us without mercy or compassion.
I looked around and saw dozens of people wounded, their screams filling the air as they cried out for someone to save them. But no one could even raise their head due to the intense gunfire and the buzzing of bullets overhead. When the shooting subsided a bit, some young men were able to evacuate the injured to the nearest point — a major Red Cross center nearby. But the greater pain was that among the wounded were people who had already lost their lives.
We returned, our spirits crushed, our heads bowed low, filled with sadness, fear, and pain. Some of those who were with us in the same line were either injured or never returned… on the very day of Eid. This black Eid — where our hunger drove us to seek food from the hands of our enemies… food wrapped in humiliation and disgrace, after we had once lived with dignity. Meanwhile, most Arabs were busy with their Eid sacrifices and celebrations, enjoying themselves without even glancing at our bitter reality… And so, my miserable story continues.
We returned and tried to sleep on the sand by the sorrowful shores of Rafah, waiting for the time we’d be allowed into the aid center. Then, at 6:45 a.m., gunfire suddenly broke out again — wild, direct, intense, and terrifying — with bullets flying less than a meter above the ground. All you could do was lie on your face or curl up like a fetus.
Your life flashes before your eyes. You remember those who love you. You think, “Oh God, death isn’t even my biggest concern today — it’s the thought of dying and not returning to my children with food to ease their hunger.” They were waiting for me in the shelter, hungry, hoping I’d return alive and with something to eat. You remember their laughter during mealtimes — how that laughter has turned to tears and accusing stares that make you feel like you’ve failed them and are responsible for their hunger. These are innocent children who don’t know that you are hungrier than they are and that you have no power or means. Your journey to that death-filled place was merely an attempt to feed them — nothing more.
The shooting continued from 6:45 to 8:00 a.m. — an hour and fifteen minutes of gunfire at every movement, using all kinds of weapons. Overhead, the sounds of different aircrafts filled the sky. Terror surrounded us. All that was on our lips was the Shahada and “Hasbunallahu wa ni’mal wakeel” (“God is sufficient for us, and He is the best disposer of affairs”).
When the shooting finally stopped, the experienced ones said: “Now is the time to enter.”
And what a tragic scene that was. A cinematic moment beyond the imagination of Roman or Greek epics — or even Dante’s Divine Comedy.
You have to run from your cover spot through the open zone — running is your only way to survive. You run more than 2 kilometers, and you mustn’t be disturbed by the sight of young men lying dead on the ground, plastic bags still in their hands — bags they hoped to fill with food. Wounded people lie on the ground bleeding, some trying to bandage themselves if they were shot in the leg, for instance.
Despite the sounds of footsteps on the pavement, you hear the moans of the wounded. Your conscience will be torn like a piece of useless paper. Your humanity will be scattered like ash in the wind. You are running like a beast to get food, unable to stop to help anyone — because if you do, the crowd behind you will trample you, or you’ll be shot, or you won’t reach the aid. You must run holding your hands — and your white bag — up high as a sign of surrender, showing that you are a civilian, coming only for a share of food — like an animal waiting for its trough to open in a soulless, merciless pen.
You reach the Israeli checkpoint, then veer left and run another kilometer. Then you turn right and run a third kilometer to reach the American checkpoint. You’ll find them exactly as Hollywood films depict them — armed with all kinds of weapons, wearing black sunglasses and body armor emblazoned with the American flag. Earpieces in their ears, weapons aimed at our bare chests. They fire at the ground beneath the feet of those trying to reach the aid, positioned behind a hill where they stand.
Then they retreat slowly, pointing their weapons at us, leaving us like bulls in a rodeo. But we are humans. Truly, we are human beings — yet they try to strip us of our humanity and turn us into something less than animals. There’s no order, no morals, no structure — only starving figures chasing crumbs from the hands of their killers.
After they clear the way and we ascend the hill where the aid lies, every person in the line becomes like the aforementioned creature — beasts fighting over a fallen prey. You must run with all your might to reach a box of food. There’s no organization, no equality, no justice — only the law of the jungle. Once you grab a box, you must empty it into your bag and flee as fast as you can, because if the people behind you find no more boxes, they’ll attack you to take what you have. And if you can gather what’s fallen on the ground, do it — but don’t stop. If you stop, you’ll be trampled by others fleeing like you, or robbed by the hungry, or attacked by bandits. You must carry some sort of weapon — a knife, a blade — and move with a group of friends, relatives, or agreed companions to protect one another along the way. A real jungle, in every sense — the strong devour the weak without an ounce of mercy. They stripped us of every trace of humanity. They turned us into soulless creatures.
After you leave the killing zone of the aid center, carrying some food, you open your bag to see what you got. Here's what I managed to bring:
2 kg of lentils
0.5 kg of chickpeas
2 kg of flour
4 kg of pasta
1 kg of tahini
1 liter of frying oil (sesame oil)
2 kg of salt
1 can of peas
1 can of beans
2 cans of fava beans
Here, your tears will fall if there’s any humanity left in you. A burning anguish tears your heart and soul apart without mercy. Your soul bleeds endlessly. Was this meager amount of food worth throwing myself into the jaws of death? Walking dozens of kilometers, crawling on my stomach, running thousands of steps, seeing the corpses of young men on the ground, the wounded I couldn't help… Oh, how far we have fallen. Was this pitiful amount of food worth the lives of those people? Youth, Lord of the worlds — fathers who left their hungry children on Eid and now return to them wrapped in burial shrouds… while their children remain hungry.
Another black Eid. Another bitter Eid. A day called “Eid,” but in Gaza, it doesn’t resemble any Eid. Gaza has seen four Eids since the war began — all black — but this one is the darkest, the most grim.
O Lord, do not abandon us. Everything inside us is dying.
We beg You, O Lord — for with the Arabs, the Muslims, and even ourselves, we have no power but through You
