Details of a War: Gaza, October 2024 - February 2025

Nahil Mohana is a novelist and playwright from Gaza City. She and her daughter have been forced to relocate multiple times since her house was destroyed by an Israeli attack in December 2023; they now live with relatives. During the war, she has continued her work providing psychological support for children and young people through creative writing workshops. She has been keeping a diary throughout; previous installments have been published in AGNI, The Washington Post, LitHub (twice), and are forthcoming in the anthologies Palestine is Everywhere and Voices of Resistance: Diaries of Genocide.
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October 2024

On the 6th of October—after almost a year of war—tanks surround Jabalia camp for the second time, attacking hospitals and preventing anyone from entering or leaving. People flood into our area laden with belongings, barrels of water, crates of food and drink, blankets and mattresses. They’ve learned the hard way: take everything you can carry so you’re not humiliated wherever you go next. Or rather, take as much stuff as you can, but leave warm memories and expectations behind, because they’re not much use these days.

A week after invading Jabalia, the Israelis expand the evacuation zone to include Jabalia al-Nazla, Sheikh Radwan, and al-Jalaa neighbourhood, then mass in Beit Hanoun and Beit Lahia in the far north. The temerity! How dare they set their sights on Beit Hanoun in olive season? Don’t they know the olive harvest is one of our most important rituals? I post on Facebook: “I’ll say it again. I’m not leaving the North—I have olives to press.”

I’m applying to a German organization for a writing fellowship. They offer residencies in Stuttgart, but the Rafah border is still closed, so I request a stipend only. I’m planning to use it to work on my next novel, which is about life in Gaza during the genocide, and the strains on social life and repeated displacements it has caused. The novel will document the details of our days; these details will become part of the Palestinian collective memory, and I don’t want them to be lost and forgotten.

The application process poses two problems. First, I need to gather a bunch of documents, but I’m not living in my own house at the moment, and I don’t have all my official papers. Second, I need to communicate with the friend in Germany who’s helping me apply, and who’s going to translate these documents, but I barely have internet access—when I do, the signal is extremely weak—which makes WhatsApp conversations challenging.

When the email arrives telling me I’ve been granted the fellowship, I’m not at home and hence not connected to the internet. I’m probably buying a cup of coffee somewhere—we’re out of firewood, salvaged wood, cardboard, and newspaper, so I can’t make one at home—or at work in some school or shelter. When I get home, Messenger starts pinging like crazy. It’s the woman who’s helping me, telling me to check my email. She’s way happier about the fellowship than I am. Since the start of the war, we’ve been afraid of happiness here in Gaza; happiness is a responsibility, and hope is a trap. I am pleased, though, and my Messenger inbox fills up with heart emojis and congratulations. But the stipend—which took me two weeksto apply for—takes four months to arrive! Didn’t I say happiness was a responsibility, and hope was a trap?

On the 17th, I have an appointment at the only functioning dentist’s office, which is operating from a new location since its original premises were destroyed. I’ve been waiting two months for the appointment—a wisdom tooth extraction, not that I have a lot of spare wisdom to get rid of—because demand is high and there’s been no anaesthetic available.

Once the tooth is out, I set out for home on foot, clutching my cheek and feeling dizzy and nauseous. On my way, I look for a slushie, because the dentist has told me this will help relieve the pain and stop the gum swelling or getting infected. There aren’t any actual painkillers available because the crossing and roads are still closed and no medication is being allowed into Gaza.

At one of the stalls where I stop to see if they have slushies, the vendor tells me sugar now costs 60 shekels per kilo. I ask for some ice instead—I don’t need sugar or flavors to stop the swelling—but he tells me he has no ice either because he doesn’t have solar panels or diesel for the generator. Suddenly there are shouts all around us.

“They’ve assassinated Sinwar!”

I’m still dizzy and feeling sick, and for a moment I think I’m hallucinating from the pain. But when I get home and manage to connect to the internet, which takes a full fifteen minutes, the news websites are all full of the news about Sinwar. I’ve failed to find a slushie and I’m still in pain.

“What is it, a golden egg?!” I shout at the vendor when he proudly tells me how much an egg costs. People are making cakes and even omelettes without egg these days; we’ve simply removed “egg” from the dictionary. So when I get a text message telling me I’ve been allotted a box of eggs by UNRWA, I’m overjoyed. I pick up the box and carefully conceal it inside a plastic bag, fearing the envy and curiosity of passersby and market vendors. When I arrive home there are shouts and cries and kisses, like I’ve brought al-Aqsa Mosque with me. We make a huge plate of fried eggs in olive oil. The saying goes that we “eat our fingers along with them,” and we quite literally do.

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November 2024

We’ve managed to get internet access via a router. We’re one of the first homes to make a request and Jawwal, the telecoms company, puts a line in. We’ve been driven to distraction by the eSIMs which only work when you’re out on the street, and we’re fed up of internet cafés with their nosy customers and total lack of privacy. There are also measly prepaid cards which only provide a few hours’ worth of internet; you have to disconnect your phone if you want to connect your laptop, otherwise you go through two or three a day. With those, you also have to entertain the whims of the guy in the neighborhood who sells them; you might need the internet right now, but if this guy happens to be taking a nap, or not answering his phone, or visiting his friends, then you just have to wait. Whatever task you need to complete, it’s hostage to the schedule and mood of one grumpy man.

I’ve got a short-term gig supervising a group of young women in producing a series of stories about Gaza and turning them into podcast episodes. Half the participants are high school students, half are university graduates or work in media. I’m concerned about their safety on the way to and from the workshop, so I tell the project organizers we need to arrange buses to pick them up and take them home. They reply that this is impossible, but they’ll reimburse participants’ transport costs instead. The first training session is on November 15th and the venue is a hall on the fifth floor of a hospital. There’s an elevator which is connected to a generator and actually works, and we have electricity, internet, a projector, and AC. The hard part—harder even than securing those impossible buses—is convincing the participants to go home once the day’s training is over.

There’s barely been any coffee available since the outbreak of war, and when there is, it’s extortionately expensive—as much as 90 shekels for 200 grammes. In Arabic there’s a popular saying that spilling coffee is lucky. But we no longer remark “a good sign!” when a cup of coffee gets knocked over, because you can’t go wasting something so expensive.

The issue isn’t just the cost, though; there’s also the question of how to boil the water. For ten months now we’ve had no gas, so we rely on thermoses to keep water hot throughout the day. To make fires for cooking or boiling a kettle we burned everything we could—firewood, salvaged wood, paper, cardboard—until there was nothing left to burn but our nerves. There are also portable electric cooking rings which can be plugged into solar panels—a new invention—but they consume a huge amount of power and deprive us of lighting for the rest of the day. At some point we worked out how to refill small gas canisters with hairspray. For a while, I had to make my morning coffee over a wood fire before leaving for work. Sometimes I’d use a bottle of expensive perfume to light the fire; the day I first managed to get this trick to work I jumped up and down screaming “Fire! Fire!” just like Tom Hanks in Castaway. It reminded me of stories of Germans burning cash to keep warm after WWI.

But at some point we realized that the coffee itself was fake—it was being mixed with ground chickpeas. At work, I’d fall asleep halfway through the report I was writing, or I’d doze off while talking to my neighbors. There was clearly no caffeine in whatever it was I was drinking.

Nescafé disappeared from the shops for six months. We couldn’t even remember how it looked or tasted any more, let alone how it felt to be caffeinated. Now suddenly Nescafé is back on the market, but it costs 400 shekels—that’s $107! No-one’s buying; everyone’s addicted to the fake stuff now. We make do without late nights and go to bed at eight p.m. We don’t need stimulants when we have rockets stimulating us at all hours of the day and night. But sometimes I go past the stall just to take a little look at the jars. One day I’m counting them, dying to know how many people we have around here crazy enough to buy a jar at that price, when I suddenly realize: maybe I’m crazy enough to buy one. Then I have an idea: I could split the cost with several other people! Now all I need to do is find some other crazy people . . .

We divide up the jar using a teaspoon so as to be absolutely accurate and make sure there’s no cheating, then I hide my share under my clothes and make my way home. But when I get there, I learn that my brother and sister—who are in the south of Gaza, separated from us by checkpoints only foreigners can cross—have sent us two jars of Nescafé! I try not to faint, worried the jar hidden in my clothes will break if I do. It’s not that I’m thrilled with the gift, oh no—I’m devastated at the 200 hundred shekels I’ve just parted with.

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December 2024

At my day job, I work for an arts and community education organization, providing psychological debriefing and support for children and young people. Since the beginning of the war I’ve led creative writing and art workshops in schools, orphanages, churches, and mosques, on football pitches, in the homes of displaced people, in hospitals and clinics, and even in corridors, in makeshift huts and on the street. The children I work with have produced hundreds of stories and artworks.

On the 18th, our manager tells us that a delegation from our funders, Unicef, are coming to visit the north of Gaza to observe our programming for children. We meet them in Yarmouk School, among classrooms and tents which are now home to people displaced from Beit Hanoun. We read stories, write, and make art—all inside a tent, which is a first for the organization. I’m so engrossed in the story I’m reading aloud to the rapt, delighted children, that it’s only afterwards, when I see some photos that were taken, that I notice the Unicef delegates have tears in their eyes.

One of the most complicated things about war, one of the hardest things to wrap your head around—in fact you’re lucky if you can just forget it—is how to maintain relationships. A close friend with whom you share many years of history becomes distant, to be replaced by your new neighbor, who picks up their rations with you and stands behind you in the bread queue. War doesn’t recognize history, only geography.

One of my close friends, who lives in Canada, tells me she’s down these days. Apparently, her car was rear-ended. But I’m more concerned about getting hold of bread for the day, buying a gas canister, and picking up a parcel of food aid or toiletries or feminine hygiene products. How do I tell her that I care more about these things than I do about her and her car and our entire friendship? The woman next door, whom I’ve only known for eight months, knows without me having to tell her. When we bump into one another, each of us knows how the other spent the night and will spend the day ahead. We’ll walk side by side for a few minutes, chatting, and by the time we’ve reached the end of the street, we’ll have finished listing our problems, because our problems are one and the same. And if one of us finds a solution, we’ll share our knowledge with the other, who will immediately put it to use.

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January 2025

At eight p.m. on January 15th, a ceasefire agreement is reached, with assistance from Qatar, the U.S., and Egypt. We’ve been following the conference closely, waiting to hear the details of the deal. When the news breaks, we drink tea, eat kunafa, and celebrate like never before. The people of the north are overjoyed, the people of the south are overjoyed; reunion is just around the corner. The tents will be folded away and the displaced will return to home, even if “home” is just a heap of rubble. Living among the rubble of your own home is more dignifiedthan renting from a landlord who will kick you out the moment he gets a better offer.

On the first day, we receive a visit from my paternal uncle and his family, and on the second, a visit from my brother, whom we haven’t seen since the beginning of the war, when he left for the south. My uncle’s wife says every time she has a cup of tea up here in the north, she worries it’s made out of her furniture. Her house was completely destroyed in the early days of the war, after they’d fled, and thieves raked over the collapsed building, pulling out the furniture so they could sell the wood, which people burn for making tea and coffee and for cooking. So, her beloved swing chair, which we all used to fight over before the war—whose tea was it now?

Companies are advertising rubble removal, house disinfection, and deep cleaning services. They can install plastic sheeting in place of broken windows. All this is performed by specialists with extensive experience. War brings out an indomitable ability to adapt.

On January 26th I head to work. I find the school empty: the people from Beit Hanoun, Beit Lahia, and Jabalia who were previously sheltering at the school have all returned home, so we have no one to work with. As I’m making my way home I see a man eating a chocolate bar from a yellow wrapper. My own face turns the same shade; I can’t believe what I’m seeing. At first I think I’m hallucinating because I miss chocolate so much, but a few moments later I see a child clutching the same yellow packet, then holding it up to tip the entire contents into his mouth in one go. So it’s real! This is huge. Stalls on either side of the road are selling chocolate, soda, and chips. It’s wonderful news for Gazans, better even than the ceasefire itself!

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February 2025

On February 3rd, gas returns to Gaza. It’s being centrally distributed, one canister per household. To get one, you sign up via a link that contains all your data—even the date of your marriage!

First the shawarma restaurants are up and running again, then the pizza places, then the kunafa shops. Home delivery services resume. Now, instead of standing for an hour in front of a takeaway or baked goods stall while they chop firewood and get the fire going, you get your order in ten minutes.

When we receive the text message informing us we’ve got an appointment to drop off our gas canister for refilling at the local distributor, we’re wild with excitement, more excited than if we’d won the lottery. We ululate and shout. Our beloved gas is back after a year and a half!

Wednesday 5th is my birthday. We handed in our canister for refilling but apparently it won’t be ready for another week. I can’t make a cake at home, and the wet weather prevents me going to Gaza’s only remaining confectionery shop to buy one.This time last year, we had gas but no eggs; this year, we have eggs, but no gas. It’s a conspiracy! For the second year running, I get no birthday cake, no candles, and no wishes. There’s always a piece missing, like life is refusing to be complete. Every time you think you’ve understood it, it changes its approach, and you just have to keep chasing that elusive missing piece.