Hiding in the kitchen from Israeli snipers: A Jenin family’s diary

Saja Bawaqneh and six relatives have been hiding, terrified, in a corner of the family home’s kitchen since late Tuesday, August 27.
There is an Israeli assault going on outside in the occupied West Bank’s Jenin refugee camp – bigger and more vicious than the recurring attacks they got used to.
The power is out, there’s no water. They’re pretty sure Israeli soldiers severed the main lines.
Rationing the water they have, they worry because they called for help but nobody could come because tanks and soldiers are everywhere.
The Israeli army attacked Jenin, Nablus, Tubas and Tulkarem, killing at least 20 Palestinians and wounding many more.
The Bawaqneh home has been damaged and stormed by Israeli forces before – damaging doors, windows, air conditioning units, furniture, appliances and clothes.
The 29-year-old lawyer recounted the first day she spent hiding with the others in the tiny kitchen, fearing for their life.
It’s an ordinary night, nothing unusual. Nobody in the camp suspects anything, especially because it has been a relatively quiet few days.
We’re in the living room. I’m with Mama, my sisters Asmahan and Sumood, and my sister-in-law Niveen, my brother Farid’s wife.
Their two children – four-year-old Jawad and three-year-old Alaa (Lulu) – are in their pyjamas and have been allowed to play a final round of Lego before bed.

I hear a familiar bang. I suspect it’s a live bullet, the yelling in the streets confirms that.
My sisters and I race towards the big windows of our living room; squeezing our faces together to peer out.
We knew what was happening, but we’re still trying to figure out the details.
We see our neighbours frantically running towards their homes.
Some scream at the top of their lungs: “It’s the special forces! Special forces!”
They’re trying to warn the young men of the camp, my two brothers – Farid and Mohammed – included. After all, the men of the area are always beaten, mistreated, abused and arrested without charge in every storming of the camp.
We look for my brothers. They’re meant to be with their friends, but maybe they already left the camp because if it’s the special forces, there’s no time to spare.
We all know what that means – this isn’t just a regular raid, a major incursion is under way.
We’re crowded next to each other, the children crying and confused.
“Where’s Farid? Where’s Farid?” Lulu asks.
She always asks for her father when she’s scared.
“I want him here now!” she demands as the gunfire comes faster and more intense. At this point, she’s screaming uncontrollably.
We all try to comfort her, but she senses our stress, she sees our body language, our trembling legs.
I try to distract her with a game of counting to 10, which I pretty much always do. Sometimes it works, and other times it doesn’t.
We hear from my brothers. They’re out, safe for now.
Thankfully, Lulu is finally calm.
But the gunfire continues. Now, here comes the bulldozer. It’s right outside, yet again.
They’re sweeping the area, which means sewage water is flooding the street, and the smell is becoming unbearable.
At this point, there’s nobody outside, the neighbourhood is a ghost town.
Panicking, we take our grab bags from our bedrooms and rush to the safest part of the house – our tiny kitchen.
It’s tucked away, with no large windows – this is why we keep mattresses behind the kitchen door.
The grab bags have a change of clothes for each of us, clean underwear, wipes, shampoo and a few dry snacks for emergencies.
We never know if the assault is coming to our doorstep and force us out, so we’re better off being prepared.
If it does happen, it would be the seventh time occupation forces stormed our home and the 15th time the house is damaged. Every time, we have to pay for repairs.
We’re all in the kitchen, trying to settle in.
I think to myself: “That’s it, we’re stuck here, the seven of us, for the foreseeable.”
My sisters and I argue as we try to lay the mattresses out on the kitchen floor. Then I remember we’re in it together, and we make up.
But then, we argue and make up again… a never-ending cycle when tensions are high.
I decide to retreat into a corner and look at the news on my mobile phone. I have no appetite, nobody does.
The bulldozer is hard at work, and they’re firing canisters. We endure the noise and hope for the best.
The noise gets louder and we hear glass shatter in one of the bedrooms. We debate which room it’s in and sort of decide it’s the one with the window facing the front of the house.
None of us dare to go check because if we pass by a window, a sniper will take us out.
The kids are in and out of sleep, and so are we. I’m nervous and incessantly following the news and updates on the local WhatsApp groups.
Some say they saw tents being set up – no one has seen them do this before.
Maybe it’s for field interrogations, or maybe they plan on forcing us into them.
Everyone’s speculating, no one understands what’s going to happen. We’re all confused and just want this to end.
I remember we still have power, but maybe not for long. What if they cut off the electricity again like they did last time? It was a total blackout, we felt so isolated and alone.
I better charge my phone, just in case.
I get a notification, and there it is – the first death has just been announced.
It happened right outside the government hospital, which means no one can reach the main medical facility.
What if we need it? My sister-in-law is eight months pregnant. There are so many elderly people and children in our neighbourhood.
I’m overcome with anxiety, my heart aches for our precious, unfaltering people.
The second death is announced, and this one really hurt – we know him.
Qassam Jabarin was shot along with the first martyr, and just now succumbed to wounds after surgery.
“It’s Qassam Jabarin,” say out loud, unsure if my mother and sisters are awake or not.
I hear them gasp, so I guess they’re all up.
Qassam is only 25, he had his whole life ahead of him.
He’s a close family friend and all we can think is: How can we not be there for his family right now? We need to be there for them. We need to leave this house safely.
The kids are up. They’re already crying, wanting to leave the house and go out.
I try and explain that the army is outside, and my niece pretends to understand.
I ask her: “Who’s outside Lulu?”
“The army, a martyr,” she says.
I ask: “What does the plane sound like?”
“Boom!” she says.
“That’s why we can’t go outside,” I try to explain.
But they’re children, they don’t understand. All they know is that they want ice cream or any of the other treats they’re used to buying from the grocery store nearby.
It’s the least of our worries, because my mother anxiously announces she only has two of her blood pressure pills left.
“Don’t worry, this will all be over soon and we’ll be able to get you some more,” I say.
I contemplate whether I tell her the truth – that this will most likely not end soon.
That this is a named operation, that special forces are involved, that they will likely raid this house and force us out.
For now, I’ll stay quiet.
We’re cranky, and realise we haven’t eaten.
But how can we cook in this tiny space that now has the kids jumping around in it.
We can’t use the oven, it’d be too dangerous.
We also can’t cook anything complex because we can’t turn on the vent hood, the noise may attract the soldiers.
So, we need something easy, something quick. I check the fridge and we have loubyeh (green beans).
As usual, my mother takes the lead. She washes and cuts the beans up, turns on the stove.
There are too many people there, it feels like we’re stepping on each other’s toes – literally and figuratively. We all feel stuck.
I stay glued to my phone. Several news updates later, lunch is ready.
“I’ve made enough for two days, so we don’t have to endure this chaos again,” my mother says.
But the kids are complaining, they don’t want loubyeh, of course. They want fries.
Desperate to keep their spirits high, their poor pregnant mother says she’ll whip them up some boiled eggs and fries.
The children are desperate to leave the house.
They’re whining and crying, and I wonder whose turn it is to distract them.
We can’t afford to have them scream too much.
Someone discovers ice cream in the freezer, it must have been there for weeks.
Thankfully, they’re placated for the next half an hour.
The whining starts again.
“I want to go bye-bye! I want to go bye-bye!” Jawad exclaims.
Lulu joins in, pointing towards the hallway leading to the front door: “Bye-bye! Bye bye!”
My sisters look in our pantry and find popcorn. They collectively decide the answer is more snacks.
They make popcorn, and the smell cheers the kids up. They’re excited, but get restless again a few minutes later.
I decide to give up my precious mobile phone – one of our only links to the outside world – so they can watch cartoons and stay put.
We finally have sort of respite from the whining, but it’s just making me more nervous as we make it deeper into the night.
It’s like I’m anticipating bad news at any moment.
I keep telling myself: This is our reality, we have to live through it.
I try to talk to my mom and sisters, but we can’t disconnect.
In times like these, all we can think about is our loved ones, constantly concerned for the wellbeing of our brothers, our neighbours and our friends.
Will there be another round of air attacks? Will there be some more arrests? Will they storm our house?
Thank God we’re still dressed in going-out clothes.
Israeli forces have a lot of tactics to choose from, and this keeps us on edge, constantly worrying about which scenario they’re going to impose on us next.