At just 21, Palestinian journalist Plestia Alaqad emerged as a vital voice in the midst of the destruction in Gaza, posting videos from the home she was born and raised in — not just of what it had become, the rubble and chaos, but also nostalgic portraits of life as it was. A city that celebrated graduations, caught up at local cafés, baked bread, and strolled on warm nights. As Israel began bombing her home, Plestia documented the horror, the resilience and the enduring Palestinian spirit. Here, read a section of her diaries. The Eyes of Gaza, published by Macmillan, is out now.

Day 13 | Thursday 19 October | 2023

I now pause a lot and stare at everything and wonder if it will be the last time I see it. I drink water, and I stop before my thirst is sated, because I don’t know when I’ll be able to find water easily again. I take a picture of the water bottle, thinking it might be a memory soon. I don’t leave the house without taking the time to look at each member of my family, trying to absorb as much as I can about them, in case I never can again.

We start the day looking for gas. By the time we find a station that’s still stocked, the line of people outside it is down the street. But when we tell them we’re journalists, people let us cut the queue. Then we go looking for bread. Another line, in fact, two: one for men and one for women. Both are endless. People actually spend hours buying bread nowadays; that’s part of their day. Sometimes it runs out just when it’s your turn.

It’s a nightmare. I think the time it takes to get basic necessities in a Genocide is overlooked, but it’s absolutely the daily experience of living through one. The queues are long, people are hungry and tired, and the feeling of frustration around not being able to buy something as simple as bread is a whole trauma of its own. I spent half of the day – half of my actual day – looking for gas and carbs. No human will accept that as a normal situation, no matter what’s going on around them.

Eventually, we go to an UNRWA school near the Rafah border crossing. It’s mostly full of those lucky enough to have dual nationalities; they’re waiting for their governments to put their name on a list that will mean they can immediately leave Gaza once the Rafah borders are open again. We spend our time chatting with them, sharing our fears of uncertainty and further trauma with one another.

The school is full of stories of people who came to visit Gaza after years of exile – those who were forced to flee in 1967 or during an Aggression – and who got stuck after the Genocide started. I meet an elderly couple (I say elderly; they are like fifty, but they have grandchildren, so that makes them elderly in my mind) who are in Palestine for the first time in decades, having been driven out by the very Israelis who are now keeping them constrained and locked in. They are worried about their children, because they don’t have any service or internet connection to tell them that they are safe. They tell me that they think their kids probably think they’re dead. That is a whole new layer of trauma I’ve never considered before.

I understand that documentation is important, and I’ll never discount the value of sharing with the world what’s happening here, but today I mostly just sit and listen to people without recording or filming. They’re terrified. Terrified of everything. And they don’t always need a journalist shoving a camera in their face. I respect their fear. What has the international press ever done for them? So I sit, and I listen, and I try to give them some kind of outlet through which they can be heard.

As usual, people we meet think that we know everything, because we’re journalists and we’re kept up to date. But we don’t even have internet access. Nevertheless, people keep asking us about the borders, about whether they’re open or if there’s any humanitarian aid coming through. We go to check, but the crossing is closed. We do find something positive, however. There’s a cafeteria that’s still somehow open, and we manage to get our hands on some cookies. COOKIES! I never thought I’d be this happy over cookies but here I am. There are as many firsts as there are lasts. We put some of them away in our car, in case of emergency, and we each bring back a portion for our families too.

After a long day, I have a blessed moment of peace at my uncle’s house with my family – today, mama, teta and Judy left Al-Zahra and came to join me in Khan Younis. We brew some tea, and we dip the cookies in it, and they try to give me space before they start asking me for updates. But they have to ask. Gaza is small, but anybody who doesn’t leave their house (or tent) can quickly start to feel isolated, because there isn’t any internet or cell service available, and the collective feeling of fear is like a plague hanging around the streets. So, I take a deep breath, set aside my tea and the crumbs of joy that I’ve managed to cling to today, and I start my report in earnest.