Whenever there is a new episode of oppression, Israeli military attacks and invasions of the occupied Palestinian territories, it usually brings back the memories and the traumas of the second intifada, also known as Al Aqsa Intifada, which saw me carry the corpse of a young man when I was 18 and whose face has haunted me ever since.

In these moments, I start reflecting and thinking about my living experience and how it looked like then. During the second intifada, between 2000 and 2005, the West Bank, part of the occupied territories, was invaded by the Israeli military and it was put officially under its control.

They imposed curfews on the whole population; they cut water and electricity. They bombed and destroyed the roads, buildings, medical facilities and prevented us from our basic rights such as freedom of movement, access to medical facilities and supplies.

I was living close by the Mokataa’ compound, where the Palestinian president, Abu Ammar [Yasser Arafat] was living and it was the official presidential office.

This area was considered a closed Israeli military zone, with tanks and military surrounding the whole area. No one could get in or out without a permit.

I once witnessed, during a cold winter night, the Israeli army invading the Mokataa’, forcing all men outside, undressing and taking them to an unknown place at gunpoint.

I was secretly watching this with my uncle and young cousins from our window that overlooks the Mokataa’ yard. We were careful not to make a sound because snipers were all around, ready to shoot anyone they deemed as a threat.

During that period, I was still a university student at Birzeit, 20 minutes from Ramallah city. Classes were on hold due to invasion, curfews, checkpoints and heavy clashes.

Online teaching was not an option back then and, as  journalism students, we couldn’t move the classes to Ramallah city as some other professors did because we needed studios and equipment, plus many students who came from different cities and towns across Palestine could not travel to reach the city.

Hence, the university and that semester was put on hold. As the invasion continued, we found alternatives and creative ways to continue our classes.

During the second intifada, I decided to become a first-aid volunteer with a local medical organisation.

We worked in ambulances to deliver medicine and transport patients, along with providing first aid to the wounded at the frontlines and confrontation points between the oppressor and the oppressed.

We treated several wounded suffering from tear gas and rubber bullets. Those hit by live bullets used to be transferred to hospitals close by. Many of the first-aid volunteers were also injured and wounded. 

Ambulances were regularly blocked and stopped from reaching the wounded and patients, including pregnant women. These delays caused great suffering.

This is a systemic approach by the oppressor. They shoot you and leave you to bleed to death.

One day, as we were treating wounded Palestinians, an ambulance driver came to me, asking if I could join him. We needed to transfer a wounded person who was shot in a village outside of Ramallah at a checkpoint where no other ambulance was able to reach. I joined quickly and we drove frantically.

When we arrived at the location, the wounded man has sadly succumbed to his wounds. He was shot by a sniper and was left to bleed alone.

He was a tall, well-built man in his late 40s, with very strong features. I looked at him for a couple of seconds before we put him in the ambulance to transfer him to the hospital’s morgue. 

The hospital needed to do what they usually do in these situations, identify the body, locate and inform his family. The man died alone, none of his family members were around.

Nothing will be the same after Gaza- Diala Ghassan

During the ride, I kept looking at him. It was the first time I had to carry a dead body; I was 18 years old.

I stared at him and questions kept rushing through my head. Wondering how he felt, what came to his mind before he died, what’s his name, where was he going or coming from? Does he have a family and children, how will the family take the news, what were his dreams?

What will happen to his family, was there anyone waiting for him to come back home, how did he leave the house this morning? Did he feel that he will die that day? How will he be buried, does he feel anything now? All these questions without a single answer.

The ambulance driver noticed my quietness and stillness. He broke the silence and asked me: what are you thinking of?

I didn’t know what to say. I was sure he had carried and transferred many corpses. I sighed and shared with him some of my thoughts. He had a strange smile on his face, one that says: “Oh, you poor girl, you haven’t seen anything, yet.”  He said: “Now you are officially baptised!”

Despite seeing several wounded and dead people afterwards and during the intifada years, this specific man’s image and story haunted me for years.

As I scroll through Gaza stories and news of all the dead and wounded during the past three months, I stand in admiration of their resilience, in shock and anger on why we need to see this.

Why do the people of Gaza need to live, witness and report this? And, mostly, how many years and for how many generations will these images haunt them? Will they ever heal?

I was 18 then and it was a shock. It took me years to recover but I never talked about it.

Imagine now, the children of Gaza having to deal once again with the killing of their parents, their siblings, their families and their friends on an hourly basis. How will this generation recover and will they ever do?

Will we ever heal from our generational traumas?

Nothing will be the same after Gaza.

What’s happening in Gaza now is not a new approach; it has been used systemically by the oppressor for the past 75 years of the Israeli occupation.

The only difference now is that we are watching it live on our phones and TVs.

However, many have decided to remain silent; many stand by the oppressor and question the authenticity of the news and footage.

With every passing minute and while the world is trying to silence us, and argues about whether to call what is happening in Gaza genocide or ethnic cleansing, more Palestinians are losing their lives.

All I want is for the world to come together to strongly call for a ceasefire to spare this generation more losses and suffering.

Diala Ghassan is the communications coordinator for an international humanitarian organisation and is based in the Netherlands.