Sunday 22 October
8am We don’t have drinking water. Up until last night, the host family were telling us they were looking for alternatives. This morning, I realise that the five bottles they had last night are empty. They are asking for one of the two we still have.
I hear the grandfather talking to the water provider. Hearing the tone he uses, I would say he was a parent on his deathbed begging his son overseas to come home and see him one last time. The water provider promises him he will come tomorrow or the day after.
I get really worried and start looking for solutions. I contact all the drivers I know in Gaza to see if anyone is willing to get us some water. Also, we need food for the cats.
If someone had told me that one day I would pay for water and cat food (and their delivery) the same price you pay for a piece of gold jewellery, I wouldn’t have believed them.
We get water, we have cat food. We are fine for now.
10am We smell something burning. We find out that the woman living downstairs is burning wood to boil some water to clean her children.
I think of those staying in schools and hospitals for shelter when it comes to hygiene. A normal person needs to wash their face, brush their teeth and run water over their body once a day. How many days has it been since those children washed themselves. And what about women? Do they have sanitary pads in case they get their periods? Even if there is water, is there enough privacy?
My sister’s friend, who is staying with her family in one of the schools, told her that her diabetic mother is suffering. She needs to go to the toilet a lot because of diabetes. They talked to a family living next to the school and got their permission to let her mother go to them when she needs to. “It is humiliating,” she tells my sister.
I check my phone and see a task I assigned myself a month ago – visit the doctor for a follow-up. I am still standing, but my health is deteriorating. I have this constant feeling of fatigue that refuses to let go of me. I am doing my best to continue taking my medicine on time.
Noon I need a tailor. One pair of shorts I have has a tear in the crotch; the zipper of the pocket of the other one is broken. I need the zipper to keep my wallet inside so if we need to run at night, I won’t be worried about it falling out.
I go with Ahmad to two tailors but both shops are closed. We ask a man if anyone is available, and he points towards a small shop where the doors are slightly ajar. There, we find the woman who runs the place. She isn’t here to work – she has no water at her home, so she and her children have brought the family’s dirty clothes to wash them here. I can see a big bucket with the clothes in water and foam.
When we ask if she can help, she is hesitant, especially since her glasses are broken. “I am not sure I can do a good job without my glasses,” she says. I tell her that right now, all I need is to wear shorts without a tear in the crotch. She starts doing the work patiently. At some point, she looks for thread that matches the colour of the shorts. I tell her I don’t care, any colour will do.
She finishes the first pair and is working on the second pair when a huge explosion takes place. The children start crying and we are terrified. I take the shorts and tell her it is OK, one is enough. I offer to pay her, but she firmly refuses. She prays for Ahmad and me to arrive home safely. Ahmad is so terrified that he can’t even walk. We wait for a couple of minutes until I send a message to my sister telling her we are alive. We move on.
6pm I am terrified, not because of what is happening around us, but because I am getting used to it. My lost appetite is coming back to me. Now, under the bombing, I think about what we will have for lunch.
I am thinking about what to do tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and after a week, considering my current situation to be the only situation there is. I am used to the lack of privacy, the lack of high hygiene standards, the lack of movement and the lack of feeling safe.
What is going on? Is the abnormal becoming the normal? Is that all it takes? Two weeks of misery and I start getting used to it? It is like getting used to living in darkness and forgetting about all the other colours. Can’t I think of one colour to look forward to seeing?
9pm My sister tells me that in the morning she saw a tiny bird standing at the window. It was white with an orange beak. I tell myself this is a sign … I don’t like orange, but orange it is. Think of the colour orange … Think of the colour orange.
