Weeks before she was due to give birth, whilst I continued to work as a reporter on the ground, I nearly lost my unborn child as well as my own life, writes Islam Imad Al-Zaanoun. [GETTY]
As the ceasefire struggles to hold and Gaza stands in rubble, the echoes of the genocide we survived are stronger than ever.
As a journalist and new mother who gave birth amidst sounds of displacement and explosions, nothing could have prepared me for what I survived.
When reflecting on the over 15 months of Israel’s attacks, I realise that I have had the two most dangerous jobs in Gaza – journalism and motherhood. However, my story is that of countless other women who face the highest risks as aid and support continue to be denied into the Strip.
Before 7 October, I was anticipating the moment I would welcome my daughter into the world as I prepared for the delivery. Now, when I think back to my pregnancy and her birth, I remember the horrors and hardships that no one should be forced to endure.
What nightmares are made of
Weeks before she was due, whilst I continued to work as a reporter on the ground, I nearly lost my unborn child as well as my own life. Since I had already undergone two caesarean sections, I knew that any delay in the delivery could put us in danger, but despite this I couldn’t stop showing the world the realities of the genocide.
As soon as I finished covering one massacre, another would take place, giving me no chance to reassure myself about my children and my unborn baby. But each time I rushed home to embrace my two children after work, the harrowing image of the foetus that perished in an Israeli airstrike while still connected to its mother by the umbilical cord, constantly flashed in my mind.
The fact that hospitals were filled with casualties sprawled across the floors due to the impossibility of accommodating the considerable numbers, was also something I continuously worried about. Indeed, during the genocide, finding space in the hospitals for expecting mothers was rare, and care had to be rushed, often meaning it was inadequate.
The doctors have done their absolute best, but rooms and beds have been overrun with those injured and killed.
When I was finally able to be seen in my ninth month of pregnancy, I had lost so much weight that I had to be referred to another hospital. I thought of the thousands of women who await their fate whilst having to give birth with no safety and hardly any equipment, resources, or care.
Because I had a high-risk pregnancy, on the day of my baby’s birth, what mattered to me the most was having an empty operating room – though this would be a luxury given I was in a long queue.
As I waited my turn, a residential building near the hospital received a bomb threat. All the medical staff rushed to transfer patients to other departments. After a few hours, a nurse took me by foot to the operating room.
Once I climbed onto the operating table by myself, the doors were closed and the medical team started preparing me for a spinal anaesthesia. I was told this wasn’t optional. Then, as it started to take effect, the lights and air conditioning suddenly went out.
“Sterilisation is no longer necessary”, I heard the doctors saying as I laid there in total fear, remembering the scent of death. It was the thought of my children and the baby still inside of me that gave me courage. I asked the doctor to go ahead with the operation. The incision was made using phone flashlights.
My beautiful daughter Judy was born into a genocide, to the sounds of explosions, to stress, fear and to a mother who was somewhere between life and death by the end of the operation. After that, the nightmare continued through displacement and homelessness. We had nothing, not even clothes.
Killing journalists
Within two months of the birth I also had to return to work. I had to take on an extra job with another news channel in order to survive through the skyrocketing living expenses due to the war, and because my husband had also lost his job.
Whilst once again being displaced, I felt like I saw the scale of the destruction of Gaza more clearly. At one point, I was standing in an area I had visited before Israel’s attack, but which I could no longer recognise. I didn’t see a single standing house, or a street in its original state; it felt as though I had passed through a ghost town.
It was in that moment that I wished the earth would swallow me whole. The weight of what my mind was witnessing was unbearable. My heart shattered and my breath shortened, but I had to focus on keeping my children safe.
What’s worse is that the targeting of journalists is one of Israel’s most common strategies, and the number martyred in Gaza has been the highest in any war. The death toll exceeded 160 Palestinians, and dozens have been injured. Because of this, people around us were afraid of being near us. When someone found out that I worked in the media, they asked me and my family to leave.
Throughout the months of forced displacement I had to hide the fact that I’m a journalist for the sake of my children, so that they could have a warm place to live.
Now, even following the ceasefire deal, we are yet again displaced. I worry about what the future brings.
I worked under terrifying conditions and extreme duress for the entirety of Israel’s war on Gaza, and if it resumes, I will do the same again. I don’t believe there is a journalist in the world who has covered a genocide like this for such an extended period, without interruption. Nor do I think the world has witnessed a genocide more brutal than the one we have been facing.
I wish that I could write about things that existed and that I enjoyed, like my beautiful home, my yard, the trees, or even my baby’s new clothes, and experiences of growing older – but all were destroyed by airstrikes.
Even as the bombardments slow and the drones aren’t overhead, mass displacement, suffering and worry is all around us. They left us with nothing but fading memories which are slowly vanishing as we are consumed by our harsh reality.
Every day, even as we bring new life into the world, we search for safety, shelter, and food security as we struggle to stay alive.
Islam Imad Al-Zaanoun is a journalist from Gaza News and a reporter at the Palestinian Broadcasting Corporation and Palestine TV in Gaza.
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Opinions expressed in this article remain those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of The New Arab, its editorial board or staff.
