My name is Hana

The first catastrophe started when my eldest, Ibrahim, was a year old. He fainted suddenly, and there was no way to treat him in Gaza, so he was taken by ambulance to a hospital in Ashkelon [inside Israel], but the military refused to let me go with him. The doctors said he was a hair’s breadth from death, and I was beside myself with worry. I called every one, begging to get a permit to exit Gaza.

A few weeks later, I was summoned for a Shin Bet interview. I sat in a white room. The interrogator came in and showed me a photo of a house that’s been bombed and asked me about our neighbors. Then he said, “whose house was it?” and showed me our house. Everything was so sharp in their maps, but all I could think of was my son, who was far away from me, whom I might not get a chance to see. I got a permit eight months later.

The second catastrophe was two years later, when I found out I had cancer. I didn’t know I was pregnant, and I started chemotherapy in Hebron. My youngest, Khalil, was born with heart and stomach problems. He can’t drink regular milk and needs special milk that I buy for him in Israel.

Now we both need medical treatment that isn’t available in the Gaza Strip. The exit permits the military gives for medical treatments are valid for a month, and then you have to reapply – fill out forms and wait for permits. You get a text message the day before the appointment. Sometimes it’s “approved,” and sometimes it’s “denied.” You never can tell.

The last time I was denied and missed the appointment, I wasn’t able to walk, and I lost consciousness. Without treatment, my body breaks down. If Khalil and I were to get a permanent exit permit, I wouldn’t have to go through this nightmare every month.

The third catastrophe hit us last May, during the war. It was the last day of Ramadan. The house was quiet, and I was putting Khalil down to sleep in the bedroom. Suddenly, the whole house shook, and then I heard a blast. The kids started screaming and crying in a circle around me. We took nothing with us. I picked up the kids, and we ran out into the street in our pajamas.

The shell was aimed at our neighbors’ house, but, in effect, they bombed our house too. We stood barefoot in the street. The air around us filled with smoke, and we saw our house being completely destroyed. Everything was gone – the kids’ bedrooms, our personal documents, ID cards, everything we had in this world. But all I could think of was Khalil’s special milk that was left in the house, the milk I bought in Israel. And I worried how we would manage without it.