Living Through Horror: A Gaza Resident’s Account of Endless Violence

The past three weeks in Gaza have been an unrelenting nightmare, a descent into a terror so profound that the word “fear” feels inadequate. Since the ceasefire collapsed last month, the people of Gaza have endured a horror story with no end in sight. I am Nour Elassy, a poet, writer, and journalist living in Gaza City, and this is my account of the atrocities unfolding around me—massacres that have claimed over 1,400 lives, including those of innocent children, in just 21 days.

The Collapse of Hope After the Ceasefire

When the ceasefire ended in March 2025, it didn’t merely signal a return to conflict—it unleashed a wave of brutality unlike anything we’d seen before. What followed was not just war; it was a deliberate escalation, a relentless campaign that turned Gaza into a killing field. Daily massacres have shattered our communities, our homes, and our spirits. The illusion of safety, however fleeting, vanished with the first bomb.

In Gaza, we no longer speak of hope. Instead, we brace ourselves for the next strike, the next loss. The violence has hit close to home—sometimes literally. Just yesterday, an Israeli airstrike targeted al-Nakheel Street, a few blocks from where I live, killing 11 people, including five children. The air was thick with dust and the metallic scent of blood, a grim reminder of how close death lingers.

A Child’s Haunting Question

Last week, amid another night of deafening explosions, my almost four-year-old niece turned to me with a question that still echoes in my mind: “If we die while sleeping… will it still hurt?” Her voice, small and trembling, carried the weight of a child who has witnessed more death than joy. How do you answer that? How do you explain to a child that dying in sleep might be the gentlest escape from this nightmare?

I fumbled for words, settling on a fragile lie: “No. I don’t think so. That’s why we should fall asleep now.” She nodded, trusting me, and turned to face the wall. As she closed her eyes, I sat in the darkness, listening to the bombs, wondering how many children were being buried under rubble just streets away. That moment encapsulates the silent terror gripping Gaza—a terror that defies description.

Children Bearing the Brunt of War in Gaza

I have 12 nieces and nephews, all under nine years old. They are my light in this darkness, but they are also a constant reminder of our helplessness. Like their parents, I struggle to shield them from the reality of the Gaza crisis. We’ve lied to them countless times, weaving tales to mask the horror. Sometimes they believe us; other times, they sense the dread in our voices, the tension in our eyes. No child should endure this brutality, and no parent should feel the despair of knowing they cannot protect their own.

The statistics are staggering. In three weeks, over 1,400 Palestinians—men, women, and children—have been killed. Gaza’s civil defence agency reported that an Israeli strike on April 3, 2025, hit a school in al-Tuffah, Gaza City, killing at least 31 people, including children. The school, a shelter for displaced families, was reduced to rubble, its yard a scene of devastation captured in haunting images by photographer Omar Al-Qattaa.

Massacres at Shelters and Schools

The violence knows no bounds. A few days ago, Dar al-Arqam School—less than 10 minutes from my home—was bombed, killing at least 30 people, mostly women and children. They had sought refuge there, believing the United Nations flag would offer protection. It didn’t. That same day, Fahd School nearby was struck, claiming three more lives. These were not military targets; they were sanctuaries turned into ash.

In Jabalia, another horror unfolded. An Israeli strike on an UNRWA clinic left a scene of unimaginable carnage—body parts scattered, children burned alive, an infant decapitated. Survivors choked on the smell of burning flesh. These are not isolated incidents; they are part of a pattern of destruction that has left Gaza with no safe havens.

Nowhere to Run: The Illusion of Evacuation

Amid the chaos, parts of Gaza City received evacuation orders: “Leave now.” But to where? The north is flattened, the south is under fire, the sea is a barricade, and the roads are lined with danger. We stayed—not out of bravery, but because there is nowhere left to go. The concept of a “safe zone” in Gaza is a cruel myth, a promise broken by every missile that falls.

The terror we feel is not manageable fear. It’s a suffocating weight, a silent scream lodged in our chests. It’s the whistle of a missile overhead, the cries of children trapped under debris, the pervasive stench of blood carried by the wind. It’s my niece’s question, a child’s innocent attempt to comprehend the incomprehensible.

A War Crime, Not a Tragedy

Foreign leaders call this a “conflict” or a “tragedy,” but these labels obscure the truth. What we are living through in Gaza is neither complex nor ambiguous—it is a massacre, a war crime laid bare for the world to see. The targeting of schools, clinics, and residential streets cannot be justified as collateral damage. It is deliberate, systematic, and devastating.

Writing Through the Void

As a writer and journalist, I’ve spent months documenting the Gaza crisis, sending dispatches to the world, and telling stories no one else can. Yet, too often, it feels like I’m shouting into an abyss. The silence from global powers is deafening, their indifference a betrayal of humanity. Still, I write. I write because our truth must be told, because someone, somewhere, might hear us. I write so history cannot claim ignorance.

The images of destruction—like the one of a Palestinian woman standing amid the ruins of a school in al-Tuffah on April 4, 2025—speak louder than words. They are a call to action, a plea for the world to look at what is happening in Gaza and act. I believe in humanity, even when governments have abandoned it.

The Stolen Childhoods of Gaza

The children of Gaza, like my nieces and nephews, are having their childhoods stolen. Thousands have been killed, their lives snuffed out before they could truly begin. Those who survive carry scars—physical and emotional—that may never heal. My niece’s question is a testament to how deeply this war has infiltrated their innocence, forcing them to grapple with mortality while the world looks away.

A Call to Remember

This is not just my story—it is the story of every Gazan trapped in this unrelenting violence. It is the story of 1,400 lives lost in three weeks, of schools turned to ash, of families torn apart. It is a story that demands to be heard, not buried under diplomatic platitudes or media fatigue.

I will keep writing, keep bearing witness, because even in this darkness, I hold onto a flicker of faith in humanity’s capacity for compassion. The horrors of the past three weeks in Gaza must not be forgotten. They must spur action, accountability, and justice—for the children who ask if death hurts, for the parents who cannot protect them, and for a people who refuse to be silenced.