This article is part of the Local Journalism Initiative (IJL)
November 7 2023
It has already been a month since the Hamas attack on Israeli territory. A month that the Israeli bombings on the Gaza Strip are raging. La Converse interviews Yacoub Awad*, a 34-year-old Palestinian refugee whose family is trapped in the inferno of Gaza.
” Al Hamdoulillah, we are alive”
It is 10:35. I have an appointment with Yacoub Awad at the Van Houtte café, near the University of Quebec in Montreal. When I enter it, I find it in the line that leads to the counter. Behind him, a young woman is watching a video on her phone where it is about the” Hamas who uses civilians as human shields ”.
Once he had his coffee in hand, the young man joined me by the window. He is immersed in his thoughts: “These days, I am no longer saying that I am Palestinian,” he confides to me with a smile, taking off his wool cap. “When asked, I challenge them to guess, but I just stick to the nationality I am given. Turkish? Of course. Moroccan? Why not! Pakistanis? Definitely.”
It has been 23 months, in other words an eternity, since Yacoub placed the last kiss on his mother's forehead and shared the complicit laughter of his father.
“I haven't heard my dad's voice since October 13,” he says with a sigh. He opens the WhatsApp application to listen a hundredth time the last voice message from his father, stuck in Gaza since the start of the war, with his mom, and three of his siblings.
” Al Hamdoulillah, everything is fine, says the voice, from the heart of hell. There is no water, no electricity, no medicine, but Al Hamdoulillah. Be reassured, be reassured, be reassured, only what God has planned is happening. I greet you,” said the chef from the Awad family, who sends his message to Yacoub and his other brothers and sisters living in the United Arab Emirates.
The recording ends, and Yacoub continues: “The hardest part, That's it”Al Hamdoulillah”. When I talk to my mom, she also says:”Al Hamdoulillah, we are alive. “Oh, how I hate that, because I don't know what it really means, what it's hiding,” he says, because this expression is also used when you're going through a difficult ordeal.
Silence sets in, disturbed by the music and the hustle and bustle in the café. “The truth is, I'm afraid to ask them too many questions. I tell myself that if they rely on God, it is to stay strong.”
Since October 7, the situation in Gaza has worsened, and The bombings continue day and night. Starvation is part of everyday life, and Communications are cut off.
“It's extremely difficult to contact them. Three days ago, I couldn't reach them and I said to myself: “That's it, it happened. They are dead. They killed them!” ”
At the beginning of November, Yacoub's family picked up one of the Israeli leaflets dropped by plane telling them to evacuate because the neighborhood was about to be bombed.
“They are staying in the house of jeddou, my grandfather, who welcomed the whole extended family. There are more than a hundred people in his house.” This house is located in Gaza City, between Al-Shifa Hospital and Al-Shati refugee camp.
“My grandparents are refugees themselves. They come from different regions in Palestine: Hiribya, Rafah, Safad, and Majdal Bani Fadil. During the Nakba, in 1948, they were forced to leave their land and villages and settle in the Gaza Strip.”
A veil of sadness darkens Yacoub's face. “At home, we make a lot of children, so as not to disappear. But if this continues, they will annihilate them all. It's not only about my parents, but also about my uncles, aunts, cousins. Can you even imagine the loss of an entire line, of an entire family tree? ” he listed angrily.
This morning, Yacoub managed to talk to his younger brother, who told him that he had to separate. The cousins decided to stay, despite the threat. The oldest, the most vulnerable, have gone to take refuge with an uncle, further south.
“Usually my family lives in the United Arab Emirates. She was visiting Gaza at the time the war broke out. Since then, she has been waiting for the goodwill of the Egyptians to cross the Rafah border post.”
Faced with this situation, Yacoub says he developed an obsession: “I can't put my phone down. I check for messages all the time. I watch the videos of the dead and injured that are going around and I keep asking myself, “Is that my friend? My neighbor? My family? Are these ruins the ruins of our house? I am losing all my bearings, my monuments are disappearing, my people are dying, my memories are the only thing I have left. I don't have a place to go back to, and I'm afraid I won't have anyone to go back to.”
A child's laughter echoes in the café on Sainte-Catherine Street. “In Gaza, every breath of life can be taken away from one minute to the next. There are bombings, but there is also this unsanitary environment where diseases threaten to spread at an alarming rate. These are the conditions in which my compatriots live and risk dying.”
“We are the victims of the victims, the refugees of the refugees”
Yacoub arrived in Canada on December 25, 2021 via Roxham Road. He applied for asylum, which resulted in protected person status two years later. Due to administrative delays, the trip he planned to make this autumn to see his parents in Europe had to be postponed. That's when his family decided to go on vacation to Gaza.
“If only the Canadian government had processed my request with the same efficiency as it processed the requests of Ukrainian refugees...” says Yacoub, who bears the guilt of this failed appointment.
Between sips of coffee, the young man recalls his father's advice at the time of the first bombs in Gaza: “Listen, my son! Think about yourself, focus on your future. And above all: be careful.”
“I was born in the Emirates and have lived there all my life. But I will never have the citizenship of this country, nor all the rights that come with it,” he explains. Yacoub has a passport issued by the Palestinian Authority, which requires him to have a visa and to undergo long bureaucratic hassles in order to travel to any destination. “With my passport, I can't go anywhere but Gaza,” he says, looking out the window. “Then, in Gaza, you don't live, you survive.”
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In 2014, Yacoub was in Gaza when the war broke out. It was in the middle of summer. “It lasted eight weeks. The bombs were falling all day long. We couldn't afford to sleep because we didn't know if we were going to wake up alive,” he said in a dry tone.
“There was the noise, the ground shaking, the smoke, and the smell of burning and dust. This time it's even harder, more devastating. The force of the bombings is much higher, and they are striking all over the Gaza Strip.”
Yacoub closes his eyes, his face turns brown, and he shakes his head: “My brother told me that there is a pungent odor in the air, coming from all the unburied bodies, rotting flesh.”
The Palestinian, who lived in Gaza for nine months in 2021, specifies that the living conditions of his people have always been poor, even in times of relative peace. “We have always suffered from the Israeli blockade, with its sporadic strikes, its air and sea military operations. We were only entitled to electricity for eight hours a day. We had to wait to fill the water tanks, and few people had clean water flowing from their taps (5% only of the inhabitants). The majority of Gazans are still living in total food insecurity (68%). Unemployment is very high (45%), because there are not a lot of opportunities to make a living.”
The exile shows me a document given to him by the United Nations agency for Palestinian refugees (UNRWA).
“This paper shows that we were forced to leave our ancestral land and that we are now living in Gaza. This paper attests that we are refugees in our own country! What is Gaza if not a refugee camp for hundreds of thousands of Palestinians, A prison in the sky open? And again, I think that prisoners are entitled to a kind of justice that Palestinians don't have,” he said.
Yacoub repeats to himself the phrase of the Palestinian-American intellectual Edward Said:” We are the victims of the victims, the refugees of the refugees.”
It's raining outside. A group of university students have just found refuge in the café. Observing their complicity, Yacoub recalls the warmth of the people back home. “It's true that life is difficult in Gaza, but Gaza is also remarkable human beings.”
“Being Palestinian is an intifada in itself”
The coffee continues to fill up. Some customers wear a keffiyeh. This reassures Yacoub, who mentions the demonstration on 4 November, during which thousands of people expressed their solidarity with the Palestinian cause: “It is heartening to see the support of various communities and to see the Palestinian flags flying in the air as well as the posters denouncing the injustices we are suffering.”
“On the other hand, we also see how Western governments are supporting the Israeli state, by funding the war and by refusing to ask for a ceasefire.”
Yacoub continues in a firm tone: “The refusal to denounce war crimes, genocide, the desire to destroy Palestinians is tantamount to accepting the fact that Palestinians deserve to be treated as sub-humans, as”human animals”. In fact, these are the words used by the Israeli Defense Minister, Yoav Gallant. Do the leaders of these Western governments think that all this will have no consequences? Suppose Israel succeeds in destroying Hamas? And after? ”
Yacoub paused, ran his hands over his face and started again. “What will we do with the new generation that is growing up in rage at what they are put through, in the profound mourning they experience every day? What will we do with these children who survive ethnic cleansing in progress? We are currently experiencing another Nakba, and not only in Gaza, but in West Bank too! ”
For Yacoub, “whether one is a martyr, a prisoner or an exile, being Palestinian is an intifada, a revolt, a resistance.”
“I am experiencing this war on the screens. As the days went by, my perception of things and my sensitivity changed, he says confidently. I have to be stronger, for my family, for my people.”
Although his coffee has cooled, Yacoub continues to drink it in small sips. “My father always told me that I must take care of my health, my life, to continue to carry Palestine in me. But I hope that one day I will be able to live in a free Palestine, among the olive trees, on the shores of the Mediterranean. When we are free, I will invite you there to drink tea and enjoy a Knafeh.”
Epilogue
A few days after I met Yacoub, the Awad family still had to leave their shelter under the bombardments and walk about fifteen kilometers to the south in search of a new shelter.
Since then, Yacoub has not been able to reach her family and does not know, at the time we put this article online, where she is.
* We changed its name for security reasons.