Gaza Conversation - Part 8
I will walk the path of the martyrs—those who sacrificed their souls, wealth, and all they had. Those who were with me, who were martyred alongside me, and whom I continue to honour by serving others.
These are a series of conversations I am having with people in Gaza, which form part of the book I am writing. Part 8 introduces Mohammed Tamous, 21, a climate activist who, from the beginning of the war, had been volunteering with the Civil Defence forces in Gaza, who were instrumental in rescue and recovery missions of people from under the rubble, in coordination with the Palestinian Red Crescent. He lives with seven family members, including his parents, his uncle and two aunts. Mohammed is originally from North Gaza and is currently displaced in Gaza City.
Mohammed reached out on Instagram on one of the posts I shared on the current situation in Gaza. I asked him if he wanted to tell me his story and explained what I was doing. He agreed, but like many others before him, he disappeared for a few days, resurfacing only recently in the holy month of Ramadan and after the bombing had started again in Gaza, to document his personal story. Israel relaunched its military assault in Gaza on the 18th of March 2025, killing 400 Palestinians overnight and more than 960 Palestinians in 5 days, I have been approached by many, expressing the need to tell the world what is happening in Gaza, hoping that their story would be one of many stories amplifying to the world what is unfolding in Gaza right now.
I asked him to share his story, and he told me that one experience would stay with him forever. He recalled November 21, 2023—specifically, the moment he lost his colleague, Muhammad Farajallah while responding to a distress call from a family trapped beneath the rubble after the Israeli occupation army targeted their home in Beit Lahia. “I never imagined I would leave my colleague under the rubble, screaming and pleading for help, unable to assist him, at the time when we had come to rescue a family targeted by the bombing."
I could hear the pain in his voice, so I encouraged him to write down his story when he had a moment to reflect. Knowing the profound trauma people in Gaza have endured over the past 18 months, I often suggest writing as a form of therapy and self-reconciliation.
This is what he shared.
Under the Rubble - March 6
It was one month after the start of the war, and while the civil defence teams were retrieving the martyrs and injured, the occupation aircraft bombed a nearby five-story building, causing it to collapse on those present, trapping us and the families under the rubble. And we awaited our fate.
For the first time in my life, I felt what people under the rubble experienced. I waited for someone to pass by and hear my voice to save me from death. Every sound and movement became significant. In those moments, you feel like your voice is unheard, no matter how much you scream. You feel death approaching. I spent half an hour in torment, with each second feeling like a day. At that moment, all I saw was darkness; my body went numb under the weight of the rubble, and I couldn't breathe as the missile smoke filled the space, cutting off the air. Those were bitter moments I cannot describe, no matter how much I try.
Ambulances and Civil Defence teams arrived half an hour later and managed to extract me and some of my colleagues from the rubble. When I got out, I was shocked by the massive devastation caused by the bombing. But I was fine, alhamdulillah, but I insisted on rescuing my dear friend and colleague Muhammad Farajallah, even though reaching him was nearly impossible with the primitive tools we had. The massive debris prevented us from reaching him. But we continued digging for hours until drones began dropping explosive bombs again on us, and we had to withdraw, Farajallah remained trapped, screaming for help.
We were forced to withdraw due to the danger and the late hour; I felt utterly helpless. I wept bitterly for my colleague whom I had left behind. His screams haunted me, and I couldn't get them out of my head. I waited for the morning to return to him. And indeed, at exactly six in the morning, the Civil Defence vehicles went back for the rescue. As soon as we arrived, a reconnaissance drone fired a missile at us, forcing us to withdraw once again.
On November 23, 2023, the first ceasefire was announced, which only lasted nine days. This allowed our Civil Defence teams to operate in areas that had been too dangerous during the war, and we returned to rescue Farajallah. But as soon as I arrived, I called out to him, but he did not answer. I raised my voice, but there was no response. We repeated this several times, with the same result. Muhammad Farajallah had been martyred after three days of screaming for help and pleading until his voice faded and his body gave out.
I tried to retrieve his body to return it to his family and give him a proper burial but failed because of the sheer weight of the rubble. Our hands and basic tools were no match for the massive debris. After many attempts, they forced me to leave, as there were many still alive under the rubble who needed rescuing. I felt utterly defeated and broken. We do everything we can to save people from death—how could we leave our own colleagues behind? If it were in my power, we would never have left him for a moment. But in war, you have to make impossible choices, choices that I would’ve never thought I could make if the situation was normal.
When my colleague Muhammad Farajallah was martyred, I was reborn. A deep sorrow was born within me, one that strengthened my resolve to continue my work saving people and to walk the path of my fallen colleagues.
Since October 7th, the Civil Defence Forces, in partnership with the Palestinian Red Crescent, have played an instrumental role in saving lives across Gaza. They were the first responders on the scene, as early as the second day of the war, tirelessly working with their bare hands and primitive tools to rescue people trapped under the rubble. Throughout the conflict, they endured countless harrowing experiences but remained steadfast in delivering humanitarian aid, saving lives and responding to distress calls despite working under continuous airstrikes and shelling.
On October 23rd, 2023, when the first mass evacuation orders were issued in the Northern Governorates of Gaza, the Israeli army forced them to cease operations in Jabalia. For Mohammed, it was a devastating moment—civilians were in desperate need of their help, and many remained trapped under the rubble, waiting to be heard, waiting to be saved.
Mohamed however, didn’t evacuate and remained in Jabalia for 62 days, trying to help people who were injured and couldn’t evacuate until he was finally forced to flee to Al-Shati Refugee Camp in western Gaza. He describes those days as the most difficult of his life, saying, "I heard the moans of children and the screams of women under the rubble, but I couldn't help them. Anyone who approached the targeted site would be bombed."
"I heard women calling out, 'Save us, people of conscience! Someone, help us!' Every time I recall those moments, my heart shatters. Since then, I have been unable to sleep. Those voices are trapped in my mind. But there was nothing I could do alone. I tried to help despite having no equipment or even ambulances. The scenes in Jabalia were heartbreaking—wounded people bled to death, and hundreds of bodies lay in the streets, devoured by stray dogs and cats, and many more were suffocating under the rubble."
These scenes and stories are not new—we have been witnessing them unfold on our screens since this horrific genocide began. Gaza has left an entire population of two million people traumatised beyond comprehension. It has plunged an entire generation outside of Gaza into profound despair. But perhaps most devastatingly, it has exposed the fragility of the very systems designed to prevent such atrocities, rendering them utterly useless. The consequences of this failure will reverberate for generations to come.
Palestinians will never forget. Nor will the world. The trust in our global systems to uphold justice and prevent such horrors has been shattered—replaced only by confusion, grief, and unrelenting trauma
On the 18th of March 2025, the Ceasefire was breached for the third time in less than 2 years. In what has been in the past two weeks, real scenes of ethnic cleansing, in its final stages. Yet, the world remains silent.
But my Palestinian friends didn’t. Almost immediately, on March 19th, I began receiving messages from Gaza—determined voices refusing to be silenced, desperate to be heard once again. This time, they were staring directly into the face of an intense IDF operation.
Mohammed sent me two voice notes;
Voice note #1 - 22nd of March:
First of all, may God give you strength. As they say, a blessed fasting period to you. But honestly, with the current situation, there's no real appetite for anything. As you know, five days ago, things escalated again, and we are facing a new round of bombings here in Gaza. Strikes are ongoing around the clock, they never stop. The military has also completely sealed off the Netzarim checkpoint, effectively separating the north from the south.
The situation is extremely difficult—there is no food, no open crossings, and none of life’s essentials. And given that we are in the month of Ramadan, as I mentioned before, there is barely any food. People break their fast with whatever little they can find—some canned goods, whatever is left in the small shops.
Right now, I am in the north and cannot evacuate because of my work. I am currently working as a paramedic and also covering media updates in my area in the north, specifically with the Civil Defence. I document incidents as they happen in real time.
There has also been a massive displacement from different areas in the north, including Beit Hanoun, Beit Lahia, and Izbat Beit Hanoun, as well as parts of Al-Atatra. People are fleeing towards central Gaza, where shelters are overcrowded. There is confusion and no one knows what to do.
Voice note #2 - 23rd of March:
I asked him what he wanted to tell the world, this was his reply:
My personal message to the world is that we are humanitarian workers. We are not terrorists. We serve our people; we help anyone in need of assistance. The occupation has deliberately targeted us multiple times, attacking Civil Defence teams and every humanitarian worker providing aid. They do this to halt humanitarian services in Gaza and create an even greater crisis.
I will continue on this path until my last day. I will keep helping people and standing by them. I will walk the path of the martyrs—those who sacrificed their souls, wealth, and everything they had to serve to support our great people. The martyrs who were with me, who were martyred alongside me, and whom I continue to honour by serving others.
My message to the world is that we are humanitarian workers, not terrorists. Stand with us. Support us. We help people because it is our duty. And because we have to help ourselves, because no one else is helping us. I have witnessed massacres, arrests, and relentless bombings. I have witnessed the suffering of children and women beyond your imagination. I want to scream to the world ENOUGH!
That is my story. Please this send out to the world.
I haven’t heard from Mohammed since his last voice note, and I haven’t been able to reach him. I know the internet is weak, and I’ve trained myself not to panic when communication cuts off. But I can’t even begin to imagine what it feels like to be trapped in Gaza right now—amid a full-scale act of ethnic cleansing—hungry, cold, relentlessly bombed, hunted down like rats in a cage, scattered, disoriented, and ordered to evacuate.
And no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake his last words from my mind: “I want to scream to the world—ENOUGH!”
💔