Lives smashed short
(Monday 29 December 2008)
EWA JASIEWICZ
EWA JASIEWICZ reports from Gaza on the indiscriminate slaughter being inflicted on ordinary Palestinian people.
AS I write this in the early hours of Saturday, Israeli jets are bombing the areas of Zeitoun and Rimal in central Gaza City. The family I am staying with has moved into the internal corridor of their home to shelter from the bombing.
The windows nearly blew out just five minutes ago as a massive explosion rocked the house. Apache helicopters are hovering above us, while F16s sear across the sky overhead.
UN radio reports say that one blast was a target close to the main gate of Al Shifa hospital, Gaza and Palestine's largest medical facility. Another was a plastics factory. More bombs continue to pound the strip.
Sirens are wailing on the streets outside. Regular power cuts plunge the city into blackness every night and tonight is no exception. But, perhaps, tonight it is the darkest night that people have seen here in their lifetimes.
Over 220 people have been killed and over 400 injured through attacks that shocked the strip in the space of 15 minutes. Hospitals are overloaded and unable to cope.
Doctors at Al Shifa had to scramble together 10 makeshift operating theatres to deal with the wounded.
Al Shifa only had 12 beds in their intensive care unit. They had to make space for 27 today.
There is a shortage of medicine - over 105 key items are not in stock, and blood and spare generator parts are desperately needed.
Head of casualty Dr Maowiye Abu Hassanyeh explained: "We had over 300 injured in over 30 minutes. There were people on the floor of the operating theatre, in the reception area, in the corridors. We were sending patients to other hospitals. Not even the most advanced hospital in the world could cope with this number of casualties in such a short space of time."
And, as Israeli occupation forces chief of staff Lieutenant-General Gabi Ashkenazi said this morning, "this is only the beginning."
But this isn't the beginning. This is an ongoing policy of collective punishment and killing with impunity practised by Israel for decades.
It has seen its most intensified level today. But the weight of dread, revenge and isolation hangs thick over Gaza today. People are all asking: "If this is only the beginning, what will the end look like?"
I resume writing at 11.30am. Earlier, myself and Alberto Acre, a Spanish journalist, were at the border village of Sirej near Khan Younis in the south of the strip.
We had driven there at 8am with the mobile clinic of the Union of Palestinian Relief Committees. The clinic regularly visits exposed, frequently raided villages far from medical facilities.
We had been interviewing residents about conditions on the border.
Stories of olive groves and orange groves, family farmland, bulldozed to make way for a clear line of sight for Israeli occupation force watch towers and border guards. Israeli attacks were frequent. Indiscriminate fire and shelling spraying homes and land on the front line of the south-eastern border.
One elderly farmer showed us the grave-size ditch that he had dug to climb into when Israeli soldiers would shoot into his fields.
Alberto was interviewing a family that had survived an Israeli missile attack on their home last month. It had been a response to rocket fire from resistance fighters nearby. Four fighters were killed in a field by the border. Israel had rained rockets and M16 fire back. The family, caught in the crossfire, have never returned to their home.
I was waiting for Alberto to return when ground-shaking thuds tilted us off our feet. This was the sound of surface-to-air-fired missiles and F16 bombs slamming into the police stations and army bases of the Hamas authority here, in Gaza City, in Diere Balah, Rafah, Khan Younis and Beit Hanoun.
We zoomed out of the village in our ambulance and onto the main road to Gaza City before jumping out to film the smouldering remains of a police station in Diere Balah, near Khan Younis.
Eyewitnesses said that two Israeli missiles had destroyed the police station. One had soared through a children's playground and a busy fruit and vegetable market before striking its target.
There was blood on a broken plastic yellow slide and a crippled, dead donkey with an upturned vegetable cart beside it.
Aubergines and splattered blood covered the ground.
A man began to explain in broken English what had happened. "It was full here, full. Three people dead, many, many injured."
An elderly man with a white kuffiyeh around his head threw his hands down to his blood-drenched trousers.
"Look! Look at this! Shame on all governments, shame on Israel, look how they kills us, they are killing us and what does the world do? Where is the world, where are they, we are being killed here, hell upon them!"
He was a market trader who had been present during the attack.
He began to pick up splattered tomatoes that he had lost from his cart, picking them up jerkily and putting them into plastic bags. Behind a small tile and brick building, a man was sitting against the wall, his legs were bloodied. He couldn't get up and was sitting, visibly in pain and shock, trying to orientate himself.
The police station itself was a wreck, a mess of criss-crossed piles of concrete, broken floors upon floors. We saw the remains of a life at work smashed short. A prayer mat clotted with dust, a policeman's hat, the ubiquitous bright flower-patterned mattresses, burst open. A crater around 20 feet in diameter was filled with pulverised walls and floors and a motorbike, tossed on its side, toy-like in its depths.
Policemen were frantically trying to get a fellow worker out from under the rubble. Everyone was trying to call him on his Jawwal.
"Stop it everyone! Just one, one of you ring," shouted a man who looked like a captain.
A fire licked the underside of an ex-room now crushed to just three feet high. Hands alongside hands rapidly grasped and threw back rocks, blocks and debris to reach the man.
We made our way to the Al Aqsa hospital. Entering the building was overwhelming, pure pandemonium, charged with grief, horror, distress and shock.
Limp, blood-covered and burnt bodies streamed by us on rickety stretchers.
Casuality after casualty sat propped against the walls outside, being comforted by relatives, wounds temporarily dressed. Inside was perpetual motion and the more drastically injured.
Relatives jostled with doctors to bring in their injured in scuffed blankets.
Blood-streamed faces, scorched hair and shrapnel cuts to hands, chests, legs, arms and heads dominated the reception area, wards and operating theatres.
We saw a bearded man on a stretcher on the floor of an intensive care unit, shaking and shaking, involuntarily, legs rigid and thrusting downwards.
A spasm coherent with a spinal cord injury. In another unit, a baby girl, no older than six months, had shrapnel wounds to her face. A relative lifted a blanket to show us her fragile bandaged leg. Her eyes were saucer-wide and she was making stilted, repetitive, squeaking sounds.
A first estimate at Al Aqsa hospital was 40 dead and 120 injured. The hospital was dealing with casualties from the bombed market, playground, Civil Defence Force station, civil police station and also the traffic police station. All levelled. A working day blasted flat with terrifying force.
And according to many people here, there is nothing and nobody looking out for them apart from God.
We went back to Al Shifa hospital in the evening. We met the brother of a security guard who had had the doorway he had been sitting in and the building fall down upon his head.
He said to us: "We don't have anyone but God. We feel alone. Where is the world? Where is the action to stop these attacks?"
Majid Salim stood beside his comatose mother Fatima.
Earlier today, she had been sitting at her desk at work at the Hadije Arafat Charity.
Israel's attack had left her with multiple internal and head injuries, a tube down her throat and a ventilator keeping her alive.
Majid gestured to her. "We didn't attack Israel. My mother didn't fire rockets at Israel. This is the biggest terrorism, to have our mother bombarded at work."
There is a saying here in Gaza, we spoke about it jokingly last night. At the end of the tunnel, there is another tunnel.
Not so funny when you consider that Gaza is being kept alive through the smuggling of food, fuel and medicine through an exploitative industry of over 1,000 tunnels running from Egypt to Rafah in the south.
On average, one to two people die every week in the tunnels. Some embark on a humiliating crawl to get their education, see their families, to find work, on their hands and knees. Other tunnels are reportedly big enough to drive through.
Last night, I added a new ending to the saying. At the end of the tunnel, there is another tunnel and then a power cut.
Today, there's nothing to joke about. As bombs continue to blast buildings around us, jarring the children in this house from their fitful sleep, the saying could take on another twist.
After today's killing of over 200, is it that, at the end of the tunnel, there is another tunnel and then a grave? Or a wall of international governmental complicity and silence?
Ewa Jasiewicz is a journalist, union organiser and solidarity worker. She is currently Gaza Project Co-coordinator for the Free Gaza Movement -
www.FreeGaza.org. This article was contributed to PalestineChronicle.com
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