A Palestinian man sits in front of the rubble of a building following an 
Israeli airstrike in the Rafah refugee camp, southern Gaza Strip, Wednesday, 
Jan. 7, 2009. Israel said Wednesday that it 'welcomes' an Egyptian-French 
ceasefire proposal for Gaza as long as such a deal guarantees a halt to 
militant rockets and weapons smuggling, in a possible sign that a bloody 12-day 
offensive could be winding down

AP Gaza reporter finds hometown in rubble
By IBRAHIM BARZAK, Associated Press Writer Ibrahim Barzak, Associated Press 
Writer – Wed Jan 7, 2:39 pm ET
 

GAZA CITY, Gaza Strip – I live alone in my office. My wife and two young 
children moved in with her father after our apartment was shattered. The 
neighborhood mosque, where I have prayed since I was a child, had its roof 
blown off. All the government buildings on my beat have been obliterated.
 
After days of Israeli shelling, the city and life I have known no longer exist.
 
Gaza City, with some 400,000 people, stopped supplying water when the fuel ran 
out for the power station driving the pumps. We listen to battery-run radios 
for news, even though the outside world watches what's happening to us on 
television. The Hadi grocery where we once shopped is closed. Food is scarce 
all over town.
 
Three days after Israel began its airstrikes against Hamas mujahidins on Dec. 
27, my apartment building was shaken by bombs aimed at a nearby Hamas-run 
government compound.
 
My brother took a picture of the room where my boys, 2-year-old Hikmet and 
6-month-old Ahmed, once slept. Their toys were broken, shrapnel had punched 
through the closet and the bedroom wall had collapsed. I don't know if we will 
ever go back.
 
There are other pictures that haunt me. The Israeli army issued a video of the 
bombing of the Hamas-run government compound, which it posted on YouTube. In 
it, I also can see my home being destroyed, and I watch it obsessively.
 
Some of my colleagues lost their houses to the shelling as well, and are 
sleeping on mattresses spread across the floors of an apartment upstairs from 
The Associated Press bureau.
 
On Tuesday, I stood outside my apartment building but didn't dare enter. I was 
worried the remains of the nearby compound might again be shelled.
 
Othman, the owner of the Addar restaurant where my wife and I bought takeaway 
when we were both working, put up aluminum sheeting over the broken windows to 
stop looters. On the pavement, phone and power lines were tangled together like 
twine.
 
Driving to central Gaza City, I took the road where Gaza's two main 
universities are. It was covered with shards of glass, telephone cables, 
electricity wires and flattened cars. This road was once crowded with students, 
taxis and street vendors.
 
The Mazaj coffee shop on Omar Mukhtar street, Gaza's main thoroughfare, was 
shuttered. It was popular with wealthy university students and foreigners 
working for nonprofit agencies because it served really good Guatemalan coffee 
— rumored to have been smuggled in through the same tunnels under the Egyptian 
border the militants used to bring in weapons.
 
Al Dera, a beautiful hotel on the Mediterranean shore, was a place where young 
men and women smoked water pipes and flirted, and where families went for 
dinner on Thursdays.
 
Those days are gone now.
 
On Tuesday, the only shop I found open was the Shifa pharmacy run by my friend 
Eyad Sayegh. He's an Orthodox Christian, and I stopped to wish him a Merry 
Christmas — Eastern churches celebrate Christmas on Wednesday.
 
Eyad told me he forgot it was Christmas.
 
All the landmark buildings I covered as a reporter have vanished.
 
The colonial-era Seraya was the main security compound for the succession of 
Gaza's rulers — the British, Egyptians, Israelis, the Palestinian Authority and 
then the rival Palestinians of Hamas.
 
We used to fear the Seraya, where the central jail was. Now it's rubble. 
 
The Al Shuhada mosque on the eastern corner of the compound, where I prayed 
every day, was one of the few in Gaza with good air conditioning. A local 
philanthropist who liked Moroccan architecture redecorated the interior with 
intricate wooden arabesques and Quranic verses etched on the roof. The roof 
caved in when the Israelis bombed the jail next door. 
 
Of the presidential office overlooking the sea, only a few walls remain. For 
many Gazans it was a symbol of our statehood, even though President Mahmoud 
Abbas, who also heads the Fatah movement, hasn't been there since Hamas seized 
control of the territory in June 2007. 
 
Someone planted a Palestinian flag on the building's remains. The huge gate at 
the western entrance still stands, giving an illusion of something big behind 
it. 
 
And across the city, the Parliament house is half destroyed. It used to tower 
above the Unknown Soldier park and the shops that lined downtown Omar Mukhtar 
Street. 
 
On Jala Street, one of Gaza's main roads, I saw about 30 boys around a leaky 
irrigation tap on a traffic island. They were clutching empty soft drink 
bottles and jerry cans, trying to fill them with water. 
 
Samir, who is 9, told me his family has no water at home and he wanted to bring 
enough for a bath because he and his brother smell. 
 
That's a problem for most people in Gaza right now. 
 
In my father-in-law's building, residents throw out bags of spoiled food. With 
no power, refrigerators don't run and fresh food quickly rots. 
 
There were few cars on the roads, and most of those were media cars, ambulances 
and vehicles packed with civilians. Some looked like they were fleeing, with 
mattresses tied to the roofs, but who knows where they can go. 
 
Israeli helicopters flew overhead. I heard blasts in the distance. The roads 
were ripped apart by explosives. 
 
I drove into downtown Gaza, trying to prove to myself I can still do something 
I have done so often before — drive through my city. 
 
I reached the Catholic Latin Patriarchate School I attended, where my late 
father — also an AP correspondent — used to bring me every day. The building 
was undamaged. 
I stood in front of it, wondering if I will ever be able to walk my children to 
this school.
 

 


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