Under Siege: A Glimpse into a Palestinian Life Marked by Conflict, Survival and PTSD
This is the first time I write an article like this in English, or as I prefer to call it, a mere narration of thoughts crossing my mind. For the second time, and not forever, God willing, I apologize for all the grammatical and spelling errors that will be in this article. This piece will serve as the opening article of my forthcoming book “Bas Sarda — بس سردة”. I’m still contemplating the structure of the book’s release; perhaps it will be an article every ten days until the whole book is published, or maybe it will be published one chapter at a time. Enjoy the journey and the narrative.
A warning once more: My English is “not the best”, I am just bad-lingual as I like to say. Also, the article does not rely on any scientific foundations, it is merely a narration of my feelings and my perspective which has no relevance in this bleak world.
A simple introduction about me, though most of you know me. My name is Rafat Yaghi, a gay and autistic Palestinian refugee from the village of Al-Masmiyyah Al-Kubra, born in Al-Arroub refugee camp in Hebron, and lived more than half of my life in Jabalia refugee camp in the Gaza Strip. I experienced the first three assaults by the Israeli occupation on the Gaza Strip, referred to as “wars” by some, but I personally do not like to use the word war in this context because as we know war is a fight between two somewhat equally powered groups, which is not applicable to these assaults… anyway, that’s not our topic.
I remember that during these attacks, of course, I was afraid for my life, my family, and my home, but I never felt that this had a significant impact on my mental health, nor did I see how these attacks change us as humans and change our goals, dreams, and lives. Unfortunately, we used to see it as normal, a new house got bombed, another kid getting killed, it wasn’t very urgent news in our minds since it happens every day.
The issue began to take my interest and attention only when I started working in London at KCL. Part of our responsibility, particularly given my occasional interaction with students under the age of 18, involved vigilant monitoring of the students’ behaviors and moods. We were trained to observe various signs, such as a student appearing sad in class, noticeable changes in someone’s manner of speaking, a student’s lack of interaction, or visible injuries. It was essential to pay close attention to these signs and report any concerns to the university, so they could handle the matter with due seriousness.
I was genuinely taken aback when they told us that even minor incidents, like spotting someone with a wound, mandated an immediate response: call an ambulance, inform the university, write a report. This was a cause for concern. If a student seemed even slightly off, we were to report it. They might be dealing with issues at home or at the university, issues the College needed to know about.
In my mind, I was perplexed. ‘What’s all this fuss about a minor injury or someone just having an off day?’ I thought. With some incredulity, I compared these scenarios to my own past. Excuse me, but I had witnessed blood in the streets, friends and acquaintances dying before my eyes, houses being demolished, human remains littering the streets — all this without an ambulance in sight or even a mention in the news. Despite such horrors, when I went to school, no one ever inquired about our emotional well-being.
Over time, my sensitivity towards these smaller issues had faded. I no longer felt their significance. I had thought these people were making a mountain out of a molehill. However, I eventually realized that this was the normal response. It is not normal to accept or become accustomed to the reality of destruction and war. It’s not normal to keep our feelings bottled up, not admitting that we are, in fact, significantly emotionally devastated — not just ‘pretty much,’ but a lot.
The idea of a typical day involving someone being arrested, martyred, losing their home, arriving late for an exam, or losing a family member due to the calamities inflicted by the occupation — this is not normal. We shouldn’t grow accustomed to such a reality. Each day should not be filled with disaster.
I used to say that I had become desensitized, or developed an immunity to these calamities, and that I was dealing with them ‘normally’. This belief persisted until one day when I was having a conversation with a friend in London. Out of the blue, he asked me about the 2008 attack.
I said: I remember it vividly. I was at school when the bombing started. Chaos erupted and, as a terrified 7-year-old child, I just followed the crowd and ran. I won’t delve too much into my experiences living there in this article, but rather, focus on the impacts. As I was laughing and assuring him that it was fine, brushing off the severity, I realized that this has been my coping mechanism: to face all my problems, psychological pressure, and all the ‘beautiful’ things life threw at me, with humour and a sense of normalcy, sweeping these issues under the proverbial rug. The problem is, the dust under the rug keeps piling up until, inevitably, the rug can no longer cover it. And then, we truly collapse. Incidents like this and others undoubtedly changed my empathy towards people and reshaped my perceptions of what a ‘normal’ situation should feel like.
As I tried to downplay my past experiences with laughter, the person on the other side of the conversation was left shocked, unsure of how to respond. To lighten the mood, I started telling jokes and even apologized, feeling guilty about sharing my problems. I feel like I’m ruining their mood, shocking them with my words, or affecting them negatively. Of course, to be clear, none of us should feel like this or apologize for the problems we’ve endured when talking about them.
But the shock lingered, and my friend eventually said, in an incredulous tone: ‘I remember 400 children died at that time, you could’ve been one of them!’”
For a moment, I was speechless. After a pause, I managed to say, “But I’m here, I didn’t die.”
His question lingered in my mind until I laid down that night, the silence allowing me to replay every moment. Indeed, I could have been one of those lost, or perhaps a member of my family… An inner conflict emerged between the thought “I’m alive now, there’s nothing to be upset about,” and the harrowing realization that “I could have died, maybe I’m already dead inside.”
It may have been the first time I truly acknowledged that these attacks caused more than just temporary fear or immediate physical, psychological, or material damage. No, they inflicted wounds that don’t heal, traumas that persist to this day. They instilled a fear that still haunts us every time we hear a slightly loud plane, the sound of fireworks, the sight of people running normally, and every time someone pretends they’re going to shoot us with their hand.
In a somewhat ironic twist, I find myself laughing even as I talk about this to myself — but sadly, this is the truth. It appears that we, as Palestinians, are either not accepting this reality, or perhaps, we’re in denial.
Just recently, I came to realize that I cannot sleep unless I’m facing a wall. Perhaps it seems trivial, but it isn’t. This peculiar habit is a direct result of my experiences in Gaza, where, during bombardments close to our home, we would move closer to the nearest wall. They were a bit harder to collapse on us and offered a modicum of safety. We used to sleep in a corner of the kitchen since it was the only area in our home in Gaza with a concrete ceiling, making it less likely for debris to fall on us if a nearby house was bombed.
Another habit of mine, I noticed, is eating rapidly. The reason? Back in Gaza, we would try to finish our meals quickly so that if bombing occurred around us, we wouldn’t have to leave our food behind. We would rush to eat before the next onslaught began. This habit has followed me, making me consume my meals quickly, as if I am being pursued.
The feeling of insecurity is a constant presence in my life. I feel uneasy, sometimes unable, to leave the house alone. This traces back to the times when the Israeli occupation attacks would begin when I was away from home. The terror was not necessarily from the prospect of death itself, but from the chilling idea that I might die alone, in a place where no one would find me.
Post-traumatic stress disorder continues to permeate every aspect of my life. Undoubtedly, there are other effects, perhaps even more severe, that I have yet to discover within myself.
In many ways, my approach to handling people’s problems has become somewhat superficial. Life, I tell myself, is unjust and fraught with challenges. We should bear our troubles, given that millions have faced far worse situations. Of course, such thinking is neither normal nor healthy.
Reflecting on these experiences, I find myself increasingly compelled to introspect, to truly consider the trials I’ve endured. I’ve come to realize the importance of accepting and acknowledging these experiences, understanding their continued impact on my life as part of the healing process.
The lingering idea that I could die at any moment inhibits any long-term planning on my part. Of course, my Autism and ADHD play a significant role in this perspective, but they’re not the sole contributors. Deep down, I question the existence of a future. Indeed, I struggle to see one, let alone think about it. There’s an urgency to live in the present, to live life fully and quickly, driven in part by a sense that I lost precious time in my childhood, and the unsettling uncertainty of not knowing if I’ll see tomorrow.
Do I save money? Why would I, when it could vanish in an instant, just like the homes and people that have disappeared before? Do I cultivate my relationships slowly, allowing them to develop naturally over time? No, that approach feels infeasible. I feel compelled to dive into relationships quickly, because who knows? I might not be here in the morning, or the other person might not.
As I pen this narrative, I invite you to share your own struggles in the comments, and discuss how they have affected you, no matter what they might be.
A tangential thought crossed my mind as I was writing this, something not entirely fitting into the narrative, but I wanted to include it nonetheless. I remember reading a piece by a teacher who once taught me, discussing why we Palestinians struggle to dream big. My simple response was, “We can’t carry dreams above our worries.” The burden is too great.
Feel free to let me know if you’re interested in hearing more about my experiences or if there are other topics you’d like me to explore.
If you’ve found my story touching, enlightening, or thought-provoking, I’d appreciate it if you could hit the “like” button. Your support means a lot and helps share this narrative with a wider audience. I invite you to follow me on Medium and stay updated with my latest posts.
For updates and interactions, follow me on Medium at Rafatyaghi And on Instagram at @Bas.Sarda for broad updates, and @rafat.yaghi for more personal posts and future article notifications. Can’t wait to share more of my journey with you! I look forward to interacting with you there and continuing to share my journey.
Until the next narrative, take care.….
