The Drone Eats with Me

1. War's Constant, Intimate Presence

Like a witch’s familiar, it lurks in the shadows, follows you at a distance wherever you go.

War is palpable. The author describes war not as a distant event, but as a physical presence, a smell, a taste in the air that can be detected hours or days before it arrives. This sensory awareness is a skill learned from childhood in Gaza's narrow streets. It's a constant companion, always lurking.

Ever-present threat. The whirring of drones becomes an incessant soundtrack, a reminder that surveillance and potential death are always overhead. Explosions are not just heard but felt, shaking buildings and scattering glass, making the physical space of home feel vulnerable and permeable to the conflict outside.

Intrusion into life. The war intrudes on the most mundane and intimate moments, like family meals. The heaviest bombardments often coincide with suhoor and iftar, turning feeding times into terrifying fanfares of bombs and fire, as if the F16s and drones are joining the family at the table.

2. Gaza's Cycle of Conflict

Since 1948—before that in fact, since the British mandate began in 1917—Gaza has barely gone ten years without a war; sometimes it’s as little as two between each one.

Wars as life markers. For Gazans, wars are not isolated incidents but recurring events that punctuate life, marking childhood, adolescence, and adulthood like rings in a tree trunk. Each generation grows up knowing conflict as a fundamental part of their existence.

A predictable pattern. The author and his friends, born in wartime, discuss the coming conflict with a weary familiarity, comparing it to previous assaults like "Cast Lead" (2008-2009) and "Pillar of Defense" (2012). They analyze the rhythm and intensity of the attacks, trying to predict how long this one will last.

Inherited skill. This constant exposure has bred a unique expertise among Gazans in interpreting news, analyzing military movements, and preparing for the inevitable. Gatherings around radios or mobile phones become informal political education sessions, a skill inherited from previous generations who debated wars outside shops.

3. Normal Life Amidst Chaos

Making yourself busy at a time like this helps.

Imposing routine. In the face of unpredictable chaos, people cling to or create routines to maintain a semblance of normality and sanity. Simple rituals like playing cards, visiting friends, smoking shisha, or walking to the souq become acts of resistance against the torment of waiting for the unknown.

Small comforts. Amidst the terror, small comforts take on immense value. A shave after weeks of discomfort, a cold drink after days without refrigeration, or the simple act of watching cartoons with children become precious moments of escape and relief from the surrounding disaster.

Life goes on. Despite the constant threat, daily life persists. People queue for bread and water, farmers try to salvage produce, shops open during brief truces, and families gather for meals. This continuation of life, even in its most basic forms, is a testament to resilience and the refusal to be completely consumed by war.

4. Children's Adaptation to War

Little Jaffa, at nineteen months old, accepted this logic and started to adapt to the situation.

Lost innocence. Children in Gaza witness war from a young age, experiencing multiple conflicts before adolescence. They learn to distinguish the sounds of different weapons and adapt their behavior, like seeking shelter instinctively during air raids.

Coping mechanisms. Children develop unique ways to process the trauma. The author's daughter, Jaffa, reinterprets explosions as her brother slamming a door, a coping mechanism that allows her to make sense of the terrifying sounds. Older children, like Naeem, worry about school terms and miss their friends, clinging to familiar structures.

Fear and resilience. The war steals the simple pleasure of watching children sleep peacefully, replacing it with fear that they could become casualties. Yet, children also provide a source of strength for adults; their noise and play upstage the sounds of war, making life a little easier for their parents.

5. The Search for Elusive Safety

The gravity of apparent safety is pulling everyone in the Strip closer and closer to the center.

No truly safe place. As the war intensifies, the search for safety becomes paramount, driving mass displacement. People flee border areas, coastal regions, and areas near government buildings, seeking refuge in the already overcrowded center of the Strip, particularly Jabalia Camp.

Refugee camps within camps. UNRWA schools, originally built for education, are transformed into makeshift shelters, housing thousands of displaced families. This creates a surreal reality of "camps within a camp," where people who are already refugees from 1948 are joined by new waves of displaced persons.

Temporary havens. Even these shelters are not immune to attack. Schools are hit by shells, forcing people to flee again or sleep in playgrounds. The logic of safety becomes fluid and unpredictable, forcing families to split up or constantly move in search of a place less likely to be targeted.

6. Dehumanization by Numbers

Everything is turned into numbers. The stories are hidden, disguised, lost behind these numbers.

Victims as statistics. As the casualty count rises, individuals are reduced to numbers in news reports. Names are initially listed, but eventually, victims become mere digits in a growing total, losing their personal stories and identities behind the statistics of death and injury.

The "Big Number". The focus shifts from individual lives lost to the overall death toll, the "Big Number" that journalists and commentators track. This numerical representation, while conveying scale, strips away the unique experiences, dreams, and relationships of each person killed.

Resistance to reduction. The author resists this dehumanization, insisting that each number represents a world, a novel, a life filled with moments of joy, pain, hope, and secrets. He refuses to be reduced to "Victim Number 568," wanting his story, and the stories of others, to be seen beyond the cold statistics.

7. The Destruction of Beauty and Home

The Israelis are carefully removing any beauty the city has left.

Targeting architecture. The war machine seems intent on destroying not just lives but the physical beauty of Gaza. Modern towers, cherished buildings, and even gardens are systematically targeted, reducing them to rubble and erasing the city's architectural identity.

Homes as rubble. Houses are flattened, leaving families homeless and their life savings turned to dust. The debris of homes merges together, blurring the lines between properties and creating a landscape of indistinguishable ruin, a physical manifestation of the catastrophe.

Loss of cherished spaces. Places of comfort, community, and memory are destroyed: cafes, cultural centers, mosques, and even orchards. These destructions are seen as an attempt to strip the city of its femininity and erase the evidence of its capacity for life and beauty.

8. The Unpredictability of Death and Luck

I know in my heart that I live by chance, and that when I die it too will be by chance.

Death's random nature. The author reflects on the arbitrary nature of survival and death in war. People are killed in seemingly safe places (UNRWA schools, homes far from borders) while others survive direct hits or escape attacks by chance, like the baby protected by falling masonry.

A game of chance. Life becomes a lottery, where survival depends on luck rather than smart decisions or precautions. The author sees himself and others as objects played with by the war machine, their fate determined by the random trajectory of a missile or the whim of a drone operator.

Constant vigilance. Despite the randomness, people engage in rituals and strategies to try and influence their luck or minimize risk: walking in the middle of the street, leaving windows open, sleeping in corridors. These actions are attempts to impose a personal logic on the chaos, even while knowing death observes no rules.

9. The Fragility of Truces

Truce. Escalation. Escalation. Truce.

A predictable rhythm. The war follows a pattern of intense fighting punctuated by short, often broken truces. These cease-fires are met with cautious optimism, quickly overshadowed by the fear that they will collapse, often preceded by particularly violent nights as the war machine "fills its stomach."

False sense of security. Brief truces allow people a glimpse of normality – shops open, streets fill, families visit destroyed homes – but this peace is always temporary and fragile. The anticipation of the truce ending creates anxiety, spoiling the limited moments of calm.

Negotiations and reality. Talks in Cairo offer hope, but their slow progress and frequent breakdowns highlight the disconnect between diplomatic efforts and the brutal reality on the ground. The outcome of negotiations becomes a matter of intense speculation, dictating the mood and actions of the population.

10. Resilience and the Necessity of Hope

Hope is your only weapon. It always works. It never betrays you.

Survival as heroism. In the face of overwhelming destruction and loss, the author defines true heroism not as fighting, but as survival. Simply making it through each day, clinging to life, is the ultimate victory.

Clinging to life's details. Despite the trauma, Gazans find ways to continue living, performing daily duties, seeking small pleasures, and maintaining routines. This focus on the mundane details of life is a demonstration of their genius for living amidst death.

Hope as a shield. Even when surrounded by despair, the author emphasizes the importance of hope. It is the one thing that cannot be taken away, the energy source that makes life bearable and allows people to look towards a future, even if uncertain. The end of the war, when it finally comes, is seen as a miracle, a testament to the power of hope against all logic.

Last updated: June 10, 2025