“From the Essay, “Details of a War: Gaza, October 2024 – February 2025”, by Nahil Mohana
Translated by Katharine Halls
(Nahil Mohana is a novelist and playwright from Gaza City. She and her daughter have been forced to relocate multiple times since her house was destroyed by an Israeli attack in December 2023; they now live with relatives. During the war, she has continued her work providing psychological support for children and young people through creative writing workshops. She has been keeping a diary throughout; previous installments have been published in AGNI, The Washington Post, LitHub (twice), and are forthcoming in the anthologies Palestine is Everywhere and Voices of Resistance: Diaries of Genocide).
October 2024
On the 6th of October—after almost a year of war—tanks surround Jabalia camp for the second time, attacking hospitals and preventing anyone from entering or leaving. People flood into our area laden with belongings, barrels of water, crates of food and drink, blankets and mattresses. They’ve learned the hard way: take everything you can carry so you’re not humiliated wherever you go next. Or rather, take as much stuff as you can, but leave warm memories and expectations behind, because they’re not much use these days.
A week after invading Jabalia, the Israelis expand the evacuation zone to include Jabalia al-Nazla, Sheikh Radwan, and al-Jalaa neighbourhood, then mass in Beit Hanoun and Beit Lahia in the far north. The temerity! How dare they set their sights on Beit Hanoun in olive season? Don’t they know the olive harvest is one of our most important rituals? I post on Facebook: “I’ll say it again. I’m not leaving the North—I have olives to press.”
I’m applying to a German organization for a writing fellowship. They offer residencies in Stuttgart, but the Rafah border is still closed, so I request a stipend only. I’m planning to use it to work on my next novel, which is about life in Gaza during the genocide, and the strains on social life and repeated displacements it has caused. The novel will document the details of our days; these details will become part of the Palestinian collective memory, and I don’t want them to be lost and forgotten.
The application process poses two problems. First, I need to gather a bunch of documents, but I’m not living in my own house at the moment, and I don’t have all my official papers. Second, I need to communicate with the friend in Germany who’s helping me apply, and who’s going to translate these documents, but I barely have internet access—when I do, the signal is extremely weak—which makes WhatsApp conversations challenging.
When the email arrives telling me I’ve been granted the fellowship, I’m not at home and hence not connected to the internet. I’m probably buying a cup of coffee somewhere—we’re out of firewood, salvaged wood, cardboard, and newspaper, so I can’t make one at home—or at work in some school or shelter. When I get home, Messenger starts pinging like crazy. It’s the woman who’s helping me, telling me to check my email. She’s way happier about the fellowship than I am. Since the start of the war, we’ve been afraid of happiness here in Gaza; happiness is a responsibility, and hope is a trap. I am pleased, though, and my Messenger inbox fills up with heart emojis and congratulations. But the stipend—which took me two weeks to apply for—takes four months to arrive! Didn’t I say happiness was a responsibility, and hope was a trap?
On the 17th, I have an appointment at the only functioning dentist’s office, which is operating from a new location since its original premises were destroyed. I’ve been waiting two months for the appointment—a wisdom tooth extraction, not that I have a lot of spare wisdom to get rid of—because demand is high and there’s been no anaesthetic available.
Once the tooth is out, I set out for home on foot, clutching my cheek and feeling dizzy and nauseous. On my way, I look for a slushie, because the dentist has told me this will help relieve the pain and stop the gum swelling or getting infected. There aren’t any actual painkillers available because the crossing and roads are still closed and no medication is being allowed into Gaza.
At one of the stalls where I stop to see if they have slushies, the vendor tells me sugar now costs 60 shekels per kilo. I ask for some ice instead—I don’t need sugar or flavors to stop the swelling—but he tells me he has no ice either because he doesn’t have solar panels or diesel for the generator. Suddenly there are shouts all around us.
“They’ve assassinated Sinwar!”
I’m still dizzy and feeling sick, and for a moment I think I’m hallucinating from the pain. But when I get home and manage to connect to the internet, which takes a full fifteen minutes, the news websites are all full of the news about Sinwar. I’ve failed to find a slushie and I’m still in pain.
“What is it, a golden egg?!” I shout at the vendor when he proudly tells me how much an egg costs. People are making cakes and even omelettes without egg these days; we’ve simply removed “egg” from the dictionary. So when I get a text message telling me I’ve been allotted a box of eggs by UNRWA, I’m overjoyed. I pick up the box and carefully conceal it inside a plastic bag, fearing the envy and curiosity of passersby and market vendors. When I arrive home there are shouts and cries and kisses, like I’ve brought al-Aqsa Mosque with me. We make a huge plate of fried eggs in olive oil. The saying goes that we “eat our fingers along with them,” and we quite literally do.
Nahil Mohana
Published: May 14 2025 | Online 2025
Source AGNI Magazine
For full essay,
Details of a War: Gaza, October 2024 – February 2025 | AGNI Online (bu.edu)
