Struggle and Solidarity: Writing Toward Palestinian Liberation
How many Palestinian children, in the midst of displacement, have looked up at their fathers and asked, "Are we going somewhere safe?" -- believing that safety means being with the people they love. They do not realize that safety may be an illusion. Among the places we once trusted as a haven was the Al-Rimal neighborhood. Never did it cross our minds that this beautiful, vibrant place would one day become a city of ghosts -- silent, lifeless and buried in ash.
Al-Rimal was once one of Gaza City's most elegant neighborhoods, adorned with beautifully ornate buildings and lined with restaurants overlooking our beloved Mediterranean Sea. It was a sanctuary of peace and joy, where every Thursday families from both northern and southern Gaza would gather to share moments of happiness and celebration. Yet, it is heartbreaking to imagine that this very neighborhood has now become a graveyard -- anyone who seeks refuge there meets a tragic fate. What was once a haven of comfort has turned into a place of unspeakable sorrow.
Since the very beginning of the war, northern Gaza has been under relentless assault -- from the air, the land and the sea. For over a year and a half, the Israeli occupation has waged a systematic campaign to wipe the north off the map -- committing unspeakable massacres, killing thousands, and reducing entire neighborhoods to dust. In Jabalia, one of Gaza's most densely populated refugee camps, the violence escalated horrifically in 2024, reaching a terrifying peak on October 5, 2024, when over 60 civilians were killed in just two days, and more than 70 percent of the camp was leveled to the ground.
But Jabalia was not alone. The northern neighborhoods of Beit Hanoun and Beit Lahia were obliterated -- no home was left standing. What made the tragedy even worse was their geography: these neighborhoods lie at Gaza's northernmost edge, dangerously close to the border, making it frighteningly easy for Israeli forces to storm in, turn the area into a trap, and crush any remnants of civilian life.
Today, all of Gaza is a graveyard of ruins and tents. But in these northern neighborhoods, life itself has become a distant memory, and death has become the only thing that arrives without hesitation.
The residents of those devastated neighborhoods sought refuge in the Al-Rimal neighborhood because the occupation forces claimed that its western side was a "safe zone," with schools standing as supposed sanctuaries. Though Al-Rimal's homes were also damaged, the destruction there was less severe, making it the only glimmer of hope for many fleeing families. So, all the displaced poured into this neighborhood, clutching onto a fragile sense of security.
But what is happening now in Al-Rimal? And what horrors had already unfolded there before?
The first mass killing to strike Al-Rimal neighborhood took place at Al-Shifa Hospital -- a name known to all for the trail of unfathomable death and destruction left by the Israeli military. The hospital and everything surrounding it were utterly destroyed, subjected to two sudden ground assaults. Because the world remained silent and failed to hold Israel accountable for these atrocities, occupation forces continued to carry out massacres in this neighborhood without mercy. Tragically, we had no choice but to stay in Al-Rimal, as we believed it was the safer choice compared to the other frontline neighborhoods that were completely devastated.
But our belief was a grave mistake! Al-Rimal became the only refuge for the displaced, turning it into the most dangerously exposed target -- relentlessly bombarded by ruthless attacks.
One of the most horrific massacres happened unexpectedly on May 5, 2025, when Israeli warplanes struck a café called Al-Tailandi, right in the Al-Rimal Market, one of the busiest and most densely populated areas. Then, on May 7, 2025, bombs struck the grocery store while people were simply buying their daily necessities. Cafés -- with no food, only internet access for university students trying to continue their education and finish their degrees -- were also targeted, and those students were murdered before their dreams could come true.
When I heard the intense explosions from my home, my mind froze for a moment. I then asked myself, "Is that close?" My father and brother were outside in the market. The terror of possibly losing one of them nearly crushed me, especially as I heard screams of the wounded and dying all around. My mother called my father several times while he was out buying some flour. Finally, he answered his cell, crying, and told us the strike had landed just six meters away from him, with human body parts flying through the air.
My brother Mohamed was present at the site of the blast. We tried calling him repeatedly but couldn't reach him. My father rushed to search for him near the café and found him crying -- miraculously alive -- while almost everyone else around him had been blown to pieces. Through his tears, Mohamed's first words to my father were, "I still can't find my friend Bilal." Minutes later, Bilal was found -- not just alive, but also helping paramedics recover the scattered remains of the survivors.
Imagine -- in just a few seconds -- that strike killed 33 people and wounded nearly 90 others. But the occupation forces didn't use large F16 missiles that destroy entire buildings; instead, they used small reconnaissance missiles packed with deadly shrapnel that scatter through the streets, killing anyone unlucky enough to be caught in their path.
That very day -- May 7, 2025 -- was Noah Al-Saqqa's tenth birthday. Noah, known in our neighborhood for his radiant spirit, was the youngest child of his father. He celebrated his birthday joyfully with his family, his face glowing with the innocent excitement of a child. After the celebration, his father gave him permission to go out and buy something from the nearby grocery store.
Moments later, the airstrike hit. He never returned.
Chaos erupted. His father rushed out into the streets in a frenzy, searching for his little boy. He asked my brother Mohamed and every man he passed if they had seen him.
Noah's father found his son lying lifeless on the ground, his small head drenched in blood.
My brother Mohamed, who witnessed this all, told me that he can never erase the image of Noah's father from his mind -- sinking to his knees in shock, cradling the remains of his son, whispering through tears: "How could this happen? Just moments ago, we were singing 'Happy Birthday.' Was this the day you were meant to die? You didn't even finish your tenth year, Noah..."
Is this how it ends -- all of us perishing in the last place we were told would be a refuge?