Carrying My Daughter, Holding My Pregnant Wife’s Hand... This Is My Story Beneath Gaza’s Rubble

In the early days of the siege, the situation worsened quickly.

I was at home with my pregnant wife and our little daughter, Layan, barely a year old.

We remained trapped for two full days under constant shelling and gunfire. When we realized that the army was preparing to storm our area, the bombings and gunfire intensified.

We decided to evacuate, hoping to find a safer place.

We packed a few clothes, some canned food, and a bottle of water. As we prepared to leave, a neighbor’s house was directly hit by a shell. They came out injured, and panic spread through the neighborhood.

Families gathered quickly, forming a small crowd trying to flee together.

I carried my daughter in one arm, held the heavy bags with the other, while my pregnant wife struggled to walk, carrying whatever she could.

The main streets were blocked by tanks, and when we waved white flags trying to pass, the soldiers opened fire, forcing us to retreat.

We diverted through a destroyed side alley full of rubble and debris.

When we finally crossed in front of the tanks, we raised our hands high and waved the white flags again.

Suddenly, shots were fired at the families behind us.

I didn't know who had been hit.

All I could do was hurry forward, clutching my daughter tighter, praying for safety.

A shrapnel fell between me and my wife, but miraculously, we were unharmed.

We finally reached a shelter with a group of families. There was no electricity, no running water, and barely any food.

At night, the sounds of bombings and cries filled the darkness.

Children clung to their parents.

Every boom made hearts skip a beat.

In those moments, I questioned everything:

Why us?

How did we get here?

---

Two weeks after we fled our home, I met one of our neighbors at the hospital. He was injured, along with his daughters.

He told me that the army had stormed the neighborhood, gathered the young men, rigged the entire block with explosives, and blew it up.

He said, "The whole area turned to dust. We barely escaped with our lives."

When I heard the army had withdrawn, I rushed to see my home.

On my way, I ran into my neighbor Abu Al-Saeed.

I asked him, "Tell me, how’s the neighborhood?"

He replied, "I was there first... It's all gone. Completely destroyed."

My heart sank.

As I walked towards what used to be our street, I passed a body lying in the street.

People uncovered the face to identify him.

I stared at him, feeling a strange familiarity, but I couldn't recognize him.

Later, I discovered he was my missing friend, whose family had been searching for him for days.

When I reached what used to be our neighborhood, I collapsed into tears.

The house that sheltered my dreams and memories was nothing but rubble.

I stood there thinking:

Where will I go?

How will I live?

Where will I find clothes for my wife and child?

It was a pain beyond description.

I returned to my wife and family, crying and broken, carrying news too heavy for words.

---

Now, months have passed. We live in a crowded shelter with dozens of others. Life is still unstable, but we’re alive.

Sometimes, I look at my daughter and wonder what memories she’ll carry from all this.

She’s too young to understand, but the sounds of war have already carved themselves deep into her mind.

Despite everything, I still hold hope.

Hope that one day, we’ll rebuild.

Hope that my child will grow up in peace.

Hope that this story won’t be just a memory of destruction—but a testament to survival.