What they lost: families in terror while Israel fails the West Coast camps | Israel-Palestine News of Conflict

The rain on Friday did not stop.

Nor is it hitting Israeli soldiers on the doors of homes across the refugee camp of the farm on the occupied west coast.

Strong winds rushed to the houses as the door collapsed, and cold is a little in the body of panic, unarmed civilians forced into the streets.

In the early hours of the morning, in the middle of an eight -day siege that cut off the camp from the outside world, dozens of military vehicles and bulldozers crossed the entrance to the camp.

Hundreds of Israeli soldiers poured out, breaking through narrow streets. The orders shouted in Hebrew from the speakers, overlapping with military orders as they hit the door with their rifles asses.

“Open the door! Get out immediately! “They yelled.

Inside the families were broken to gather as much as they could. The mother begged to hold her hand for the children as he screamed with fear. His father begged to grab some clothes before he was forced outside.

The shooting broke between homes, socializing with shouted commands in Arabic and Hebrew.

“For the name of God, let me take my bag!” One resident declared himself. “Wait, let me go slowly – I swear I’ll leave,” he begged another one before pushing me forward.

In his home in the back of the camp, 55-year-old Essam Awad watched in fear.

Battle for Earth

Farm sits in the northern valley of Jordan, a strategic area of ​​agricultural land that maintains local agriculture and an economy of an isolated camp.

The Israelites who live in illegal settlements have long caught on this earth, which was assisted by Israeli authorities, and Palestinian farmers were increasingly blocked from their fields.

Military incursion escalated in response to Palestinian resistance, splashing restrictions on movement and life.

Israel launched the so -called “operating iron wall” while the ceasefire in Gaza, trying to tighten the grip on the stronghold of resistance on the west coast.

When the campaign reached the farm, more than 3,000 of the 9,000 inhabitants were reportedly forced to dispose of weapons.

According to the UN data, 40,000 Palestinians have been displaced across the west coast since the operation began.

The Israeli Farm invasion began with complete locking, sealing all the entrances and outputs, and interrupting supplies and medical help. An eight -day siege that followed after cut off food, water and strength.

Once a hectic refugee camp whose inhabitants were thrown out of 30 villages near Jaffa in the middle of Nakba, the farm is a ghost town. Modest concrete houses – sometimes filled with life – stand in creepy silence.

The narrow streets, which have been rushing to the sludge ruthlessly, bulldozing, lending everything – walls, parked cars, communal columns – leaving behind a trace of destruction.

Ambulations were rejected. Journalists were forbidden to document the attack. The red crescent teams were prevented from evacuating the wounded. The soldiers moved methodically, expeling families – one neighborhood at the same time.

Nowhere on this, the families stumbled through the mud, clamping children and blankets, and the shoes sank into the thick mud of flooded streets.

Fear was equally dense. A soldier’s impatience or so far can mean beating – or bullet.

‘This house was supposed to hold us all’

As the soldiers moved toward the end of the camp, Awad looked out the window, trying to think. The retired employee of the Ministry of Tourism knew there was no possibility.

When his soldiers broke through his door, screaming at him, he refused to leave. They beat him by assembling rifles and eventually performed it.

“You see this house?” He said, pointing to the house he had built, now looking at her from the threshold of his brother’s house, several blocks, where he took refuge with his wife.

“I built it in the stages that my family grew. With six children, the ground floor was not big enough,” he said. Between the arrival of its oldest, 34-year-old Dalal, the youngest 20-year-old Ahmed, the house continued to grow.

“In the end, the floor became our Diwan, where we gathered every night. Winter felt warm here – with our company, with our laughter,” he said, the left eye swollen, deeply cut under it, and the knee showing the traces of the military blows.

“But when my daughters and sons got married and moved, the colder it was. And when my son Muhammad was killed, it turned into freezing.”

Muhammad, his middle son, went to the University of Turkiya three years earlier.

“He left once he went to study. And then he left forever a year ago,” Awad said, his eyes focused on the house, but seemed to look further, remembering that fateful day in April 2024.

“Muhammad returned to visit, just to apply for his family. He didn’t know he was entering death,” he whispered.

His voice broke. He leaned into a nearby chair, pressing his hand to his forehead. “My head hurts from all that,” he murmured. “Let’s go inside.”

The father of the six slowly walked to his bed, his legs heavy. Packed into layers to fight the cold, he pulled the wool blanket over his legs, rubbing his hands at the warmth. He moved carefully, his back from beating.

‘They took everything’

“You have to leave,” the soldiers told him when they entered his house. “But first, testing.”

The questions appeared one after the other.

“How did your son die? What did he do? Who were his friends? “

They passed three hours before the soldiers gave the final order: they were immediately evacuated.

“I refused,” Essam said. “So they beat me up.”

Blue and limping, he walked to his brother’s house at the entrance to the camp. He knew what was going to come next. The soldiers would take his home for a few hours, maybe a day, and then move on – leaving him in the ruins.

The next day he tried to return, but the soldiers blocked the way. Two days later he tried again. Road blockages were set up, and that part of the camp was decorated.

“Every Friday, my children gathered here. Their mother would cook. Dalal would help in the kitchen. Sometimes he would visit Jenin alone. But this Friday we will not gather. The army took care of it.”

He recalled the weddings, the engagement parties and the birth of his granddaughter – everything was celebrated within those walls.

“The memories are endless. There were so many lives here. Now there are only bullet holes.” .

He also remembered the difficult times they saw. “Muhammad has always been a naughty, problematic manufacturer,” Essam said, and the voice wore a heat trace. “He was not like his siblings – he didn’t like school, which resulted in many arguments and quarrels,” he added with a weak smile. “But he was full of life.”

There were several days in Muhammad’s visit when he was killed. “He just walked down the street when the soldiers shot him.

“Just like that. And then they ask us why he is shot! “

Still, Essam refused to lose hope.

“No matter how many of us have taken from us,” he said, his voice all the time, “we will survive. You become too immune after so much pain.”

This part was published in collaboration with Egab.