The Eyes of Gaza: A Diary of Resilience

 

By Martin Cohen
 

Eyes are, indeed, on Gaza, although many in Israel and the US still seem to be both oblivious and unashamed. This week, the European Union – at long last! – agreed to at least review its policy of financially supporting Israel, and hence facilitating its policies in Gaza. Books like The Eyes of Gaza: A Diary of Resilience are drops, tear drops indeed, in an ever-expanding ocean of Palestinian sorrow, but surely contribute to the understanding of those prepared to listen.

The author, Plestia Alaqad, is a Palestinian journalist and author who has been forced to bear witness to the destruction in Gaza. “At just twenty-one years old, she captivated audiences with her raw and poignant coverage of her surroundings”, the publisher says, adding that she has offered “an unfiltered glimpse into the harrowing realities of life under siege”.

Rather than say anything myself, I thought to just choose a few paragraphs from the book – and let them speak for themselves.

7 October 2023

I’m familiar with what the steps taken during an emergency situation look like. One: you start stocking your house with bread, flour and lots of groceries. Two: you open the windows a little bit so they won’t break from the pressure released by bombs and airstrikes. 

You know what always inspires me? The spirit of Palestinians. How after every loss, you only find us stronger and trying even harder to live and love life. In 2021, I thought I was experi- encing the worst days of my life. Buildings and houses were being bombed by the IOF; even the streets were being bombed, making it harder for paramedics to reach injured people. Yet, once the Aggression was over, there was a community initiative to clean the streets of Gaza (I immediately took up a broom and joined in). Only a few weeks later, Gaza’s streets were full with Palestinians striving to live despite the harsh reality that surrounded us. 

10 October 2023

I see that Dana’s house is wide open, so I go inside and I call her to take her on a virtual tour of her home. Her mom’s and brother’s rooms are completely burned out, almost unrecog- nizable, while her room is full of debris and broken glass. But it’s still her home, just like my building is still my building. In Gaza, even if your house is destroyed and the ceilings have fallen to the floor, it is still your house, and you’re going to claim it as your house. Even if it’s not safe, even if it’s ground down to rubble, you will put a tent down on the flattened remains and you will call it your home. The connection between a Palestinian and their house is a sacred one, 

11 October 2023

Mohamed and I go to report on Al-Krama district, which was bombed yesterday. My heart breaks when I see family photographs randomly scattered under the rubble, and I feel terror thinking of the day when Israel will kill me, and random people will walk in the street, see my diaries discarded under debris, and wonder who Plestia Alaqad was and why she died when she did. 

12 October 2023

I wake up to a notice from Israel, warning any Palestinians in North Gaza to flee to the south within twenty-four hours, which is nearly impossible. How are approximately 1.1 million people supposed to evacuate when there are barely any cars left working? We don’t have any gas. And where are we supposed to evacuate to? To a tent? Not everyone has family and friends in the south.
The world can’t pretend that there are two sides here any more. There is no humanity, no equity, no semblance of justice. It’s a calculated, deliberate and ruthless ethnic cleansing, and nobody seems to care.

13 October 2023

I am shocked by what I see in the streets on the way to Rasha’s house. People are just walking, walking, walking, carrying their lives in their bags with them. I see the 1948 Nakba in front of my eyes, just as my grandfather once described it to me. I remember him telling me how he was forcibly displaced from his home, and how Israel’s goal was to ethnically cleanse Palestine of Palestinians. And here I was, seeing it for myself.

9 November 2023

In the morning, I watch as over 50,000 people are forcibly displaced from their homes in North Gaza to camps in the south. It is absolutely harrowing. I stand by as thousands of people file through the safe corridor, their whole lives packed into suitcases in the space of five minutes. It is like a scene out of a dystopian novel – my mind goes straight to the prose in Nineteen Eighty-Four – come to life.
And yet there is a kid, Waleed, standing there with sweets, handing them out to people as they pass him by. He is wearing a cute ‘Happy Birthday’ hat.

16 November 2023

The hospitals in Gaza are full of amputatee kids. They’re the saddest stories by far. A week ago, I met a baby girl, Fatma – my grandmother’s name. Fatma had lost both of her legs. I spoke to her mother, and she just kept repeating how she wished that it was her legs that had been amputated instead of her daughter’s. She told me that Fatma had come as a blessing after fourteen years of infertility. And I just stood there beside her, blankly reporting on the scene, privately wishing that I could somehow alleviate her and Fatma’s pain. 

20 November 2023

What’s the point of wearing a safety helmet and press vest? I don’t want to wear them any more; they’re like giant targets instead of safety nets. Israel is targeting journalists. And doctors. And lawyers. And engineers. Basically, anybody who might practically be able to help rebuild Gaza in the future.

How long until they get to me?

I knew Gaza before 7 October 2023. I’ve known Gaza through- out the Genocide. But I have yet to know the Gaza of tomorrow. 

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The Eyes of Gaza: A Diary of Resilience, by Plestia Alaqad, was published by Macmillan in 2025