How the genocide destroyed our sea

In June, I saw the sea for the first time since the war started, but it wasn’t a happy encounter. The Israeli army had just issued a sudden order of evacuation for the area where we were staying, so we had to flee to the “safe area” of the beach in az-Zawayda.
In the rush to leave and live, we did not take anything with us apart from our documents – no clothes to change, no blankets to put on the ground; no pans, pots or utensils to cook with. We paid more than $100 for plastic sheets so we could set up a tent and tried to settle in, while feeling exposed and vulnerable.
The following weeks we spent at the beach made me hate the sea. What was once a place of relaxation and enjoyment became a place of sadness, anger and frustration, as we faced the harsh routine of our tent life. Each day was filled with despair, hunger, and illness. I came to realise that this genocide is destroying not just human lives and bodies but also whatever used to bring us happiness and joy.
Before the war, I used to come to the sea when I felt stressed because of my studies, exams, or too much work. Sometimes, I would walk along the seashore at 7am, enjoying the chirping of the sparrows and listening to my favourite podcasts.
I also went to the beach after work with my colleagues. We would go to a restaurant by the sea and have the best of times there. It was a great place to relax and enjoy the cool breeze.
Families also loved the sea. Going to the beach on the weekend would be an elaborate affair. Children would get excited the day before a beach trip, packing their swim gear and beach toys.  Parents would prepare beach chairs, towels and lots of fruit and other snacks.
On the day of the trip, families would get up early for fajr prayers and then leave as soon as possible on small buses or cars they would rent. Those who made it early enough would have the chance to see the fishermen unloading their catch on the beach: loads of sea bream, sardines, red mullet, and others.
Soon after arriving, families would sit for breakfast on the beach. The menu would always include creamy hummus and crispy falafel, thyme, olive oil, green olives, warm pita bread, and steaming hot tea. Such food and drink are delicious no matter where they are enjoyed. But there was something particularly special about savouring them while gazing at the sea, breathing in the fresh air, and listening to the waves.
Children would spend the morning playing in the water, flying kites, and building sand castles, letting their imaginations craft their own little worlds. Parents would play with their children or relax on their beach chairs.
Around noon, preparations for lunch would start. The smell of barbecue would fill the beach. Sizzling meat would be served alongside fresh salads made from tomatoes, onions, green peppers, and parsley. Meanwhile, vendors would tempt beachgoers with grilled corn and candy apples.
At some point camels and horses would show up, offering rides to children and adults alike. There would be beach volleyball, football, surfing (if waves permitted) and lots of swimming.
The day at the beach would not end at sunset. At nightfall, music, singing and dancing would start. Some would take out tablas and rap up a rhythm and sing; others would play favourite tunes on their phones or portable speakers. Young and old would enjoy themselves until midnight before heading home for a quick shower and a restful night’s sleep.
When we reached the beach in az-Zawayda, there was no joy to be found. Instead, we saw pale, wrinkled faces filled with sorrow and despair. The shoreline was crowded, but not with beachgoers. Starved, exhausted people who had lost homes, loved ones and hope were living in tents in inhumane conditions. There was no laughter and music, there was only grief and mourning. It was clear the genocidal war had claimed not just lives, but the very spirit of the people.
In the sweltering summer sun, there was little relief from the heat. Some people would sit in the sea hoping to cool down. Those camped in tents directly facing the sun were the most at risk of heat exhaustion and sunstroke.
The beach did not have almost any infrastructure to sustain the thousands of people camped on it. There were makeshift toilets that provided almost no privacy and that radiated foul odour, especially at night. Fresh water was difficult to find and we had to walk long distances to get just a gallon. Diseases, including diarrhoea, hepatitis, and flu, were rampant – and so were pests like flies and scorpions. The whole place was covered in garbage.
Restaurants were replaced with vendors in makeshift stalls, selling falafel, coffee and tea, or bread at prices four to five times higher than before the war.
We could see fishermen, determined to provide for their starving families, brave the sea and the fire from Israeli gunboats and soldiers, but they would come back with very little catch from the shallow waters.
We spent two weeks on this beach of despair, sharing in the misery of its other displaced residents.
I left the beach, but my thoughts remained with the people I met there. As winter approaches, I keep thinking of the new wave of misery that the displaced on that beach will face.
The summer heat, diseases and insects will be replaced with winter disease and suffering. Not even the simplest medicine or vitamins are available to help cure colds or flu, which can be a death sentence for the exhausted and the starved.
The makeshift tents many people live in will not protect them from the chilling winds and heavy rains. The nights bring devastating cold that seeps through whatever little clothing people have, leaving many, especially newborns and little children, vulnerable to hypothermia. Heating is incredibly expensive; gas is almost nowhere to be found, while wood is available but at the price of $9 for a kilogramme (two pounds).
It has been four months now since we left the beach of despair. But I still remember the sound of the sea. The waves would crash against the beach with fury, the wind would blow but bring no relief. It almost seemed like the sea too had turned on us.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.