My Journey to the Center of Death (click here for the Arabic version)
Rafah, Gaza | Dawn – Sunday, June 1, 2025
When the air becomes too heavy to breathe, when your senses numb, and when walking toward a piece of bread becomes a journey between life and death—you know you’re in Gaza. I had reached the edge of collapse.
There was no food in the tent, no water in the containers, and nothing left to sustain even the flicker of hope in my children’s eyes. When I heard that a “humanitarian aid center” in the Al-Alam area of Rafah would be distributing flour, I grabbed an empty bag and clung to a fragile hope. At 3 a.m., I stepped into the darkness, chasing survival.
But this wasn’t a center of aid. It was a center of death—in every harrowing sense of the word.
A Human Tide from Sea to Sea
I arrived at a narrow coastal road, barely six meters wide, stretching alongside the sea.
What I witnessed defies simple description: A massive human tide—no fewer than 400,000 people—flowed silently toward a mirage.
Men, women, children, the elderly… all crawling over the cold sand like souls resurrected from mass graves. A march of the hungry and the desperate.
I told myself, “They won’t shoot at such a huge crowd.” But I was wrong.
The bullets came from land… sea… and sky—all at once.
People screamed: “Get down!” In an instant, the road turned into a mass execution ground. I dove behind a sand dune, heart pounding so violently it felt like it would burst from my chest.
Graves Dug with Our Bare Hands
When the gunboats opened fire, people began digging—Not out of strength, but out of sheer terror.
They clawed at the sand with hands, with nails, with the edges of shoes. They dug shallow graves—not for the dead, but for the living.
We buried ourselves up to the neck to survive. And I was one of them.
In that moment, I remembered a line I once laughed at:
“They dig their own graves.”
But there I was—digging mine. Not metaphorically, but literally.
Seventeen Corpses… and a Martyr’s Final Words
When the first trace of dawn broke the horizon, those of us still able to move began advancing, walking as though across shattered glass.
That’s when I saw him—a young man lying motionless, a bullet having pierced his skull. No one stopped. People jumped over his body like he was a shadow. As if death had become part of the landscape.
I stood frozen beside him for three minutes. He wasn’t a fighter. He carried no weapon. He came for a bag of flour. What kind of justice kills a man for bread?
Then I saw them—seventeen lifeless bodies scattered across the road. I stared at each face, legs trembling, terrified I might recognize one.
I was searching for my brother Arkan, and my twelve cousins who had come with me to feed their families. The grief would double if I found one of their faces among the fallen.
One young man was still breathing faintly. Another leaned over and asked softly,Another leaned over and asked softly,
“Which family are you from?” He answered in a whisper, as if saying his final goodbye… then exhaled his last breath.
Hamouda—Saved by the Timing of Death
Then I saw Hamouda—bleeding for two hours. His eyes were half open, caught between this world and the next.
By the grace of God, he survived. But a part of his soul was left behind in that carnage.
I, the Unbreakable… Returned Empty-Handed
I had faced death before. I was shot six times during the Great March of Return, on May 14, 2018. I was known for my resilience, my fearlessness.
But this time, I returned broken. No bread. No flour. No oil. No sugar.
I came back to my children with nothing but two empty hands and a heart heavy with terror.
Nothing remained but a palmful of dust, and a memory soaked in blood and despair.
What Wasn’t Said…
A man buried his head in the sand as if trying to return to his mother’s womb.
A woman screamed her child’s name into the air and then ran in the opposite direction alone.
A young man sprinted forward with an empty sack, holding it high like it contained the entire world.
And in the end?
We returned the way we came—
No flour. No water. No dignity.
But I did bring one thing back: A testimony.
A raw, bleeding truth carved from flesh and pain to be told to the world.
This isn’t a war story.
It’s a story of hunger.
A story of a Palestinian who didn’t go to fight—but went to feed his children.
God is sufficient for us, and He is the best disposer of affairs.
Documentation
• Date: Dawn of Sunday, June 1, 2025
• Location: Humanitarian Aid Distribution Point – Al-Alam area, Rafah, Southern Gaza
• Casualties: Dozens killed, including children and elderly
• Witnesses: Survivors, including Islam Al-Sanbo—himself a survivor of six bullet wounds during the 2018 Great March of Return massacre
Alaa Alburai, Kufi Productions
