The sounds of war in the Gaza Strip have fallen into a tenuous silence. How long it will last and what will follow in its wake remain uncertain. Already, the killing of several Palestinians by Israeli forces since the new ceasefire began on 10 October, and challenges surrounding the return by Hamas of hostages’ bodies, are casting the future of the deal into doubt.
What is clear is that the effects of one of the most lethal and destructive military campaigns of the 21st century – deemed a genocide by a UN commission of inquiry and numerous rights groups and experts – on Palestinians living in the enclave have been immense.
Over the course of the past two years, The New Humanitarian has published more than 36 first-person articles written by Palestinians whose lives have been upended by the unimaginable violence and deprivation, collected in a series called: Don’t look away.
The title is drawn from a line in an article written by Nour ElAssy, a 23-year-old poet and journalist from Gaza City. After Israel withdrew from a previous ceasefire in March this year, ElAssy wrote: “Maybe, years from now, history will tell our story. Maybe people will read about the night Gaza was promised peace but given death. Maybe they will say they did not know. But we will know the truth: They knew. They all knew. And they chose to look away.”
Together, the articles in the series sketch an intimate outline of the Israeli military campaign’s brutal trajectory. They contribute a deeply personal layer to the historical record of what has transpired, pushing back against powerful narratives that have sought to erase the humanity and delegitimise the experiences of Palestinians – a key aspect in the process of attempting to justify the atrocities committed against them.
Hopefully, like diaries and memoirs from the Holocaust after World War II, this collection of articles will be part of the broader body of work that people turn to while confronting the urgent questions of how such horror has been allowed to transpire in Gaza, and how it can be prevented from happening again.
The authors of the articles have worked in the most extraordinary and challenging circumstances: under the falling bombs; through the deaths of friends and relatives; as their homes were reduced to rubble; from the sweltering interiors of tents and between the cold walls of shattered buildings; with Israeli soldiers advanced time and again on their areas of refuge; as starvation withered their bodies and stole their health; and as their hope that their words would move the outside world to action was shaken to its core.
“We write, we scream, we document. But who reads? Who cares?” Rita Baroud, a 22-year-old journalist also from Gaza City, wrote in April this year. “Every day, we lose a part of ourselves. Not just a home, a friend, a meal, or a memory. We lose our belief that this world might care, or that life might one day return to what it was.”
Still, the authors of these articles persisted, even as colleague after colleague was killed (at least 197 to date), making it clear that Israel considers writing and documenting to be crimes punishable by death.
Regardless of what happens in the weeks, months, and years to come, the work of journalists and writers in Gaza will be as vital as ever for focusing attention on what is taking place. The New Humanitarian will continue to publish their voices and perspectives.
For now, here is a selection of excerpts from pieces we have published over the past two years. Find all of the articles in the series here.
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The New Humanitarian puts quality, independent journalism at the service of the millions of people affected by humanitarian crises around the world. Find out more at www.thenewhumanitarian.org.
