Introduction
Manufacturing Dissent would like to introduce you to Abood. He’s our youngest writer, only 20 years old, and he’s from Gaza. We’ve asked him to write about his experiences. Our first request was for anything spiritual he has seen or felt there. With the violent deaths that happen, people often wonder about hauntings, about what’s left behind when someone is killed suddenly. These are his personal accounts. We hope they give you even a small sense of what people in Gaza have lived through and the suffering they carry.
If you can support Abood, please do. You can donate directly to him, like everyone in Gaza, he needs help, his family is going through a genocide.
You can also subscribe as a paid member to his Substack, which will help him and his family as they try to survive.
“They didn’t die beneath the rubble… they stayed there, waiting for us, calling to us in the night… until we become one of them.”
That night… the darkness was not normal.
It was heavy… as if it carried within it voices that only those who have lived through pain can hear.
I approached Al-Maamadani Hospital… or what remained of it.
The air there was not air… it was a mixture of ash, blood, and memories that refused to die.
They told me:
“Don’t go at night… something moves there.”
But I went.
Because I was no longer afraid of death…
I just wanted to understand.
I stood at the broken entrance…
Silent… everything was silent…
Then…
I heard it.
A faint sound… like a moan.
At first, I thought it was the wind,
but the wind does not call names.
“…Mama…”
My blood froze.
The voice… was a child’s.
I went deeper…
Every step echoed… as if the place rejected my presence.
Then the sounds began to multiply…
Crying…
Muffled screams…
Broken breaths…
As if the hospital… had never emptied.
I saw a shadow.
A child… standing at the end of the hallway.
His clothes were torn… covered in dust,
but his face…
was not the face of someone alive.
His eyes… were empty,
as if he was searching for something he would never find.
He whispered:
“Why did you leave us?”
I stepped back… but my feet wouldn’t move.
Then a woman appeared…
holding a lifeless child…
She rocked him gently…
and whispered:
“Wake up… the bombing is over… wake up…”
But the child… couldn’t hear.
Because he… had died long ago.
Suddenly…
Everything went silent.
A terrifying silence.
Then…
A scream.
Not one…
but hundreds… all at once.
As if the earth itself was screaming.
I fell to the ground… covering my ears…
but the sounds… were not outside.
They were inside my head.
As if something was speaking… from within me:
“We are here… we didn’t leave…”
I remembered what they said about the “companion”…
That every person has something within them…
something that sees what we cannot… hears what we cannot…
But…
what if it wasn’t just mine?
What if…
all those souls…
found their way… into me?
I ran out of the hospital…
But before I escaped…
I heard one last sentence:
“Tell our story… don’t let us disappear…”
Since that night…
I haven’t slept.
Because every time I close my eyes…
I see them.
The same child…
the same woman…
the same screams…
And sometimes…
I wake up in the middle of the night…
and hear a voice… not mine…
whisper:
“It’s not only our turn…”
Since then…
I’m no longer sure…
if I’m still alive…
or if I’m just…
carrying them inside me.
I started walking a lot…
As if my feet were searching for something…
or someone.
There’s a house beside me…
or what remains of it.
A pile of rubble…
but not like any other.
Beneath it…
my friend.
And his family.
Eight months…
and they are still there.
They were never brought out…
never buried…
as if they’re trapped between worlds.
Every day I pass by…
and try not to look.
But every time…
something unseen pulls me.
One night…
I stopped.
Without a reason.
Or maybe…
for the first time… there was one.
I looked at the rubble…
and stood there… silently.
Then…
I heard him.
The same voice…
but clearer this time.
Closer.
Harsher.
“What did I do… for them to kill me and my family?”
I froze.
This wasn’t imagination.
This…
was him.
Then the sounds returned…
the same ones from the hospital…
Crying…
Screams…
Choking breaths…
But this time…
they weren’t far away.
They were beneath my feet.
I felt the ground…
pulsing.
Once…
Twice…
I stepped back…
but a voice inside me said:
“Come down…”
It wasn’t my voice.
And it wasn’t theirs.
It was… something in between.
I slowly bent down…
and placed my hand on the rubble…
The moment I touched it…
everything exploded.
I saw the bombing…
I heard the blast…
I felt the dust filling their lungs…
I saw my friend…
trying to scream…
but no one could hear him.
Then…
he opened his eyes.
And looked straight at me.
He said:
“Now… can you hear me?”
I screamed… and pulled my hand away…
but I was no longer the same.
Since that day…
the voices don’t just visit me…
They live inside me.
When I walk…
I hear footsteps that aren’t mine.
When I’m silent…
I hear conversations that aren’t mine.
And sometimes…
when I pass by that house…
it’s not me who stops.
I find myself getting closer…
and closer…
And whispering… without realizing:
“Wait… I’m coming…”
One night…
I returned to the hospital.
I don’t know why…
or maybe…
they brought me back.
I stood in the same place…
the same hallway…
But this time…
I wasn’t alone.
They were all there.
The child…
the woman…
and my friend…
They looked at me…
with the same empty eyes…
but this time…
they didn’t ask.
They said…
in one voice:
“Now… you’re one of us.”
I felt something inside me…
break.
Or… set free.
I was no longer afraid.
I no longer ran.
Because I finally understood…
I wasn’t visiting them…
They…
were pulling me toward them…
Slowly…
Silently…
Until…
I became one of them.
And since then…
if you ever pass at night…
by Al-Maamadani Hospital…
or that ruined house…
and you hear a voice…
calling:
“What did we do…?”
or a whisper saying:
“Tell our story…”
don’t turn around.
Because if you do…
you might see me.
Standing there…
looking at you…
and smiling.
And in the end…
I found no answer.
Not why they were killed…
Nor why their voices remained.
But I understood one thing…
That death there… was not the end.
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Heartbreaking and powerful. You write about loss and grief with tenderness and love. I’m sorry I hope you and Palestine have the chance to live in peace so you get to write new stories and you feel your dead find comfort.
Wow…..unbelievable. How could anyone accept those demon Zionists after what they’ve done to all these innocent people?