The Human Cost of the Arms Trade in Gaza

No Longer Innocent

On one of my last days in Gaza four years ago, I was asked in a writing workshop to describe Gaza in just a few words. I replied, ‘Gaza is a place where children are no longer innocent.’ I understand that this description may be somewhat perplexing or even alarming to foreigners, but to me, it reflects a harsh reality. Several months later, I arrived in the UK to pursue my Master’s degree in journalism, yet the image of Gaza’s children still lingers in my mind today. Just a few days ago, as I walked to my office in London, I spotted several children playing with their bicycles on the steps of their house. Unable to suppress my thoughts, I found myself drawing comparisons between them and children of similar age in Gaza. While these London children were enjoying their playtime as they rightfully should, our children in Gaza are currently enduring starvation. While the London children are familiar with the names of various video games and amusement parks, our children in Gaza are well-acquainted with the types of weaponry used against them, inflicting terror upon their families. From as early as I can remember, my friends and I had an intimate knowledge of the missiles, helicopters and guns which were a part of our daily reality. Children in Gaza can tell one type of military aircraft from another, just by the sound filling the skies.

Perhaps when I mentioned that Gaza is a place where children are no longer innocent, I was reflecting on my own experiences growing up in Gaza and witnessing the challenges faced by children there. Or perhaps I was observing how my nieces and nephews navigate their lives, or perhaps recalling the stories recounted by my parents about their own childhoods. Consider my father, who was born in 1948 as a refugee in Dair al-Balah. During his birth, tragedy struck our family when his grandfather and his brother were killed by an Israeli bomb dropped from the sky while they were at the market, claiming the lives of 150 people in our city.

On that fateful day, my grandmother not only lost her father and uncle but also gave birth to my father. Although this massacre remains largely undocumented in history my aunt never ceased to speak of the sorrow it brought upon our family. She herself was an only child and was compelled to flee her home in Yaffa to Gaza in 1948 alongside my grandfather. Despite the joy of welcoming a new baby, my aunt, who was just a few years old at the time, recalls the profound grief my grandmother experienced at the loss of her family.

Growing up in Gaza, I was surrounded by tales of my great-grandfather, Ali – stories of his bravery and resilience. I was told that he was the strongest man in our town and that he defied the British army during the Mandate period, resulting in his death sentence. Miraculously, he escaped from prison and sought refuge in Lebanon, where he married a Lebanese woman and lived for many years, before eventually returning to Palestine.

The Six-Day War

When my father was 19 years old, the 1967 Six-Day War erupted, and he couldn’t pursue university due to the conflict and the responsibility of providing for his family after his father’s passing. At the time, my mother was just 9 years old. She often recounts her memories of the years following the Nakba. My parents described how this war exposed them to new horrors, particularly the introduction of tanks as killing machines. Israel, lacking the capacity to manufacture their own tanks, relied on imports from France, West Germany and the US. Following the war, Israel occupied the Gaza Strip, the Sinai Peninsula, the Golan Heights, and southern Lebanon. For us in Gaza, those years marked the beginning of ongoing horror – the military occupation.

Prior to the war’s outbreak, my grandfather, Salem, constructed an underground shelter in his home in anticipation of conflict. It became the only refuge in the neighbourhood. As the war intensified, my grandfather ushered his family into the shelter, and soon neighbours sought safety there too. My aunt, Wesal, now 77, recalls the fear-filled days spent in the shelter, where she heard Israeli soldiers enter their home. Peering through a hole in the wall, she witnessed soldiers indiscriminately shooting people in the streets, with one neighbour tragically executed in his own home. She emphasises the danger they faced, knowing discovery would likely result in their deaths.

Following the Six-Day War, Israel occupied the entire Gaza Strip. My parents witnessed Israeli soldiers digging holes through school walls to shoot Palestinian students for sport. My aunt recalls seeing soldiers celebrate after winning bets placed on injuring Palestinian children, with some aiming for eyes or legs. Among the most horrifying stories shared by my family is the practice of soldiers betting on the gender of foetuses in pregnant Palestinian women’s bellies, then cutting them open to find out. Brutality against civilians occurred frequently during the 1967 war, leaving lasting scars on the collective memory of Gaza’s inhabitants.

My aunt recounted a harrowing tale of a man in their family shelter who had his entire family killed by Israeli soldiers. The invaders showed no mercy, leaving streets strewn with corpses. Another neighbour endured a different kind of torture; the Israelis murdered his eight children before his eyes, leaving him to mourn them for the rest of his days.

After the war, my father shared with me how the Israeli army continued to find new ways to torment Palestinians, including arbitrary imprisonments. He himself was incarcerated three times, each occasion lasting only a few days. When questioned about the reason for his detainment, he could only answer, ‘They just felt like doing it.’

Gaza under Occupation

Israel’s takeover of Gaza in 1967 deliberately undermined the local economy, fostering dependency. Many Gazans, including my father, were left with no option but to seek employment in Israel or remain unemployed. Despite being one of the brightest students in his school, my father did not pursue further education abroad, choosing instead to support his family after his father’s death. He possessed a photographic memory and fluency in three languages – Arabic, English, and Hebrew. Even at 75, he could still recall lessons from his elementary school days. Like countless other Palestinians, he found himself compelled to work in Israel as a labourer due to the economic stranglehold imposed by Israel’s weaponry, which devastated Gaza’s economy. I remember my father waking up at 2 a.m. to catch a bus into Israel for work, enduring daily humiliations from his employer and Israeli soldiers at checkpoints. The seeds of resentment and resistance were sown in men like my father, who faced degradation and mistreatment. Palestinian labourers were often detained for hours or subjected to humiliating strip searches by Israeli soldiers for mere amusement. My mother, ever anxious for my father’s safety, would spend her evenings waiting by the window for his return.

There’s a story my father once shared with me when I was about five, and it has stayed with me ever since. His Israeli boss conveyed a deeply disturbing sentiment, asserting, ‘God created only Israelis as humans; the rest of the world were animals, created to serve them. But the early Israelis were disgusted with the animals, so they asked God to transform them into human-like beings. And that’s how you all came to be.’ This anecdote underscores the dehumanisation many Palestinians face in the eyes of some Israelis. Fast forward to October 2023, Israel’s Defence Minister Yoav Gallant imposed a ‘complete siege’ on Gaza, severing access to electricity, food, water, and fuel, declaring, ‘We are fighting human animals, and we are acting accordingly.’

In 1987, escalating harassment by some Israeli militias against Palestinian workers in Israel culminated in the deaths of six Palestinians, sparking the eruption of the first Intifada (‘uprising’). The Israeli military responded with harsh measures, including curfews, mass arrests, and violent crackdowns, exacerbating hardships for Palestinians. Schools were shuttered, businesses disrupted, and movement severely restricted, leading to economic strife and social unrest. This period of civil disobedience and resistance fundamentally altered the daily lives of Palestinians, demonstrating their resilience in the face of oppression.

Growing Up

I was born in 1994, the same year the Palestinian Authority (PA) emerged following the signing of the Oslo Accords with Israel. The arrival of the PA raised hopes among Gazans for an end to Palestinian suffering and the attainment of freedom and sovereignty. However, their optimism was short-lived.
Despite the Oslo Accords stipulating the establishment of a Palestinian state by 1999, the reality proved otherwise. Instead, the second Intifada erupted in response to Israeli harassment and the invasion of the Al-Aqsa Mosque by the Israeli prime minister.

The second Intifada exacerbated the already dire circumstances for Palestinians. Israel’s restrictions intensified, particularly hampering Palestinian movement for work opportunities, leading to widespread unemployment. Many Palestinians, including my father, turned to taxi driving due to limited employment prospects. The uprising, fuelled by Israeli oppression, heightened tensions, violence, and loss of life. Palestinians faced daily confrontations with Israeli forces, checkpoints, and incursions into their communities, leaving deep scars on individuals and communities alike.

When the second Intifada erupted, I was only 6 years old, just beginning my journey to school. On my walks, I witnessed protests and funerals, and the sight of an Israeli tank invading Dair al-Balah, my city, remains vivid in my memory. The second Intifada introduced me to the ominous sounds of killing machines. Tanks, the first vehicles I saw roaming our streets, inflicted death and destruction.

One day, while en route to visit relatives in Gaza City, we encountered a tank blocking the road with soldiers nearby. Confused, I asked my father why it was there. ‘To prevent people from crossing,’ he replied, adding, ‘just because it can.’ I couldn’t comprehend why tanks invaded our streets and claimed lives every day or two. However, insight came from an Israeli soldier’s speech through Breaking the Silence, revealing a systematic strategy of intrusion and intimidation to ensure Palestinians remembered and feared Israeli presence. When I think back on the second Intifada, I recall tanks, M16s, Apache helicopters, martyrs, stones, injuries, and, above all, fear.

Blockade and War

In 2007, Gaza fell under an Israeli blockade, depriving us of essential resources like food, water, gas, and electricity. At 12 years old, I remember my father gathering firewood daily for cooking as borders remained sealed. The blockade plunged us into a primitive existence, with factories shuttered, farming ceased, and medical crises ensued as hundreds of patients succumbed yearly due to border closures.

During Israel’s assault on Gaza, starting on 27 December 2008, explosions shook our school as I nervously awaited an exam. The chaos outside evoked apocalyptic thoughts as casualties and destruction mounted. The aftermath saw 1,400 Palestinians killed, 5,000 injured, and 46,000 homes damaged or destroyed. It was during this war that we learned of weaponry we had not encountered before, including the deadly F-16.

The F-16, emblematic of modern military might, instils profound fear and anxiety among Gaza’s civilians. It is a fighter jet provided to Israel by the Americans, produced initially by arms producer General Dynamics, and now by Lockheed Martin. Its presence in the sky brings devastating airstrikes and symbolises the persistent violence and instability that have afflicted Gaza for decades. The roar of its engines overhead serves as a constant reminder of the ongoing horror and the vulnerability of life in Gaza. The F-16 is not merely a machine but a symbol of enduring trauma for the people of Gaza.

Then Israel also used different types of weapons on Gaza. During this 2008–9 war, we saw for the first time the use of white phosphorus, an internationally prohibited chemical weapon, intensively employed against the civilian population in Gaza. My uncle’s house was targeted multiple times with white phosphorus. Fortunately, he wasn’t at home; otherwise, he and his family would have been killed. However, it was well-documented that Israel bombed a UN school with white phosphorus, killing and wounding over a dozen Palestinians seeking shelter. Additionally, during this war, Israel introduced drones to Gaza and utilised them extensively. These drones have become another tool of control against Palestinians, not only for surveillance but also as killing machines, targeting and bombing civilians. Even after the war ended, these drones continued to hover above our heads day and night.

In 2014, Israel launched yet another war on Gaza, more severe and brutal than before, resulting in the deaths of more than 2,300 people. This time, my brother was among those killed by Israel. He was targeted with an F-16 plane and cut to pieces.

In 2018, Palestinians in Gaza, fed up with the ongoing situation and the 13-year siege imposed on them, called for an end to the blockade and demanded their right of return. They decided to march peacefully at the fence between Gaza and historic Palestine. Tens of thousands of Palestinians protested every week for two years. However, the Israeli army responded with live bullets and tear gas. As a journalist reporting from the scene, I lost count of how many times I was teargassed or shot at, but I survived. Unfortunately, some of my colleagues did not. Israel killed two journalists during the March of Return, along with many paramedics and over 300 Palestinian protesters (for more on the March of Return, see Chapter 3). Israel employed different types of weapons against the protesters, including butterfly bullets that penetrate bodies and then explode, resulting in over 300 amputations.

In 2021, Israel launched another war in Gaza, killing hundreds. This time, we witnessed a new type of killing: massacres. For the first time, Israel bombed entire buildings on top of their inhabitants. My colleague Zainab Alqolaq was among those whose homes were bombed by Israel, resulting in the loss of 22 of her family members. She was injured and buried underground for six hours. Hearing her story, I couldn’t fathom her pain and suffering and how she managed to survive: until the following war occurred.

The Family Cost

In October 2023, Hamas launched a military operation against Israel, killing around 1,200 Israelis and foreigners. Israel responded with a genocide. A massive, unprecedented war on Gaza, one that could even surpass the Nakba of 1948.

On 22 October, an Israeli fighter jet dropped a bomb on my home in Dair al-Balah, Gaza, killing 21 members of my family – my father, 2 brothers, 3 sisters, a cousin, and 14 nieces and nephews, all under the age of 13. Here are their names:

My father, Nasri Alnaouq, aged 75. My sister Walaa, 36, and her children: Raghd, 13; Eslam, 12; Sara, 9; and Abdullah, 6. My sister Alaa, 35, and her children: Eslam, 13; Dima, 12; Tala, 8; Noor, 4; and Nasmah, 2. My sister Aya, 33, and her children: Malak, 12; Mohammed, 9; and Tamim, 6. My oldest brother Muhammad, 35, and his children: Bakr, 11, and Basema, 9. And Mahmoud, 25, a human rights activist who had just been admitted to a Master’s programme in Australia. My little brother.

Initially, three members of my family – Shimaa, Omar, and Malak – survived the bombing with wounds. Unfortunately, after a few days in the hospital, Malak succumbed to her severe burns. She was killed along with all her siblings and mother. Her father, Yousef, is the only survivor.

When Malak passed away, her father Yousef sent me a message on WhatsApp: ‘Malak is martyred.’ I responded, expressing my condolences. He replied, ‘I am body no soul. I died a thousand times every day as I watched my daughter, my firstborn, die.’ He then shared some final memories of Malak, bringing tragic but somewhat comforting closure to her story.

The other two survivors of the house bombing were Shimaa, my sister-in-law, 33 years old, and my nephew Omar, 3 years old. Both were injured but recovered after a few days. When Shimaa regained the ability to speak, she recounted the terrifying experience of the bomb’s impact. She shielded Omar with a blanket to protect him from smoke inhalation as they lay trapped under the rubble. Miraculously, they were eventually rescued by neighbours.

‘Muhammad wasn’t just my husband,’ Shimaa said. ‘He was my father, my mother, my sisters, and brothers. He was my universe, and nothing in the world could replace him. And nothing could make up for my loss. My children were all so special. We had dreams for them, hoped to build a bright and meaningful future. And then, in a moment, all of my world collapsed. With one bomb, I lost my husband, my children, my home, and my family. I am Shimaa, I am destroyed.’

Shimaa’s devastation mirrored my own, as well as that of my two other sisters who were not in my home at the time. My older sister, Doaa, had been there with her four children just one day before the bombing, but fortunately, they had left due to overcrowding. When I called Doaa afterward, she broke down, listing the names of our lost loved ones. Unable to contain my grief, I pleaded with her to stop.

In that moment, I empathised with Zainab Alqolaq and understood the depth of her pain, a feeling beyond words. I pray that such tragedy never befalls anyone else in the world. As the death toll of Israel’s latest assault on Palestine surpasses 30,000 at the time of writing, in March 2024, I want to remind the world that every one of those deaths represents a parent, a child, a sibling or a loved one. We are not numbers.