It’s nearing the one-year anniversary of when I interviewed Reem Aljazar. There’s a particular question I want to ask her, for my own sake. We type back and forth in Arabic; I’ve come to trust Google Translate, maybe more than I should, and I’ve learned to switch around the way I write in English— I’ve learned which sorts of words and ideas and grammatical constructions make it through the machine, and which don’t. I’ve learned which things are errors, coming out the other side, and what’s been lost to make them.

We start by talking a little about her work.

“The title of my Master's thesis was The Effectiveness of Services Provided to People With Disabilities in Palestine and Building a Proposed Vision for their Development.”

A bit of a mouthful— but she’s a bit of an academic. They’re like that— here, and everywhere.

Reem’s thesis is the reason I’m talking to her. One of my other friends on the ground in Gaza spends a lot of time and energy trying to make me feel hope. It’s a strange relationship; I, on the safe and easy outside, feeling the end of the world—she, kept up at night by the bombs, and starving, reassuring me over and over not to lose heart; everything is going to be okay. She sends me pictures of the good food that she eats whenever she manages it. She sends me pictures— and videos— of her younger brothers, happy and smiling. A few days ago, she sent me a picture of Reem presenting her Master’s thesis in a tent, with other people sitting around and listening as she talked about disability accommodations in Gaza.

“I completed writing the thesis after I was displaced from my home,” Reem tells me. “What inspired me to study this field is that in my country, there are many people who fall under the umbrella of this major.”

We are dancing around it, so far; we are speaking as though I am just in one country, and she is in another, and we are just curious about each other’s experiences. We are speaking as though nothing has happened to her besides being displaced from her home—and that, like it’s just a thing that happens.

I lose our little standoff, of course. I ask if there’s anything unique about the situation in Gaza as it relates to disability activism and studies. And she— quickly, I am learning the kind of thinker that she is— she manages, still, to talk around it. She talks about how special education in Gaza is a relatively new field. In fact, she is one of the first batch of students to graduate with an advanced degree in the topic— and for that matter, she’s at the top of her class, with better grades than I ever managed to get in anything.

And then— almost as a mercy:

“Before last October, there were large numbers of people with physical, mental, or other disabilities resulting from injuries. But of course, with these events, the situation developed, and the number of people who were injured worsened rapidly. It has become normal in Gaza to see an amputee!”

It’s at this point that the internet cuts out for the first time. I go and get myself a slice of pizza and some water— just fuel. I get a little sunshine and air. By the time I come back, Reem is ready to go again. She apologizes: “If the internet is cut off suddenly, you know that is normal here with us.”

I tell her not to worry. I know it very, very well. She picks up where she left off. “In my thesis, I talked about the obstacles that hinder the delivery of services to people with disabilities. There is a lack of real follow-up of special education inside Gaza compared to countries and places outside Gaza, and this is due to the siege and successive wars.”

For all that I do know very well, I know almost nothing at all about everything else. I know the rubble and the outages, the starvation and the disease— the bombs and missiles and drones, I know them—or I know of them, as much as I can from the outside. But that’s all I know. Gaza is a crater-in-progress to me. I don’t know what it was before. Were there roads? Were there skyscrapers? Public fountains? Grass? Swingsets? Bike-lanes? I am not sure what to imagine.

“The infrastructure in Gaza before the war was simple and not up to the required standards. Wheelchairs were available but in limited numbers due to their high price. This was before last October. Ramps for wheelchairs were not widespread, and their presence was rare in Gaza. There were no automatic doors or good elevators. The blockade— it is one of the biggest obstacles to improving the conditions of people with disabilities.”

The same blockade that kept out chocolate and strawberries keeps out prosthetics. It keeps out cement for building wheelchair ramps and the electronic components required to construct proper elevators.

“Also, restricting and preventing groups of learners or researchers in the field of special education and rehabilitation from leaving Gaza prevents Gaza from keeping up with the outside world in terms of research and support tools!” I tell her that my hope for this interview is that it will draw more outside attention to her work— and the work of people like her. I want to help share her thesis with people outside Gaza. She deserves to be recognized. The internet cuts out again.

It has been two days now before it comes back on. I message her now and then, in the meantime, just asking her to reassure me of her safety when she has the chance. I sit and I wait. I have become used to waiting— and I’ve become good at telling myself that it’s just the internet, that’s all it is. I’ve become good at forcing myself not to imagine— to just wait. Just wait.

When she comes back, she doesn’t bother explaining or apologizing. She knows now that I don’t need that.

“I constantly see amputees after the October War on Gaza, she says. They face exceptional challenges that have not been resolved; the availability of support tools and medical treatments, physical therapy and rehabilitation, and so on, or psychological relief sessions and psychological support sessions for them after losing one or more limbs.”

Can you sense the change? I can sense the change— it’s slight, but it’s there. It happens. It’s “a bomb came a little too close yesterday”. It’s “I’m running out of uncles”. It’s “I can’t hear myself think anymore over the rumbling of my stomach”. It’s “there’s been no soap and I’ve been scratching myself so deep it’s starting to bleed”— but “here I am anyway to talk to you, because I said that I would.”

I don’t know that I would still be anywhere to talk to anyone.

“It is very necessary to have psychological sessions that provide support and counseling for amputees, especially those who lost one or more limbs after getting out from under the rubble of their homes, or after injuries from difficult events. Psychological support sessions are one of the most important steps in treatment for these people. They can also accept losing one or more limbs, and they can also continue their private and public lives better if they are provided with these sessions.”

One or more limbs. Is that what people have lost in the rubble? Is that what gets ripped off of them?

“These are definitely difficult events. Without support, they cannot accept losing a limb.”

She asks how I heard of her, anyways? How did I know she was presenting her thesis? I tell her about my friend. She thanks me, and she tells me to thank my friend, too. She tells me how important this is, how she hopes this can reach people outside of Gaza. She tells me how she wants to inspire people to provide real help for those who have been injured, for their bodies and their lives. I thank her right back. I tell her what it was that I really wanted to talk about when I heard about the topic of her thesis.

يقول الناس إن أكثر من %70 من المباني في غزة قد ُدم ّرت حتى اآلن. وبعد انتهاء اإلبادة الجماعية، سوف يكون هناك قدر هائل من حق في التحدث إليك هو أنني أردت أن أعرف وجهة نظرك بشأن عملية إعادة البناء هذه. ً إعادة البناء. أحد األسباب التي جعلتني أرغب ا

وباحث في مجال اإلعاقة، ما هي أفكارك حول كيفية إعادة بناء غزة بطريقة تستوعب مبتوري األطراف وغيرهم من ً ناش ًط ا بصفتك ا المصابين؟

It’s selfish of me. I know that—I don’t need to be told; talking about “rebuilding”. That’s for my own sake—me, here, on the outside, deciding to talk about things like they’re going to be over soon. Like nothing is going to get worse. It’s lovely, for me, being able to talk about “after”. It’s lovely, being able to look at this as a chance to build back better, with the needs of the people in mind. Reem doesn’t begrudge me that. And it’s still a fair question, I think. 70% in ruins—I don’t say anything to her about the Great Chicago Fire, or such. Just the question as it is is enough to flip on the switch of her enthusiasm again.

“Yes! It is essential to include the affairs of amputees and people with disabilities in the reconstruction of buildings, homes, and facilities in Gaza! I see that international standards for construction, whether homes, government departments, or entertainment, should be applied, and that successful simulations of successful achievements should be implemented in building qualified facilities for amputees and people with disabilities!”

I want to talk about “after”. I want to see someone inside talking about “after”—feeling that kind of hope. It’s selfish. Catharsis on demand. I ask Reem for more specifics; what are some particular things that can be done with rebuilding to make life easier for the thousands and thousands of amputees who have managed to survive this conflict? Wheelchair ramps and elevators? Automatic doors? Braille? Or new ideas— things I’ve never even heard of or considered. Doors that open in ways I haven’t imagined. Buildings that don’t need ramps or elevators in the first place.

“Very good question,” Reem tells me, “and I have a lot to say about this because I live in Gaza City!”

“I know very well what it is like and what the requirements are that amputees and people with disabilities need,” Reem tells me. “Also, I am very up to date with the world outside Gaza and the progress in this field!”

“So I can give you an answer”, Reem tells me, “and maybe a real vision in this regard!”

And then nothing. Again. For hours. I tell myself it’s just the internet— it’s been happening more and more lately. Or maybe the power has gone out— that’s also a possibility. Sometimes, they have to walk for miles to find a place to charge their phones; maybe her feet are tired. Maybe she’s going to come back and tell me that one of her important ideas is to have public charging stations all over the place in Gaza, free to use— charging for phones, but also for mobility scooters, battery-powered prosthetics—pacemakers, insulin-pumps—do those need to be charged?

Finally. “Can I complete the answer at another time? Right now, I feel very tense because I have a sister and a brother in Jabalia, and they are facing severe escalation by the occupation army.”

I tell her that, of course, it’s fine. She can take all the time she needs. I understand—or I don’t, but I do.

“I tried to contact them repeatedly so I could know how they are doing!” she says, and then she doesn’t say anything else after that. Not for hours, not for days. I ask her to tell me that she is safe—nothing. I tell her I am praying for her family—nothing. Not now, as I sit down to write this out—the best I can, with what I’ve got—nothing.

Just cut off. Just gone.