Nightmare corridor

The so-called “Netzarim Corridor” has been in the news a lot lately, as its “opening” ushered in the much-awaited return of Palestinians to the northern part of the Gaza Strip. Half a million Palestinians headed back to their homes – most finding only rubble. Then on January 29, United States Middle East envoy Steve Witkoff visited the “Netzarim Corridor”, becoming the first US official to step on Gazan soil in more than a decade.

Foreign media has talked at length about this “strategic corridor” or “buffer zone”, as they call it, and its utility for Israeli “military operations” and for “controlling” Palestinians. But for us, the people living on its outskirts, Netzarim has been a living nightmare. It has inflicted unbearable pain and trauma on me and my family and on thousands of other Palestinians.

Netzarim is not a corridor; it is a large land grab carried out through the killing of Palestinian people and the destruction of their homes in Nuseirat and Bureij refugee camps, and the neighbourhoods of al-Mughraqa, az-Zahra, Zeitoun, Juhor ad-Dik, and others. It is not some smart military strategy; it was and continues to be another way of terrorising the people of Gaza.

In the first days of the war, we were unaware that areas in the vicinity of our home were selected for establishing this “corridor”. The air strikes were incessant, demolishing everything in their path – homes, schools, and gardens – without regard for whether people were inside or not. The Israeli army was annihilating everything in its way, whether stone or human.

Most of the air attacks occurred at night, leaving us unable to sleep, constantly waiting for the next explosion. The sky would light up in white or red, and we would cover our ears and hide, knowing an explosion was coming, but never sure how close it would be. Based on the sound of the blast, we would try to guess the type of missile or weapon used – drone, F16, F35, Apache helicopter, or tank – and the location it hit, a house or farmland.

This is how the war invaded and took control of our nights. The darkness would usher in fear and anxiety; the children would run into their mothers’ arms, fearing the sounds of explosions.

As part of the preparation for establishing the “corridor”, the Israeli army bombed all the tall buildings around us. One of those was our neighbour’s five-storey house, which was hit in the middle of the day. The explosion was so powerful that it completely destroyed two houses, partially damaged two others, and demolished the front part of our house, where our “safe room” was located.

We had chosen it as “safe” because it was farthest away from another building whose owners received a warning from the Israelis that it would be targeted. So this room became the place where we thought we were “safe” until the shock wave from that explosion collapsed its outside wall onto us, leaving us with varying degrees of injury. I got away with bruises and cuts on my head, but my brother was severely wounded and bled internally, while some of my nieces and nephews had fractured skulls and broken bones.

When we realised that daytime had become as dangerous as the night, we decided to leave. We sought refuge at Al-Aqsa Hospital in Deir el-Balah, waiting for the situation to improve or the war to end. But we left our hearts at home. For us, even safety meant nothing compared to being at home.

After one month, we returned to our house, hoping to regain some sense of normalcy. But there was none. The Israeli army was hard at work expanding its “corridor” into the areas north of the Nuseirat camp, such as az-Zahra and al-Mughraqa.

As part of this effort, Israeli troops would regularly raid the northern area of Nuseirat. The familiar sound of air raids was accompanied by the roar of tanks and unfamiliar military vehicles. With every small advance, gunfire erupted wildly and randomly, while drones hovered near the windows, listening for any sound. We did not understand the purpose of all this, but we knew we were in danger. We would lie on the ground, turn off the lights to avoid being noticed, and pray endlessly that we would all wake up in the morning, alive.

As our daily lives crumbled under the weight of constant fear, even the simplest routines disappeared. My family and I used to enjoy drinking coffee on our roof, watching kids playing in the street. Every time we tried to sit on the roof, drones would approach us from above and artillery shelling would intensify, forcing us to rush back inside the house out of fear.

Eventually, we had to stop sitting on the roof altogether. The roof itself became a dangerous place, even for basic tasks like filling water tanks. We were forced to use pots and pans to store water for our daily needs.

Just as we started to adjust to the situation, in December 2023, the Israeli army issued an order to evacuate the entire area. At first, we thought things could not get any worse, so we decided, along with the displaced families staying with us – my aunt’s family, my uncle, and my sisters – to stay in the house and hold on.

But things only got worse. Going outside during the day became as dangerous as the night, with drones constantly dropping bombs on the main streets and markets. Our neighbours began to leave one by one, and Nuseirat started turning into a ghost town.

At night, tanks moved into the main streets, firing shells at homes. Apache helicopters flew overhead, shooting everywhere. The families staying with us fled, leaving us alone to face this nightmare.

We finally decided to take refuge in a school run by UNRWA near our home, thinking it would be safe, but it was not. Soon Israeli tanks advanced and surrounded the area, leaving us trapped.

Excerpted: ‘The ‘Netzarim Corridor’ is not a corridor, it is a nightmare’. Courtesy: Aljazeera.com