Latest news with #DayofJudgement
Al Jazeera
05-05-2025
- General
- Al Jazeera
How do you keep going in Gaza when everything tells you to stop?
Before the war, my life was simple. Like many young women in Gaza, I carried within me a mixture of ambition and anxiety. My dream was to graduate from the Islamic University with honours and become a writer. My fear was that the constant attacks and instability in Gaza would somehow impede my pursuit of education and a writing career. However, I never imagined that everything I knew – my home, my university, my friends, my daily routine and my health – could vanish, leaving me struggling to keep going. When the war began, we thought it was just another short round of fighting – one of the many escalations we had grown used to in Gaza. But something about this time felt different. The explosions were closer, louder, and lasting longer. We soon realised that this nightmare was not going to end; it was only going to get worse. On December 27, 2023, we received our first 'evacuation order'. There was no time to think. We had just begun gathering a few belongings when the sound of bombing grew louder. The upper floors of the building we lived in were being targeted. We fled the building in a hurry, carrying only a small bag. My father was pushing my grandmother in her wheelchair, while I held my younger brother's hand and ran into the street, not knowing where we were going. The neighbourhood looked like a scene from the horrors of the Day of Judgement: people were running, screaming, crying, and carrying what remained of their lives. Night fell, and we found temporary shelter at a relative's house. Sixteen of us slept in one room, without privacy or comfort. In the morning, we made the difficult decision to take refuge in one of the displacement camps declared a 'humanitarian zone'. We owned almost nothing. The weather was bitterly cold, water was scarce, and we had only a few blankets. We washed, cleaned, and cooked using primitive methods. We lit fires and prepared food as if we had gone back to the Stone Age. Amid all of this, we received the news: our home had been bombed. I refused to believe what I had heard. I sat and cried, unable to comprehend the tragedy. My father's goldsmith workshop was on the ground floor of the building, so when it was destroyed, we did not just lose walls and a roof – we lost everything. The days passed slowly and heavily, wrapped in longing and misery. I lost contact with most of my friends, and I no longer heard the voices that used to fill my days with warmth. I would check in on my closest friend, Rama, whenever I had a brief chance to connect to the internet. She lived in northern Gaza. On January 15, 2024, my friend Rawan sent me a message. It did not reach me immediately. It took days because of the communications blackout. The words were simple, they shattered me from the inside: 'Rama was martyred.' Rama Waleed Sham'ah, my closest friend at university. I could not believe it. I read the message over and over again, searching for a different ending, a denial. But the truth was silent, harsh, and merciless. I didn't get to say goodbye. I didn't hear her last words, I didn't hold her hand, or tell her 'I love you' one last time. I felt as though I was breathing without a soul. While I was still processing that grief, I received even more devastating news: on February 16, 2024, my father's entire extended family – all his cousins, their wives, and their children – were killed. I saw my father break in a way I had never seen before. His grief was so deep that words could not describe it. Then, death knocked on our door. On June 8, 2024, we had just moved from our tent to a rented apartment, trying to start our lives over, when the Israeli army surrounded the area. I was the first to see the tank slowly moving up the street. I panicked and ran towards my father, shouting. But I didn't reach him. In that moment, a missile struck the building we were in. All I saw was thick smoke and dust filling the air. I didn't know if I was alive or not. I tried to say the shahada, and by the grace of God, I managed to do so. Then I started screaming, calling for my father. I heard his voice faintly from a distance, telling me not to go out because the drone was still bombing. I took a few steps, then lost consciousness. All I remember is that they carried me down the building and covered me with a blanket. I was bleeding. I would regain consciousness for a few seconds, then lose it again. The ambulance could not reach our street because the tank was at the entrance. My mother, my sister, and I bled for two hours until some young men from the area managed to find a way to get us out. They carried me in a blanket to the ambulance. The paramedics started bandaging my wounds right there in the middle of the street, in front of everyone. All the way, I heard their whispers, saying that I was between life and death. I heard them, but I could not speak. When I reached the hospital, they told me that I had sustained injuries to my head, hands, legs, and back. The pain was unbearable, and my mother's absence added to my fear. I was rushed in for an emergency surgery. I survived. After leaving the hospital, I had to go back for dressing changes. Each visit was a painful experience. I would choke every time I saw the blood. My father, who accompanied me every time, would try to ease these visits, telling me, 'You will be rewarded, my dear, and we will get through all of this.' I fell into a deep depression, suffering from both physical and emotional pain. I felt as though I was drowning in an endless spiral of sorrow, fear, and exhaustion. I no longer knew how to breathe, how to continue, or even why. We had no roof to shelter under. Finding food was a struggle. The painful memories of loved ones who had passed haunted me. The fear that my family and I could lose our lives at any moment made me feel utterly helpless. I felt everything was screaming that I could not go on. Yet, in the darkness of despair, I continued to live, day after day. I was in pain, but I lived. I went back to reading – whatever books I could find. Then, when my university announced it would resume lectures online, I signed up. My hand was still broken, wrapped in a cast, and I could barely use it. My mother helped me, holding the pen at times and writing down what I dictated. My professors understood my situation and supported me as much as they could, but the challenges were many. I struggled to access electricity and the internet to charge my phone and download lectures. Sometimes, I would lose exams due to power outages or poor network, and I would have to postpone them. Still, I kept going. My physical condition gradually started to improve. Today, we are still living in a tent. We struggle to secure the most basic needs, such as clean water and food. We are experiencing famine, just like everyone else in Gaza. When I look at the scars of war etched into my body and memory, I realise that I am no longer the same person. I have found within myself a strength I never knew existed. I have found a path through the rubble, meaning in the pain, and a reason to write, to witness, and to resist despite the loss. I have made the decision to stay alive, to love, to dream, to speak. Because, quite simply, I deserve to live, just like every human being on earth. The views expressed in this article are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera's editorial stance.
Irish Daily Mirror
22-04-2025
- Politics
- Irish Daily Mirror
Haunting 'last pope' 800 year old prophecy after Pope Francis' death
An ancient prophecy, believed to have foretold the reign of every pope for centuries, suggests that the successor to Pope Francis will be the final Catholic leader before judgement day. The "Prophecy of the Popes", purportedly penned in the 1100s by Saint Malachy, is said to enumerate 112 popes. The list is nearing its conclusion, with only a mention of "Peter the Roman" remaining before the apocalypse. While the manuscript provides precise descriptions of the popes up until approximately 1590, it becomes notably vague thereafter. This has led some to link "Peter the Roman" to Pope Francis, given his Italian roots and birth name - Giovanni di Pietro di Bernardone. Pope Francis passed away on Monday, April 21, following a stroke which resulted in a coma and ultimately "irreversible cardiocirculatory collapse,'' as per Vatican reports. In the wake of Pope Francis' death, leaders of the Catholic Church have initiated the process to elect his successor through a conclave of 120 cardinals, all aged under 80. The concluding entry regarding "Peter the Roman", who was prophesied to ascend to the papacy in 2027, states that this "last pope" will guide the church through a period of extreme upheaval, culminating in the destruction of Rome and the end of the papacy. "In the final persecution of the Holy Roman Church, there will reign Peter the Roman, who will feed his flock amid many tribulations, after which the seven-hilled city will be destroyed and the dreadful Judge will judge the people. The End," is the closing line from a dramatic prophecy that has sparked fears of an apocalypse among some believers, who connect the rule of Peter the Roman with the Day of Judgement expected in 2027. Even the French seer Michel de Nostredame (Nostradamus) is speculated to have forecasted the era of Peter the Roman, reports the Mirror US. Historians suggest the document might have been crafted with political motives in mind, and numerous academics point out that after its revelation, its prophecies were intentionally made more ambiguous, leading to highly personal interpretations. Following the Pope's death, Catholics worldwide will engage in Novendiale—a nine-day period of bereavement. Subsequently, the Pope will be interred at the basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome, Italy. What comes next is the commencement of the election for the new pontiff, wherein the highest-ranking clergy, known as the College of Cardinals, gather to vote. These candidates, usually ordained bishops selected by the Pope himself, total 252 at present, with only 138 qualified to cast their votes for who will take Pope Francis' place. On Tuesday, April 22, images of Pope Francis lying in state within an open casket emerged for the first time as the Vatican prepares for his funeral. The 88 year old was presented for the Confirmation of the Death of the Pontiff ceremony. The placement of his body in the coffin took place last night at the Chapel of Santa Marta, according to the Vatican. Cardinal Kevin Farrell, the Vatican camerlengo, conducted the official declaration of death in a ceremony lasting under an hour.
Wakala News
20-04-2025
- Wakala News
‘Little guest': How a rescued baby brought two Gaza families together
Jabalia, Gaza – Between the arms of his father and the family who cared for him during his disappearance, little Mohammed plays happily. About 16 months ago, a 13-month-old Mohammed sat crying beside his mother's lifeless body, surrounded by the dead and wounded, after an attack on the school the family was sheltering in. That day, amid the chaos and fear as displaced families fled, he disappeared. His father, Tareq Abu Jabal, spent more than a year looking for Mohammed while, unbeknownst to him, another man from the school was looking for Tareq. 'A little guest' Rasem Nabhan and his family were also displaced and sheltering in al-Rafei School in Jabalia in northern Gaza when two Israeli bombs hit it in late December 2023. 'We were terrified, the children were screaming,' the 41-year-old said. 'Moments later, quadcopters appeared, broadcasting orders for everyone to evacuate immediately. There was gunfire everywhere.' Rasem focused on getting his wife and seven children out of the school with the other women and children, then ran to help extinguish the flames still burning in the bombed classrooms. They needed to check if anyone was left alive. 'Blood covered the walls. … Body parts were scattered on the floor among the wounded and the dead. It was beyond words,' Rasem said. Amid the carnage, he said, 'I saw a baby crying and screaming. Next to him lay the body of a woman – her head and stomach torn apart, her body covered in blood. I think she was his mother.' He picked up the child and ran, not thinking. 'The baby's face was red, and he could barely breathe, he was crying so hard.' 'I kept asking people around me: 'Do you know this child? His mother was killed.' But no one did,' he recounted. 'It was impossible. … It felt like the Day of Judgement, everyone fleeing, clutching their children.' Tanks had surrounded the school by then, he said, forcing everyone to walk south. Rasem walked with the baby in his arms until he reached his wife, who was waiting for him by the road with their children. 'I handed the child to my wife and told her I'd found him at the school with his dead mother,' he said. Fawakeh Nabhan, Rasem's 34-year-old wife, took the baby as her older daughters clamoured to be allowed to hold him. 'For a moment, the fear faded as we welcomed this little guest,' she said. 'He had the most beautiful face, and I felt an instant connection.' They nicknamed the baby Hamoud, the diminutive for Mohammed and Ahmed, two popular names, and took him along as they walked south towards Rashid Street, passing through the Israeli army's Netzarim checkpoint. They took turns carrying the baby – Rasem, Fawakeh and their two older daughters, 19-year-old Islam and 18-year-old Amina. 'He would fall asleep and wake up in our arms, like any other child, unaware of what was going on around him,' Fawakeh said. Growing attached The family didn't know how old the baby was, but they guessed he was seven to nine months old, based on his size and weight. 'We'd never seen him at the school before and had no idea (about) his real age or when he was born,' Fawakeh added. The family walked to central Gaza's Deir el-Balah, resting there a while before continuing to Khan Younis in the south, where they had heard there were spots available at another school-turned-shelter. 'Despite the risks, I felt a school was better than living in a tent. At least we would have a concrete roof over our heads,' Fawakeh said. The story of their displacements is long and complex because they moved from school to displacement camp to sleeping rough back to a tent for months. Through it all, Rasem and Fawakeh saw the baby as a source of warmth and joy. 'At first, he was withdrawn and silent, never laughing, no matter how much we tried. For nearly 50 days, he was like that – as if he were searching for his mother and wondering who we were,' Rasem recalled. 'But over time, he started to open up. He grew attached to us, and we to him.' Throughout their displacement, Fawakeh, with Islam and Amina, cared for the baby. But when it came to feeding him, Fawakeh insisted on doing it herself. But caring for a baby as Israel wages its genocidal war on Gaza is a huge financial strain because formula, diapers and nutritious food are either not available or are exorbitantly priced. 'When we arrived in the south, we bought formula and a pacifier, but he refused. I think he was breastfed by his mother,' Fawakeh said. 'In a way, that was a relief because formula was expensive. Instead, I fed him lentils, beans, rice. He ate whatever we ate.' 'He loved bananas so much. We could only afford two – one for him and one for my four-year-old son, Abdullah.' Diapers had to be rationed as their price skyrocketed, reaching 10 shekels a diaper (about $2.70). 'I would put one diaper on him at night, and during the day, I used cotton cloths that I changed frequently,' Fawakeh explained. Blessings As the family moved around, the baby became well known and adored, bringing blessings to the family, Rasem said. Hamoud did not look like the Nabhans, and people would ask Rasem and Fawakeh about him. When they heard his story, their hearts would melt, and they would shower the little boy with whatever small gifts they could find. 'Our neighbours in the camp would send us plates of food just for him,' Fawakeh said with a laugh. 'They would say, 'Make sure he eats this.'' 'He calls my husband Baba and me Mama. He sleeps in my lap, runs straight to me when he needs comfort,' Fawakeh said, lowering her voice as she glanced at her youngest son. 'Abdullah, my four-year-old, would get so jealous and cry whenever I gave the baby too much attention.' Overall, the couple's children – Mohammed, 20; Islam, 19; Amina, 18; Maryam, 12; Nour el-Huda, 10; Mustafa, nine; and Abdallah, four – embraced the baby as one of their own. Despite numerous offers from organisations, orphan sponsorship programmes and even other families willing to adopt the baby, Rasem refused. 'He is my eighth child. I love him deeply, and I refused the idea of someone taking him from me,' Rasem said. 'My answer was always firm: The only way I would ever let him go is if I found his real family.' Then, in a hushed voice, he confessed: 'But in my heart, I prayed I wouldn't find them. I stopped searching. We had become too attached.' A father's search As Rasem spoke, Mohammed's father Tareq, 35, sat nearby listening, smiling at his youngest son. The father of three – Omar, 14; Tolay, nine; and Mohammed, now 26 months – had never stopped looking for his missing child. 'On the day al-Rafei School was bombed, my wife and three children were inside our classroom,' Tareq recalled. 'I was in the schoolyard when the air strike hit. I ran, screaming, towards them.' The Israeli army had shelled both al-Rafei and the school next door. 'In that strike, my wife, my nephew and six others were killed – eight lives lost in an instant,' he said. 'When I reached our classroom, I saw Omar and Tolay, both injured. Omar had shrapnel in his back, and my daughter had been struck in the stomach. Then I saw my wife. … Her body was torn apart.' His voice faltered. 'I collapsed. But somehow, I forced myself to help evacuate her body with the others.' His wife, Iman Abu Jabal, was 33. Tolay carried shrapnel in her stomach for three months. 'Grief, fear for my wounded children, the screams, the rush to evacuate, the army's drones circling overhead,' Tareq recounted. 'In the panic, I didn't take Mohammed with me when I carried his siblings out.' When he went back for Mohammed, he couldn't find him. The baby was gone. 'I started asking everyone,' he said. 'Some told me he had been killed. Others said someone took him. The stories kept changing.' 'I was devastated. I searched through the crowds, but everyone was running, screaming, grabbing their children and fleeing,' he added. He was not able to find his baby. He went back into the school with a few others to bury the victims of the bombing. 'We wrapped my wife's body in a sheet and waited for three hours in a classroom, unable to go outside to the yard to bury her,' Tareq recalled. 'The shelling and gunfire were relentless, but I wanted to bury my wife, no matter what.' Among those who remained at the school was a surgeon who treated the wounded, including Tareq's children, as best he could. 'My nephew was bleeding heavily. A young man helped him leave the school and walk to al-Awda Hospital in Jabalia, but he arrived in critical condition and passed away there.' Tareq and the children spent the night in the school with the others who had stayed to bury their loved ones. In the morning, they snuck out through a gap in the school's walls, taking detours to reach his brother's house in western Jabalia. After dropping the older kids off, Tareq spent the rest of the day searching the hospitals in Jabalia for Mohammed, then at the various spots where displaced people had gathered. 'I was told a family had taken him to the south while others hadn't seen or heard anything about him.' But Tareq also had to focus on his other children, traumatised by seeing their mother die and in need of food, medicine and care. By the end of February 2024, northern Gaza was in the grips of famine, so Tareq decided to move south to save the children from the severe hunger sweeping the region. As soon as he arrived in Rafah, Tareq resumed his search for Mohammed. 'I started asking relatives, acquaintances and neighbours who were with us in the school we had fled from, but I found no trace of him,' he continued. 'I spent days like this until I lost all hope and turned to God.' 'I was seeing people fleeing, leaving their children behind in the bombings and evacuations. I saw children lost and crying. … It made me think about my child.' Reuniting On January 27, when displaced families were allowed to return to northern Gaza, the Abu Jabals and the Nabhans walked back to Jabalia. 'By 8am, my children and I were standing on the rubble of our home in Jabalia,' Tareq told Al Jazeera. 'We had set out at 4am – we couldn't wait any longer.' Rasem and Fawakeh's family headed out a bit later, and along the way, they were stopped for an interview. 'I talked about my joy to be going back. Then the journalist asked me about the baby, thinking he was my son and how he had grown up in the south,' Rasem recalled. 'I told her he wasn't my son and explained his story. She was so moved, she made a plea on air for anyone to identify the child's family,' Rasem added. The family eventually got to Rasem's parents' home in Jabalia, not too far, as they would find out later, from Hamoud's 'real' family. The next morning, Tareq came across the video from the TV interview. 'His features hadn't changed although he had grown a little. I started shouting out across the rubble: 'My son's alive! My son Mohammed is alive!' 'My brother, his wife, the family and neighbours rushed over, asking what was wrong. 'We all watched the video together. Rasem's face was familiar because we'd been sheltering at the same school.' Asking around, Tareq figured out where Rasem's family was staying and rushed over. 'Me, my children and brother went over, and I introduced myself to Rasem, who recognised me right away. 'Mohammed didn't recognise me and cried,' he said, smiling in gratitude anyway. The Nabhans were conflicted, happy that Hamoud, who they now knew was named Mohammed, had found his family but sad that he was leaving. 'It felt like I was giving away a piece of my soul,' Rasem said. 'The hardest moment was when they left, and Hamoud was calling me, crying, 'Baba, Baba!'' 'I spent the night crying from the sadness over Hamoud's departure,' Fawakeh said, her eyes brimming with tears. 'My daughters cried for an entire week. The house felt like a wake. Hamoud had become a part of us,' Fawakeh added as she held the visiting Mohammed, who still calls her Mama, close. 'I told my husband and Tareq that Hamoud should come see us often. He's like our son, and he's very attached to me. 'Luckily, they live nearby, and my children always go to bring him over, so he can spend time with us. He brings us such joy,' she beamed. Watching the Nabhans playing with his son, Tareq smiled. 'I'm so grateful to them, from the bottom of my heart. They raised him as if he were their own. … He was with a family who showed him the love and care of the mother he lost. 'But as you can see, when Mohammed sees Rasem, his wife and their family, he completely forgets about me,' Tareq said. 'He loves them so much.'
Al Jazeera
20-04-2025
- Al Jazeera
‘Little guest': How a rescued baby brought two Gaza families together
Jabalia, Gaza – Between the arms of his father and the family who cared for him during his disappearance, little Mohammed plays happily. About 16 months ago, a 13-month-old Mohammed sat crying beside his mother's lifeless body, surrounded by the dead and wounded, after an attack on the school the family was sheltering in. That day, amid the chaos and fear as displaced families fled, he disappeared. His father, Tareq Abu Jabal, spent more than a year looking for Mohammed while, unbeknownst to him, another man from the school was looking for Tareq. Rasem Nabhan and his family were also displaced and sheltering in al-Rafei School in Jabalia in northern Gaza when two Israeli bombs hit it in late December 2023. 'We were terrified, the children were screaming,' the 41-year-old said. 'Moments later, quadcopters appeared, broadcasting orders for everyone to evacuate immediately. There was gunfire everywhere.' Rasem focused on getting his wife and seven children out of the school with the other women and children, then ran to help extinguish the flames still burning in the bombed classrooms. They needed to check if anyone was left alive. 'Blood covered the walls. … Body parts were scattered on the floor among the wounded and the dead. It was beyond words,' Rasem said. Amid the carnage, he said, 'I saw a baby crying and screaming. Next to him lay the body of a woman – her head and stomach torn apart, her body covered in blood. I think she was his mother.' He picked up the child and ran, not thinking. 'The baby's face was red, and he could barely breathe, he was crying so hard.' 'I kept asking people around me: 'Do you know this child? His mother was killed.' But no one did,' he recounted. 'It was impossible. … It felt like the Day of Judgement, everyone fleeing, clutching their children.' Tanks had surrounded the school by then, he said, forcing everyone to walk south. Rasem walked with the baby in his arms until he reached his wife, who was waiting for him by the road with their children. 'I handed the child to my wife and told her I'd found him at the school with his dead mother,' he said. Fawakeh Nabhan, Rasem's 34-year-old wife, took the baby as her older daughters clamoured to be allowed to hold him. 'For a moment, the fear faded as we welcomed this little guest,' she said. 'He had the most beautiful face, and I felt an instant connection.' They nicknamed the baby Hamoud, the diminutive for Mohammed and Ahmed, two popular names, and took him along as they walked south towards Rashid Street, passing through the Israeli army's Netzarim checkpoint. They took turns carrying the baby – Rasem, Fawakeh and their two older daughters, 19-year-old Islam and 18-year-old Amina. 'He would fall asleep and wake up in our arms, like any other child, unaware of what was going on around him,' Fawakeh said. The family didn't know how old the baby was, but they guessed he was seven to nine months old, based on his size and weight. 'We'd never seen him at the school before and had no idea [about] his real age or when he was born,' Fawakeh added. The family walked to central Gaza's Deir el-Balah, resting there a while before continuing to Khan Younis in the south, where they had heard there were spots available at another school-turned-shelter. 'Despite the risks, I felt a school was better than living in a tent. At least we would have a concrete roof over our heads,' Fawakeh said. The story of their displacements is long and complex because they moved from school to displacement camp to sleeping rough back to a tent for months. Through it all, Rasem and Fawakeh saw the baby as a source of warmth and joy. 'At first, he was withdrawn and silent, never laughing, no matter how much we tried. For nearly 50 days, he was like that – as if he were searching for his mother and wondering who we were,' Rasem recalled. 'But over time, he started to open up. He grew attached to us, and we to him.' Throughout their displacement, Fawakeh, with Islam and Amina, cared for the baby. But when it came to feeding him, Fawakeh insisted on doing it herself. But caring for a baby as Israel wages its genocidal war on Gaza is a huge financial strain because formula, diapers and nutritious food are either not available or are exorbitantly priced. 'When we arrived in the south, we bought formula and a pacifier, but he refused. I think he was breastfed by his mother,' Fawakeh said. 'In a way, that was a relief because formula was expensive. Instead, I fed him lentils, beans, rice. He ate whatever we ate.' 'He loved bananas so much. We could only afford two – one for him and one for my four-year-old son, Abdullah.' Diapers had to be rationed as their price skyrocketed, reaching 10 shekels a diaper (about $2.70). 'I would put one diaper on him at night, and during the day, I used cotton cloths that I changed frequently,' Fawakeh explained. As the family moved around, the baby became well known and adored, bringing blessings to the family, Rasem said. Hamoud did not look like the Nabhans, and people would ask Rasem and Fawakeh about him. When they heard his story, their hearts would melt, and they would shower the little boy with whatever small gifts they could find. 'Our neighbours in the camp would send us plates of food just for him,' Fawakeh said with a laugh. 'They would say, 'Make sure he eats this.'' 'He calls my husband Baba and me Mama. He sleeps in my lap, runs straight to me when he needs comfort,' Fawakeh said, lowering her voice as she glanced at her youngest son. 'Abdullah, my four-year-old, would get so jealous and cry whenever I gave the baby too much attention.' Overall, the couple's children – Mohammed, 20; Islam, 19; Amina, 18; Maryam, 12; Nour el-Huda, 10; Mustafa, nine; and Abdallah, four – embraced the baby as one of their own. Despite numerous offers from organisations, orphan sponsorship programmes and even other families willing to adopt the baby, Rasem refused. 'He is my eighth child. I love him deeply, and I refused the idea of someone taking him from me,' Rasem said. 'My answer was always firm: The only way I would ever let him go is if I found his real family.' Then, in a hushed voice, he confessed: 'But in my heart, I prayed I wouldn't find them. I stopped searching. We had become too attached.' As Rasem spoke, Mohammed's father Tareq, 35, sat nearby listening, smiling at his youngest son. The father of three – Omar, 14; Tolay, nine; and Mohammed, now 26 months – had never stopped looking for his missing child. 'On the day al-Rafei School was bombed, my wife and three children were inside our classroom,' Tareq recalled. 'I was in the schoolyard when the air strike hit. I ran, screaming, towards them.' The Israeli army had shelled both al-Rafei and the school next door. 'In that strike, my wife, my nephew and six others were killed – eight lives lost in an instant,' he said. 'When I reached our classroom, I saw Omar and Tolay, both injured. Omar had shrapnel in his back, and my daughter had been struck in the stomach. Then I saw my wife. … Her body was torn apart.' His voice faltered. 'I collapsed. But somehow, I forced myself to help evacuate her body with the others.' His wife, Iman Abu Jabal, was 33. Tolay carried shrapnel in her stomach for three months. 'Grief, fear for my wounded children, the screams, the rush to evacuate, the army's drones circling overhead,' Tareq recounted. 'In the panic, I didn't take Mohammed with me when I carried his siblings out.' When he went back for Mohammed, he couldn't find him. The baby was gone. 'I started asking everyone,' he said. 'Some told me he had been killed. Others said someone took him. The stories kept changing.' 'I was devastated. I searched through the crowds, but everyone was running, screaming, grabbing their children and fleeing,' he added. He was not able to find his baby. He went back into the school with a few others to bury the victims of the bombing. 'We wrapped my wife's body in a sheet and waited for three hours in a classroom, unable to go outside to the yard to bury her,' Tareq recalled. 'The shelling and gunfire were relentless, but I wanted to bury my wife, no matter what.' Among those who remained at the school was a surgeon who treated the wounded, including Tareq's children, as best he could. 'My nephew was bleeding heavily. A young man helped him leave the school and walk to al-Awda Hospital in Jabalia, but he arrived in critical condition and passed away there.' Tareq and the children spent the night in the school with the others who had stayed to bury their loved ones. In the morning, they snuck out through a gap in the school's walls, taking detours to reach his brother's house in western Jabalia. After dropping the older kids off, Tareq spent the rest of the day searching the hospitals in Jabalia for Mohammed, then at the various spots where displaced people had gathered. 'I was told a family had taken him to the south while others hadn't seen or heard anything about him.' But Tareq also had to focus on his other children, traumatised by seeing their mother die and in need of food, medicine and care. By the end of February 2024, northern Gaza was in the grips of famine, so Tareq decided to move south to save the children from the severe hunger sweeping the region. As soon as he arrived in Rafah, Tareq resumed his search for Mohammed. 'I started asking relatives, acquaintances and neighbours who were with us in the school we had fled from, but I found no trace of him,' he continued. 'I spent days like this until I lost all hope and turned to God.' 'I was seeing people fleeing, leaving their children behind in the bombings and evacuations. I saw children lost and crying. … It made me think about my child.' On January 27, when displaced families were allowed to return to northern Gaza, the Abu Jabals and the Nabhans walked back to Jabalia. 'By 8am, my children and I were standing on the rubble of our home in Jabalia,' Tareq told Al Jazeera. 'We had set out at 4am – we couldn't wait any longer.' Rasem and Fawakeh's family headed out a bit later, and along the way, they were stopped for an interview. 'I talked about my joy to be going back. Then the journalist asked me about the baby, thinking he was my son and how he had grown up in the south,' Rasem recalled. 'I told her he wasn't my son and explained his story. She was so moved, she made a plea on air for anyone to identify the child's family,' Rasem added. The family eventually got to Rasem's parents' home in Jabalia, not too far, as they would find out later, from Hamoud's 'real' family. The next morning, Tareq came across the video from the TV interview. 'His features hadn't changed although he had grown a little. I started shouting out across the rubble: 'My son's alive! My son Mohammed is alive!' 'My brother, his wife, the family and neighbours rushed over, asking what was wrong. 'We all watched the video together. Rasem's face was familiar because we'd been sheltering at the same school.' Asking around, Tareq figured out where Rasem's family was staying and rushed over. 'Me, my children and brother went over, and I introduced myself to Rasem, who recognised me right away. 'Mohammed didn't recognise me and cried,' he said, smiling in gratitude anyway. The Nabhans were conflicted, happy that Hamoud, who they now knew was named Mohammed, had found his family but sad that he was leaving. 'It felt like I was giving away a piece of my soul,' Rasem said. 'The hardest moment was when they left, and Hamoud was calling me, crying, 'Baba, Baba!'' 'I spent the night crying from the sadness over Hamoud's departure,' Fawakeh said, her eyes brimming with tears. 'My daughters cried for an entire week. The house felt like a wake. Hamoud had become a part of us,' Fawakeh added as she held the visiting Mohammed, who still calls her Mama, close. 'I told my husband and Tareq that Hamoud should come see us often. He's like our son, and he's very attached to me. 'Luckily, they live nearby, and my children always go to bring him over, so he can spend time with us. He brings us such joy,' she beamed. Watching the Nabhans playing with his son, Tareq smiled. 'I'm so grateful to them, from the bottom of my heart. They raised him as if he were their own. … He was with a family who showed him the love and care of the mother he lost. 'But as you can see, when Mohammed sees Rasem, his wife and their family, he completely forgets about me,' Tareq said. 'He loves them so much.'
Saudi Gazette
13-03-2025
- Politics
- Saudi Gazette
27 hostages killed after hijacked Pakistan train rescue ends in bloodbath
QUETTA — Nearly 350 hostages have been rescued at the end of a deadly standoff between Pakistan's military and armed militants who hijacked a train in the southwestern Pakistani province of Balochistan, a security source told CNN Wednesday. The incident, which began Tuesday left dozens dead. The Baloch Liberation Army (BLA), a militant separatist group active in the restive and mineral-rich Balochistan province, claimed responsibility for the attack. A total of 27 hostages were killed by the BLA, the security source said, as well as one soldier. At least 35 militants were killed in the rescue operation, the security source added. Around 450 passengers were on the Jaffer Express enroute from Balochistan's capital Quetta to Peshawar in the north, when militants opened 'intense gunfire' as the train traveled through a tunnel early in its journey, according to officials. Pakistan's military then launched an operation to confront the attackers who used 'women and children as shields,' according to security sources not authorized to speak to CNN. One rescued woman described scenes of chaos following the attack, likening it to the 'Day of Judgement.' She told CNN she fled gunfire and walked for two hours to reach safety. Passenger Mohammad Ashraf told CNN he saw more than 100 armed individuals on the train and that no harm was inflicted on women and children. The security sources accused the militants of being in contact with handlers in Afghanistan. Pakistan's military and government have long accused Afghanistan of providing sanctuary to militant groups, something its Taliban leaders have denied. Tuesday's kidnapping is an audacious moment for a separatist insurgency that seeks greater political autonomy and economic development in the strategically important and mineral-rich mountainous region. But it also highlights the ever-deteriorating security situation there – one that Pakistan's government has been grappling with for decades. Balochistan's population – made up mostly of the ethnic Baloch group – is deeply disenfranchised, impoverished, and has been growing increasingly alienated from the federal government by decades of policies widely seen as discriminatory. An insurgency there has been ongoing for decades but has gained traction in recent years since the province's deep-water Gwadar port was leased to China, the jewel in the crown of Beijing's 'Belt and Road' infrastructure push in Pakistan. The port, often touted as 'the next Dubai,' has become a security nightmare with persistent bombings of vehicles carrying Chinese workers, resulting in many deaths. Some analysts said Tuesday's attack marked an escalation in the sophistication of attacks by the insurgents. The 'larger point that the Pakistani state is not grasping ... is that it's not business as usual anymore,' said Abdul Basit, a Senior Associate Fellow at the S. Rajaratnam School of International Studies in Singapore. 'The insurgency has evolved both in its strategy and scale,' he added, saying Pakistan's approach to tackle the Baloch militants' 'seem to have run its course.' 'Instead of revising its counterproductive policies, it is persisting with them, resulting in recurrent security and intelligence failures,' Basit said. The BLA has been responsible for the deadliest attacks in Pakistan in the past year. A suicide bombing by the BLA at a train station in Quetta killed more than two dozen people last November. The previous month, it claimed responsibility for an attack on a convoy of Chinese engineers, resulting in two deaths. In the wake of Tuesday's attack, Pakistan's Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif vowed to 'continue to fight against the monster of terrorism until it is completely eradicated from the country.' In a statement, he said the 'terrorists' targeting of innocent passengers during the peaceful and blessed month of Ramadan is a clear reflection that these terrorists have no connection with the religion of Islam, Pakistan and Balochistan.' Analysts say such attacks need urgent attention from the federal government. '(Tuesday's attack) has gained global attention and it will worry China, which has its investments in the province – more than any other state,' said Basit. 'A major reset of existing security paradigm is required in Balochistan.' — CNN
