We were laughing yesterday. Today I'm searching for the scattered remains of my loved ones

Reader discretion is adviced.

Fjell-Ljom chooses to give space to Mohammed and his experiences of the war in Gaza despite being the local newspaper for Røros and Holtålen. We do this because we believe it is our duty to help spread information about the situation in Gaza, and the conditions the residents live under.

Thursday April 24th, 9:00 AM

I woke up to the sound of two rockets. The explosion was massive – terrifyingly close. The whole place shook around me, and my heart screamed before the people on the street did. Everyone rushed toward the market – they had bombed the police station there.

"The police station? That’s where Zaher works. My sister’s husband."

But he’s not employed at the station – he’s an accountant in the shop directly across from it, barely ten meters away.

I grabbed my phone immediately. My heart was racing faster than my trembling fingers. I could hardly breathe between each ring.

"Will he answer? Is he okay?"

He finally answered. But his voice was broken, weeping, and he could only say one sentence:

"Ihab is martyred, Mohammad."

He repeated it: "Ihab is martyred, Mohammad."

I hung up without realizing, put on my shoes, and ran.

I ran without stopping, pushing through the crowd, fighting to reach him. My heart was pounding like war drums, sweat pouring down my body. I’d never felt fear like this.

Rubble filled the street, thick smoke choked the air. I covered my nose with the edge of my shirt and kept moving.

Bodies were everywhere.

The first martyr I saw wore a police uniform, his face covered in blood. I didn’t recognize him.

I kept walking, reached the shop’s entrance.

There, on the doorstep, was a body missing its head. Its eyes were gone, legs and right arm severed. The top of the skull stuck to a piece of stone, blackened from the blast.

"Oh my God. It is Abdul-Bari, Ihab’s younger brother and his coworker."

I turned away in shock, unable to process what I was seeing.

I stepped forward – just two more steps – and in the distance, I saw a decapitated head. The brain had spilled out, the eyes protruding. It looked familiar… but I couldn’t recognize it.

I looked away again and saw a body half-buried under a table, covered in dust and debris.

I approached.

It was Ihab.

A shrapnel had pierced the middle of his head, killing him instantly.

I screamed his name and collapsed into tears. I could only repeat one question:

“Where is Zaher?”

I knew he was alive – I’d heard his voice. But I hadn’t seen him.

«Is he bleeding? Is he okay? Has he lost limbs? Was he in pain when he called me?»

A thousand thoughts raced through my mind, and my heart was on the verge of exploding.

Someone told me, “Don’t worry, Zaher is okay.”

"But where is he?"

Zaher isn’t just a brother-in-law. He’s the older brother my mother never gave birth to. My comrade in war and suffering. The closest person to my heart.

Someone said his brothers had taken him from one of the alleys. I ran in that direction, eyes scanning every corner.

And then I saw him.

He was stumbling, supported by two men. His clothes were torn, his body covered in dust, blood staining his shirt.

I ran to him, held him tightly, touching his body to check he was intact.

His tears flowed silently, mixing with the war dust that hid his features.

He was shattered, staring blankly at the scene as if he couldn’t believe he was still alive.

Then suddenly, he broke down again, repeating only one thing:

"Ihab is martyreb. Ihab is martyred."

Ihab wasn’t just a friend. He was married to my cousin – a newlywed. Barely two weeks since the wedding.

I took Zaher to the tent. Sat him on a chair, took off his dirty clothes, washed his face and hands, and laid him down on the bed.

He fell asleep crying.

I sat after that with a cup of tea in my hand. But my hand was trembling, and my mind was drifting.

"What if I had lost Zaher?

Is there space in my heart for another grief?

Can I bear more?

Haven’t I had enough?"

I remembered Ihab, and I started crying again.

"Is he really gone? And Abdul-Bari?"

We were all together yesterday – in the same place they were killed.

We laughed, talked. Ihab told me about early marriage, about his ambitions, about his dreams for life.

He was happy.

The phone rang. It was my cousin.

He said, “The policeman you saw dead. That was Alaa, my father’s cousin’s son.”

The call ended, and before I could catch my breath, another rocket struck.

This time, just 200 meters away.

The target: a residential building housing displaced families – including my uncle, who had recently rented an apartment there.

I ran to him, legs barely carrying me, mind foggy, heart shattered.

When I arrived, the scene was worse than the one before.

Bodies everywhere – most of them children.

I saw a five-year-old girl, her body split in two.

The four-story building had completely collapsed.

It fell on everyone inside.

Beneath it were a small shop and a clothing store.

The street was packed with people, children crying and screaming in terror.

What I saw there is indescribable.

I wanted to write more about this massacre. But I have no strength left.

Every word I write opens a new wound, and every memory makes me tremble.

My hands can no longer write, and my heart is heavier than it can bear.

I just want to ask:

Where is the world?

What did the children do to deserve this?

What did the women do?

Haven’t we suffered enough?

How long will we continue to live through this horror, and this endless death?