Editor’s Note: Hani Almadhoun is director of Philanthropy at the United Nations Relief and Works Agency USA. He grew up in Gaza, where his family still live. The views expressed in this commentary are his own. Read more CNN Opinion.
CNN
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All that has occupied my thoughts since October 7th, everything I hear, see, dream, and feel — is what’s happening in Gaza.
Knowing my family could be killed at any moment, I live with the gnawing fear that any buzz my phone makes will be the news I fear most.
I am a Palestinian American living in Annandale, Virginia, but my parents and relatives are trapped in the blockaded Gaza Strip. In this world of perpetual darkness — largely devoid of electricity, fuel, and the internet — my family has now also receded from view.
In the northern reaches of Gaza, over 20 members of my extended family seek shelter under the refuge of a staircase — a frail shield against the relentless and merciless storm of airstrikes.
They tread cautiously, avoiding windows and the desolate streets where the overwhelming stench of death, fire and chaos hangs heavy in the air.
When ambulances, fire departments, journalists and UN staff find themselves bereft of protection, one can only imagine the plight of civilians like my family and dear friends in Gaza this week.
The negative impact of this war on my family in Gaza is hard to overstate: hospitals running out of space for the dead and injured, pushing the local hospitals to use ice cream trucks to preserve the bodies.
Hungry cats roam the streets of Gaza crying for food.
And if this is not enough, our family in Gaza received a prank evacuation call last night. It’s deeply distressing to hear that in these difficult times, some are making prank calls to Palestinians in Gaza, urging them to evacuate their homes in the middle of the night under the pretense of impending bombings.
This has caused immense panic and fear for many families. Such actions are both heartless and unnecessary, particularly when thousands of homes have already been destroyed in Gaza.
We once celebrated birthdays together, shared meals, laughed and forged cherished memories. Yet today those memories lay in ruins, much like the places that were once our sanctuaries.
My family, like countless others, is denied the simple privilege of reminiscing about better days as they endure another judgment day.
My 71-year-old mother, surrounded by most of her children and their offspring, clings to the familial bond that keeps them together as they grapple with diminishing water supplies, and the oppressive cloak of darkness that accompanies a life without electricity.
Their peculiar predicament places them in what is ironically deemed northern Gaza’s evacuation area, though escape remains a risky endeavor for many.
The reasons for their inability to flee are multifaceted. The scarcity of fuel renders any vehicle moving in Gaza right now — let alone a car spacious enough to accommodate 20 people — a subject of suspicion. And venturing southward would lead them into unfamiliar territory, far from friends, family and the comforting familiarity of home. In a region where geography can determine life or death, this is a gamble few are willing to take.
In a world where not even my colleagues adorned with the emblem of the UN are assured safety, the conundrum faced by civilians becomes a disquieting paradox. How can ordinary Palestinians, like my family, be expected to find sanctuary when the lines between refuge and peril blur with each passing day?
The struggles of the present serve as a testament to the unyielding spirit of the Palestinian people, a resilience that draws its strength from the painful memories of 1948 when my grandparents fled for their lives, and 1967 when our parents sought shelter within Gaza.
These were times of similar adversity, times when our forebears endured and survived. The question that lingers, however, is why should their children and grandchildren be condemned to relive this ceaseless cycle of suffering?
Looking back at those days, I have developed a deeper understanding of my relatives, who lived through the 1948 Nakba – and the uncertainty, the injustices, the powerlessness and the betrayal. Feelings instilled into a new generation of Palestinians who only grew up hearing stories of their ethnic cleansing.
Now the Palestinians in Gaza are taking a trip down memory lane, with the realization in their march toward safety, that they are leaving behind places that they might as well never see again.
The pain of loss and dispossession has been etched into our collective memory, serving as a somber and persistent reminder of our shared history.
Earlier this week, I received a message from Amro, my 29-year-old nephew. Amro is fond of Gaza and staying there, despite having opportunities to travel and live outside of it.
Amro made me promise that if he somehow survives this, I should help him find a way to leave Gaza forever. This was hard for me. Amro loved this coastal Mediterranean town, up until the most recent war.
This essay serves as a heartfelt plea for understanding, compassion, and, above all, an urgent call for peace and the hope of a brighter future.
Sadly, given the relentless duration of the crisis in Gaza, the prospects for such a future seem more elusive by the second.
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