The Night Before the November 2023 Truce in Gaza
The crime scene moments after Israel bombed the vicinity of Ghaydaa Kamal Alabadsaa’s home in Khan Younis on November 23, 2023. Video credit: Ghaydaa Kamal Alabadsaa
On the evening of Thursday, November 23, 2023, a deadly silence fell over the skies of Gaza as if the city had paused, exhausted by death. Just nine hours separated us from the start of a temporary truce agreed on between Israel and Hamas. Just nine short hours awaited us. But war knows no mercy, and those were the longest nine hours of my life.
At exactly 9:45 p.m., I was lying on my bed, talking with a friend, while my niece, Hala, clung to me seeking warmth in the bitter cold. The atmosphere was eerily quiet—no planes, no bombings, not even the drones that had become a permanent fixture in our skies for weeks. I said to my sister, Samaa, “Finally, tomorrow the truce begins.” She replied sadly, “No one knows who is destined to be tonight’s martyr.”
Minutes later, the sound of warplanes pierced the silence, followed by rockets that tore through the calm like daggers plunged into the chest of the night. The ground shook beneath us as the wardrobe collapsed on me and little Hala. I realized then that the bombing was directly above us. We had become targets on Israel’s kill list. I pulled Hala from the rubble with all the strength I could muster and ran in search of life amidst the remains of our home.
The glass windows shattered around and smoke filled the air. But it wasn’t just any smoke, it was so thick I couldn’t see my own hands. Everything in the room was scattered, thrown about by the force of the explosion.
Someone once told me those incinerated by the bombs don’t feel anything. But we were feeling a whole lot. We had not become martyrs.
I heard screams all around me: screaming, pleas, blood here and there, glass beneath our feet as we walked blindly, hearing cries but not knowing where they came from.
I don’t know how my feet moved to find the apartment door. I stood looking at the hole in the building where the rocket had fallen. It felt like a dream I could not explain.
The voice of martyr Ashraf’s brother still echoes in my ears: “Help me! Help me! I’m going to die, help me!” I rushed down—I don’t even know how. My feet were torn by glass, my body frozen from what had collapsed on it. I managed to grab my phone from beneath my pillow to light the way for our neighbor Ashraf.
I couldn’t believe what I saw—his upper body motionless, suspended in the air, with a slab of the ceiling, engulfed in flames, crushing his chest.
My cousin kept telling him not to move: “Hold on, hero! Be strong! Say the Shahada! Say there is no god but Allah! Don’t move, don’t move!”
His screams for help pierced my ears, but I could hear more cries upstairs, forcing me to leave him hanging there.
We stumbled down the stairs and stopped abruptly, as I hadn’t yet grasped what had happened to the building. The ceiling and columns of the building began to collapse before us. As the ground was giving in, we jumped, nearly escaping death. I heard the cries and moans everywhere. Total darkness blanketed everything—nothing but shadows.
We managed to escape the building, stepping over glass and debris, over the ruins of our memories. People’s heads, faces, arms and hands were splattered with blood.
A body was torn to pieces between our building and the next. The remains of martyr Yousef were scattered in our home. It was a night of death just hours before the truce began.
By God, there was no one like you among the youth of our neighborhood. I never once heard a bad word uttered about you. I used to look at you and see an angel walking the earth. May God have mercy on you Yousef and grant you the highest ranks in paradise.
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