The ‘Netzarim Corridor’ is not a corridor, it is a nightmare

The so-called “Netzarim Corridor” has been in the news a lot lately, as its “opening” ushered in the much-awaited return of Palestinians to the northern part of the Gaza Strip. Half a million Palestinians returned to their homes, with the majority only to discover rubble. The “Netzarim Corridor” was visited by US Middle East envoy Steve Witkoff on January 29; he became the first US official to visit Gaza in more than a decade.
Foreign media has talked at length about this “strategic corridor” or “buffer zone”, as they call it, and its utility for Israeli “military operations” and for “controlling” Palestinians. But for us, the people living on its outskirts, Netzarim has been a living nightmare. I, my family, and countless other Palestinians have been subjected to incomprehensible pain and trauma as a result.
Netzarim is not a corridor, it is a large land grab carried out through the killing of Palestinian people and the destruction of their homes in Nuseirat and Bureij refugee camps, and the neighbourhoods of al-Mughraqa, az-Zahra, Zeitoun, Juhor ad-Dik, and others. It was and continues to be another method of terrorizing the people of Gaza, not some clever military tactic.
We didn’t know that areas close to our home had been chosen to establish this “corridor” until the war started. The air strikes were incessant, demolishing everything in their path – homes, schools, and gardens – without regard for whether people were inside or not. Every obstacle in its path, whether it was by a human or a stone, was being completely destroyed by the Israeli army.
Most of the air attacks occurred at night, leaving us unable to sleep,  , constantly waiting for the next explosion. We would cover our ears and hide in the dark, knowing an explosion was coming, but never sure how close it would be. The sky would turn white or red. Based on the sound of the blast, we would try to guess the type of missile or weapon used – drone, F16, F35, Apache helicopter, or tank – and the location it hit, a house or farmland.
The war seized our nights and invaded with it. The darkness would usher in fear and anxiety, the children would run into their mothers ‘ arms, fearing the sounds of explosions.
The Israeli army bombed all of the tall buildings that were in our vicinity as part of the “corridor” preparation. One of those was our neighbour’s five-storey house, which was hit in the middle of the day. The explosion was so powerful that it completely destroyed two houses, partially damaged two others, and demolished the front part of our house, where our “safe room” was located.
Because it was the furthest away from another building, whose owners had been given a warning from the Israelis that it would be targeted, we had chosen it as “safe.” In this room, we assumed we were “safe,” until the shock wave from that explosion slammed against us and caused us to suffer varying degrees of injury. My brother was seriously hurt and internally, while some of my nieces and nephews had skull fractures and broken bones, despite the fact that I managed to escape with bruises and cuts on my head.
We made the decision to leave when we realized that daytime had escalated to a dangerous level. We waited for the peace to come to an end or the situation to improve at Al-Aqsa Hospital in Deir el-Balah. However, we returned home with our hearts. Even being at home didn’t mean much to us.
After one month, we returned to our house, hoping to regain some sense of normalcy. But there was none. The Israeli army was hard at work expanding its “corridor” into the areas north of the Nuseirat camp, such as az-Zahra and al-Mughraqa.
Israeli troops would frequently raid Nuseirat’s northern region as part of this effort. Tanks and other unfamiliar military vehicles rumbled as well as the well-known sounds of air raids. With every small advance, gunfire erupted wildly and randomly, while drones hovered near the windows, listening for any sound. We were aware that we were in danger, but we had no idea what was going on. We would lie on the ground, turn off the lights to avoid being noticed, and pray endlessly that we would all wake up in the morning, alive.
Even the simplest routines vanished as our daily lives crumbled under the weight of unrelenting fear. We used to enjoy watching kids play in the street and drinking coffee on our roof. Every time we attempted to climb onto the roof, drones would fly over our heads and artillery shells would start to fire, making us cling to the inside of the house.
Eventually, we had to stop sitting on the roof altogether. Even for simple tasks like filling water tanks, the roof itself turned out to be dangerous. We were made to store water in pots and pans for our daily needs.
The Israeli army gave the order to evacuate the entire area just as we began to adjust to the situation in December 2023. At first, we thought things could not get any worse, so we decided, along with the displaced families staying with us — my aunt’s family, my uncle, and my sisters — to stay in the house and hold on.
But things only got worse. With drones constantly dropping bombs on the main streets and markets, going outside during the day became as dangerous as it was at night. Our neighbors began to leave slowly, and Nuseirat began to become a ghost town.
At night, tanks moved into the main streets, firing shells at homes. Apache helicopters flew overhead, shooting everywhere. The families staying with us fled, leaving us alone to face this nightmare.
We eventually made the decision to relocate to a UNRWA school close to our home, where we believed it would be secure, but it was not. Soon, Israeli tanks advanced and surrounded the area, trapping us.
We had to choose: stay in the school, which was no longer protected, or flee south to Rafah or Deir el-Balah like everyone else. We were four women, an 11-year-old girl, a 15-year-old boy, who was still suffering from his injury, and an elderly man – our father – who was exhausted trying to keep us all safe and fed, we had no choice but to head to Rafah.
We returned to our homes after spending a month in Rafah because we were informed that the situation was improving. But it was not. The “Netzarim Corridor” was even bigger than before, having devoured more Palestinian homes. To give its forces a way into and out of the camp whenever they wanted, the Israeli army had destroyed homes along Nuseirat’s northern borders.
The incursions became a daily reality. Suddenly, we would hear the sound of tanks getting louder and louder, followed by the deployment of all types of weapons and aircraft. They would watch for any movement by dropping flares above our homes to illuminate the area. We would ponder whether they would advance this time around in vain. We determined our positions based on the vehicles’ sounds. Then, a terrifying sound of a tank’s shells hitting one of the homes would be audible. Each time, we feared it could be ours.
In the neighbourhood, families would call for help from the Red Crescent to evacuate the injured, as leaving home was almost impossible. The injured were left to bleed to death as they begged the world to save them, and ambulances were rarely allowed to enter. Without any justification, people would die trying to bring food and water to their children.
We would sit for hours in this nightmare, unsure when the raid would end. When the forces would finally begin to retreat, Apache helicopters would circle overhead, firing randomly to cover their withdrawal. All of this appeared to have no purpose other than to terrorize us, make it clear that moving north would mean being killed, and make it clear that fear would encircle us.
For a year, the situation remained the same. The ceasefire, announced on January 15, was supposed to end this horror, but it did not. The bombing and shelling continue even after it becomes effective, and the demolitions continue. Quadcopters still elude us at night when we are nearby.
Just last week, the Israeli army bombed a bulldozer, trying to remove a car stuck in the road in Nuseirat. Its driver was killed. The Israelis also targeted an animal-drawn cart, killing a five-year-old girl and injuring others, in the western part of the camp.
Two weeks into the ceasefire, we continue to live in fear. We are still unsure of the Israelis’ full withdrawal from their “corridor.” However, we now see images of people returning to their homes in the north, giving us hope that the Netzarim nightmare will soon be over and that we as well will feel relief.
Source: Aljazeera
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