Palestinian poet and literary critic Talat Qudaih recounts from his diary entries from the beginning of the present war in Gaza until March 2024:

Why do we need to recount what has transpired since Oct. 7, 2023? Must we chronicle the calamities that have befallen us, akin to torrential rain — an onslaught of missiles, bombs, shells and bullets that have extinguished lives, torn bodies asunder and marred the essence of childhood and innocence? Amid the debris of human limbs and the torrents of blood, how can I muster the resolve to write about all of these tragedies?

Since the news of Oct. 7, the world has stood aghast, bearing witness to Gaza being transformed into a charnel house, seared as though in the throes of hellfire. The international community glimpsed the horrors of Gaza, engulfed in flames, its destruction tinged with the foul smell of burning flesh, an abhorrent spectacle of cataclysmic desolation.

Now, within the hollows of devastation, we stand as we watch our worlds crumble around us. A barrage of agonizing inquiries besieges us, propelling us toward oblivion: What of safety? Of dreams? These questions gnaw at our very being, both soul and flesh, in a manner never before encountered in our wartime experiences. Our minds are overwhelmed by an existential dilemma: Where shall we turn? How do we persevere through this obliteration? To which vast void will we finally ascend? From the outset, it was clear to me that only those marked by fate would weather the storm of this war.

On the morning of Oct. 7, the situation was unclear. The sounds of rockets and shells being launched from Gaza filled the air. As I searched the internet for any information, I came across reports of jeep-like vehicles patrolling the Israeli settlements near what is commonly referred to as the Gaza envelope, and groups seizing control of the distinctive tiled rooftops of the settlements. Confusion reigned. Could this be the doing of artificial intelligence? It was hard to believe that Israel’s highly touted security apparatus, renowned for its technical expertise and surveillance capabilities, could be so easily overwhelmed. Only the attackers knew the truth of what was happening.

My friend, the writer Nasser Atallah, was in Syria. He reached out, eager to understand this shocking development. I shared with him what little information had been disseminated by the media that morning: A leader within a Palestinian faction had been killed, triggering this response (I meant the unusual volume of rockets being fired). A Hebrew news outlet at the time ran a headline stating, “The Islamic Jihad Has Gone Berserk!” The prevailing assumption was that the Palestinian Islamic Jihad group (PIJ) was responsible for the rocket attacks, not Hamas, who appeared not to have anticipated a military escalation.

Ichose to remain in my home unless the situation drastically worsened. We spent nights at home, closely observing the unfolding events. It was war, but not just any war. The death toll on the opposing side surpassed the total fatalities of all Israel’s previous conflicts, with hundreds captured as well. This reality was beyond comprehension. The details of how and why this happened might remain elusive for quite some time.

Remaining in my home, east of Khan Yunis near the border, increasingly felt like courting danger. We sought safety elsewhere. We found refuge in a library, specifically the library of my friend Nasser. Right from the start, he had graciously offered us a place on the ground floor of his house.

Finding sanctuary in a library was something of a luxury, igniting a natural desire to explore its riches. I discovered works by familiar authors, among them the Palestinian writer Ahmed Zakarneh and his writings on the consciousness of defeat. Was there foresight in his contemplation of war, perhaps a prescient inquiry into what to do when it happens?

We stayed in place for three days until a warning from the occupation forces compelled us to evacuate. Initially, I thought of the UNRWA schools for refuge but, adhering to the advice of seeking separate domiciles to increase the chances of survival, I chose to scatter our family between Bani Suhaila, a town east of Khan Yunis, and the city of Khan Yunis itself, in the southern Gaza Strip. Over the following month or more, our time was marked by brief reunions and then extended separations. Some of us found shelter in the town’s school, while others were in the city. [Continue reading…]