From the beginning of the war, work became his life. Many of the people who were bombed were his neighbors, people he grew up with.
Hatem Al-Atar, 25, was not married. His courage was not thoughtless or born of ignorance. He knew he could die any second.
“All the days of the war from October 7 have been difficult so far. Every second in this war was difficult. At any moment you can lose your life, the life of a loved one,” says Hatem.
He is sitting in the civil protection office in Deir al-Balah with his comrades. They are talking and checking their phones. Each is a survivor.
Ninety-four of their comrades were killed. More than 300 were wounded – almost half of Gaza’s civil defense organization.
For Hatem, death was as close as the explosion that knocked him off his feet in a house near Nasser Hospital.
“There were wounded and killed around the house,” he remembers.
“I went in to see if anyone was there, dead or alive. Once I went in, a scout missile hit the house.”
In the video taken by a colleague, he can be seen entering the building with big steps. The fire is burning to the left of the frame.
Then there’s a loud explosion, clouds of smoke, a man stumbles out, but it’s not Hatem.
His friends go back inside and pull him out. He coughs and has to hold it. But he survives.
Others close to him were not so lucky.
On March 14 last year – at the beginning of Ramadan – one of his brothers called him at four in the morning.
No one in Gaza, during the war, called at that time with good news.
“He told me that our house in al-Burei was hit and that my dad was killed.”
Hatem went to al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir al-Balah and met a family friend who directed him to the morgue.
“When I went there, my father was lying on the floor next to eight other bodies. It was my sister-in-law and her seven children! I was in shock.”
Nevertheless, Hatem continued to go, to the places of explosions, buildings that were collapsing, to the ruins where the dead and occasionally the living were buried. He pulled out bodies and body parts.
The time came when the bombing and shooting stopped.
The first night without air raids. It’s time to start thinking about something that hasn’t been guaranteed for the past 15 months – the future.
His thoughts turn to education and romance.
“With the agreement, I should think about what to do next. I will continue my university studies when the universities start working again. I am single, but I will think about marriage.”
To try to tell the story of how the people of Gaza experienced this war, myself and my BBC colleagues depended on the tireless efforts of local journalists working on our behalf.
Israel banned foreign media from entering Gaza report on the war independently.
Local BBC journalists have been on the streets almost non-stop for the past 24 hours recording the mood in Gaza amid the ceasefire: a gunman standing on a road in Nuseirat, central Gaza, shooting into the air; Hamas fighters and police reappear; a few meters down the road another group of men shoot skyward; crowds gathering on cross streets and corners; a man kneeling and kissing the ground.
But all this takes place against the background of ruin. Trucks and cars drive past them, burdened with other people’s belongings. Some use donkey carts to haul what is left of them after multiple displacements.
Hundreds of thousands of trips take place in Gaza today. Some are actually ongoing. Others exist in the imagination. Everyone has one direction – home.
Professor Jumaa Abu Shiha reaches the remains of his house in Nuseirat.
First, he says the feeling of survival is “indescribable.” He prays to himself: “God is the best manager of our affairs.”
He repeats this as he goes from one destroyed room to another. His wife and several children follow.
The walls are blown away. The interior is riddled with traces of machine guns and shrapnel.
Professor Abu Shiha describes how he built the house “block by block”, painted it and cherished the moment he brought his family to live here.
“I can’t find the house, I only see destruction, not the house,” he says. “I didn’t expect this. I expected to go back to the house and find a place to shelter myself and my children.”
He points to his daughter’s room and his son’s room, so carefully decorated and now desolate. “The feeling is indescribable,” he says.
We have a huge task of reconstruction ahead of us. The UN and humanitarian agencies have repeatedly accused Israel of obstructing the flow of aid; The United States at one point threatened to withhold military aid to Israel if more aid was not allowed into Gaza. Israel denies cutting aid.
Trucks with humanitarian aid crossed the belt all afternoon. Among them was the convoy of the Jordanian Hashemite Charity Organization, which we reported on last weekon the way from Amman to Gaza.
Forklift trucks transported tons of medicine and food to help the nearly two million displaced people in Gaza – roughly 90% of the population.
Such help is tangible help. It can be weighed, counted, filled and finally distributed. People can be fed and given medicine. But there is another challenge whose demands are enormous and which will have a profound impact on Gaza’s future.
The war created an unknown number of traumatized adults and children. We recorded some of their stories but they are aware of tens of thousands more who remain untold.
The children faced acute suffering. According to a survey of guardians of 504 children, for British charity War Child96% of the children felt that death was inevitable.
The interviews also revealed that 49% had a wish to die. Often our journalists heard young survivors say that they would like to join their dead mother, father or sibling.
Ten-year-old Amr al Hindi was the only survivor of the Israeli attack on the building where he lived in Beit Lahia last October. Our colleague from the area filmed Amr in the hospital immediately after the attack.
The floor around him was covered with wounded. The woman was sitting with blood dripping from her ear. A man has just died nearby.
“Where’s the Sheriff?” asked Amr several times. The nurse told him that Sherif was fine. “I’ll take you upstairs to see him.” But Sherif, his brother, did not survive. Neither did his other brother, Ali, or his sister Aseel, or his mother and father. The whole family disappeared.
Right after the ceasefire was announced, we went back to see what happened to Amr al Hindi. He lived with his grandparents and it was clear that they loved him with care and tenderness. The child’s three toes were amputated after the bombing, but he managed to walk normally.
Amr was sitting on his grandfather’s lap and looking straight into the camera. He was calm and collected, as if he was looking behind a thick protective screen. He started talking about his brother Ali and how he wanted to go to Jordan and study to become a doctor.
“I want to become like Ali. I want to fulfill his dream and travel to Jordan to become a doctor,” he said. But during the last few words the tears started to fall and he cried.
Amr’s grandfather kissed him on the cheek; he said “honey” and patted his chest.
At this time it is understood that many wars are being fought here.
Some who paused. Others that, for the survivors, will live long into the future.
With additional reporting by Alice Doyard, Malaak Hasona and Adam Campbell.
