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There would be no place to pass if they woke up. For the first time since the start of the coronavirus pandemic, Gaza’s 2 million inhabitants are quarantined at home to stem a developing epidemic. Our movements are limited in Gaza’s 140 square kilometers, bounded across the Mediterranean on one side, enclosed through the Israeli army on the other. But now, as the planes take off for the twentieth night in a row, we can’t even leave our homes.
We’re locked in a lock.
For months, we had recorded only about one hundred cases of coronavirus in Gaza, all of them citizens returning from abroad and without delay quarantined, but on 24 August the first cases of unknown origin were reported, in the narrow Maghazi refugee camp. , and Gaza under a total blockade on the same night. Since then, we have recorded more than 1,400 local cases.
It’s great to be a father. But in Gaza it’s also very difficult, as it has been since Adam was born 10 years ago: two months before he met him because the Israeli blockade of Gaza meant he couldn’t be with his mother, Ruba, when she gave birth. in the West Bank, where he lives his circle of relatives.
“Will I be able to give him and give him a smart life in besieged Gaza?” I wondered when I marveled at my little boy. In the following decade, the factor never disappeared. The steady cycle of escalation between Israel and Hamas, the militant organization that rules here, has led to common explosive nights and, twice, total war. More recently, Hamas and other militant teams have introduced arson balloons that cause fires in nearby Israeli communities and farms. Israel retaliates each and every night by blowing up Hamas’s facilities. It’s the violent part of our lives.
The boys fell asleep and I lit a soft one to read. We are fortunate to be able to use our own solar energy formula that meets approximately 70% of our domestic needs. Many of my neighbors in Gaza City, and almost all 600,000 others living in Gaza’s 8 refugee camps, pass the lock more frequently in the dark.
The Israeli army destroyed Gaza’s main power plant in the 2006 war. At best, we only have 8 hours of power a day while there are power outages in neighborhoods. But three weeks ago, in retaliation for the balloon launch, Israel stopped fuel deliveries to Gaza. Last floor of strength. When the epidemic began to jump in late August, Gaza had only 4 hours of daylight-compatible electricity.
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Being locked in space and at the same time being locked in our small coastal enclave is very annoying. One way to stay sane while under siege is to move where possible, meet with its Gazans in cafes, mosques or on the beach. Social life focuses on families and friends, picking up on the sidewalks and poles of the apartments. Now even that link with society at large is cut short.
As everywhere, Gaza has been under coronavirus restrictions for months; restaurants have been closed or limited to takeaways; mosques and churches have been closed; but everyone who entered Gaza through checkpoints was quarantined for 3 weeks and the number of infections remained low. .
My children had returned to school the week of August, after a five-month absence. The trimester began early in the hope that young people could make up for what they had missed. They were pleased to go back to school and see their children. classmates. They had heroic exploits to share: Karam had won his yellow karate belt and Adam had learned new football moves. School is one of the few places where life in Gaza is normal.
Within a few weeks, costs were stopped due to a sudden increase in new cases. The airstrikes hit each and every night, the pandemic approached and our world receded.
Possibly they are still too young to perceive the layers of confrontation and pandemic that are beating them. We can keep them busy. When we’re on the loose to move, we give them a rich life by Gaza standards, with a extended family, friends, a school and public places. You have to protect them. But the truth in Gaza makes it look more and more like a mission.
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Adam and Karam are informed every day of their lives by the young people they see on their screens. They ask me when we’ll travel to see their grandmother in the West Bank, which can take months to plan. needed from Israel, and infrequently from Hamas and the Palestinian Authority – all 3 have checkpoints to whom Israel crosses for individuals. Any one of them can say no, and Israel does.
Now even that’s gone.
Technology is a blessing that opens the minds of my young people and expands their knowledge, but it can also be a curse in besieged places like Gaza. A lot of what we see, we can’t do. I’m thinking of my friends who have won scholarships to examine abroad but have not been able to leave Gaza to attend.
For many Gazans, their farthest adventure is the beach, where we cool off in the Mediterranean breeze and look out into a world almost closed to us.
But in Gaza, even a day on the beach is confusing because of the conflict. There is not enough electricity to run waste treatment plants and we cannot swim due to untreated wastewater being pumped into the sea.
One night, a few days before lockdown, I took the kids to the beach. It’s a sum of pain and laughter to sit with them, watch them play and know they’re going to run to shore and come back, asking everyone. and every five minutes if they can swim. I have to say no.
Shortly after the outbreak of the pandemic, Israel and Hamas negotiated a ceasefire, negotiated through Qatar. Balloons and bombs have stopped for now; we still have 4 hours of electricity to light our quarantine.
We know by delight that this calm will soon return to violence. Of the two locks, the one caused by the virus will be the first to be resolved. We can only pray for the protection of our young people until we do.
When this quarantine is over, we will return to the beach to claim one of the pleasures we have, this is the life of a relative of gaza, a cycle of tension and relief, depression and joy. sand, and I’ll say no to swimming, waiting like the day I can say yes.
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