Diary from Gaza: "Today Dad dug a wide hole in the garden to bury all the books."

Gaza CityFor months, writer and translator Sondos Sabra has been writing a diary about her personal experiences amidst the horrors of Gaza. Sabra was born in Gaza twenty-six years ago. She holds a degree in English literature from the Islamic University of Gaza City, where she was mentored by the poet Refaat Alareer, who died in an Israeli airstrike. She has written works such asVoices of resistance: Diaries of genocide(2025). At the end of August, the ARA published a first installment of his stories. This is the second part.

Restless and serene (September 5, 2025)

Since the Israeli occupation announced its intention to invade Gaza City, mornings have lost their usual shape. Now they begin with two questions as heavy as stones: Should we abandon our home today to live in a tent, or is it worth delaying our escape a little longer, clinging to what dignity we still have under this roof?

What triggers these questions at dawn is the sound of the "explosive robot": a huge, remote-controlled device, staggering along and loaded with tons of explosives, capable of obliterating many of the buildings around it. The roar pierces the eardrums, followed by a high-pitched, persistent whistle; then a thick layer of dust rises to darken the sky, accompanied by a smell that chokes, makes one sneeze, and makes one's eyes water.

I live in the Sabra neighborhood, an area the Israeli army has placed at the top of its agenda, and has stationed itself just outside. According to several Israeli newspapers, the plan is a multi-stage campaign., lasting at least four or five months, initially focused on northern and central Gaza, then spreading to the remaining areas. Early in the morning, when the world is still silent, the calm of dawn amplifies the sound of booms and explosions, making it feel ever closer. The danger we were supposed to be fleeing, which yesterday was still three or four kilometers away, seems to have settled on our doorstep. You wake up terrified, and the anxiety that has been dormant inside you takes hold.

I run from my room toward the sound of the explosions and find my father's study transformed into a sea of books. He has emptied the shelves onto the floor and sits in the middle, leafing through a collection of clippings stored in one of the books. We all love the library, but he loves it more than anyone; he has brought these books from many countries: Egypt, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Jerusalem, India, and Pakistan. Most of them were about law, language, medicine, calligraphy, typography, and mathematics. My father, who worked for many years as a mathematics teacher, was never a regular teacher; he constantly kept himself up to date with the latest in his field.

"Good morning, Father, what are you doing?" I ask.

He lifts his head from his books and answers calmly:

"Good morning, my child. I'm putting the books in bags... I'll bury them in the yard."

I stand still for a moment: "Are you serious?"

He gives a slight smile: "What do you see?"

I sit down on the sofa and look at him. She carefully places several books inside thick plastic sleeves, tacks down a sheet of paper listing the contents, and then wraps them with several layers of cling film, securing everything with strong tape. She takes great care to ensure every edge is sealed tightly, with no gaps for air or dust. She works slowly and precisely, smoothing out air bubbles and flattening the tape at each corner.

My father is about to take the books downstairs, but I say, "I'll do it."

He's dug a wide but shallow hole, just enough to accommodate a layer of neatly stacked books. He's lined the bottom with a thick wool blanket that acts as a soft pillow, ostensibly to absorb moisture, and then placed the dozen book bags inside. Once the hole is full, he covers it with plastic and begins sprinkling sand on top. He stops, turns to me, and asks, "Do you want me to bury anything?"

"No, thank you," I reply.

Clay clings to his hands. Their skin is dark, the veins prominent, scars tracing the maps of a long life. They are hands cracked by hard work, as the earth itself is; each crack blooms with meaning. My father's hands knew the smell of clay, the roughness of wood, the coldness of iron, and the warmth of the world when they stroked my head. They took me when I was a child, repaired the doors of our house, painted the walls of our kindergarten. I was so proud, among my kindergarten classmates, to know that my father had painted the murals!

My father worries, but with a calmness that only he possesses, he studies the possible outcomes with constant attention. My anxiety, on the other hand, is noisy; it stirs me inside and out. I worry about the possible and the impossible: yesterday, today, tomorrow. I am worried about F16 and F35 planes, precision-guided smart bombs and absolutely stupid bombs, multi-headed missiles, surface-to-air rockets, rings of fire (what used to be called mass bombardment), terrifying moving explosive robots, warships, submarines, tanks, and troop transports… I am concerned about everything I know and don't know about Israel's arsenal..

My father sees death as a certainty and takes it with remarkable calm. He feels victorious over Israel because they have many options to lose their humanity by killing us, but we only have one salvation. All our deaths are one and the same: there is really only one way to die. It doesn't matter if it comes from a missile or a bomb.

Oh, calm and restful soul,

gentle, whole and wise,

I was born from infinite fear,

when you were all serene and clear…

Teach me everything I want to know:

the art of peace that slows the heart.

I suppose what awakens a person's thirst for life are questions; and, paradoxically, these same questions sometimes push them closer to death. The difference is not in the questions themselves, but in the light or shadow that dresses the answers, in the circumstances of the world around them. I have never believed that vision is only an extension of sight, but also an extension of the heart.

If the answers you imagine are bright—and I don't mean rosy or romantic—and they only bring challenges you believe you can face, they ignite within you a spark of desire to live. But if the answers are dark and terrifying, with no hope of escape—and I don't mean simply pessimistic—the echoes that resonate in everything around you make death seem an easy and sufficient option. Fear, when it's a difficult exam or a job interview, is a challenge you can face. But when what we fear is an Israeli soldier, perfectly armed with all the tools of annihilation, cunning in the method with which he will carry it out, fear becomes an immense horizon that no ordinary person can cross.

At the limits of this helplessness, only a faint hope remains: that the sound of the shells may subside, that the noise of the deadly machines may stop so that—even if only for a moment—I may see a clearer possibility that restores the contours of the path. This is my hope. That Israel may leave us silent!