I don’t have any kids, so sometimes when my friends are sending cute pictures of their children, I’ll respond in kind with some pictures of the cat.
It’s not that I think pets are equal to children – and indeed I get the gawks whenever somebody refers to their “fur babies” – but Pip (the cat) is photogenic and sharing pictures is the modern way to stay in touch.
I have a new friend. When she sent me pictures of her four cat-loving children playing with some kittens I was delighted to respond with some snaps of Pip sunning herself on the patio.
My new friend is into baking and has baked celebration cakes for many of her neighbours. Her eldest daughter has picked up her skills and loves baking too. Her husband used to run his own company but has been out of work for a while now. Their family has moved 16 times in the past 18 months. My new friend’s name is Duaa, and she lives in Gaza.
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I often joke that my cat doesn’t know how lucky she has it, with her electric blanket and her buffet of Dreamies and never has this felt truer than when I’ve sent pictures of Pip over WhatsApp to Duaa, hoping that her children might get a kick out of this spoilt Irish cat and that I’m not being too crushingly insensitive.
Her children are sick. The older girls have severe dental problems because of malnutrition. All are hungry and traumatised.
When I last spoke to Duaa, she told me she is desperate for household items, food and clean water. The family are living open air on the roof of a relative’s home after once more being forced to move.
I’ve been connected with Duaa through Connections Collective, a grassroots campaign started by Dublin-based woman Ranae von Meding. She’s matching individuals with verified families in Gaza so people like me can share fundraising efforts on my social media and try to get money through to help with food or water or medicine. Ranae says it “isn’t charity, it’s solidarity”.
Duaa tells me how afraid she is all the time. In desperation she has sent me pictures and videos of a huge, pus-filled boil on her baby son’s bottom caused, she thinks, by makeshift nappies. She also sent me images of the wound being drained.
I wonder if I should warn her of the dangers of sending pictures of children to strangers from the internet but quickly realise that child internet safety is not at the top of her list of priorities right now. She’s worried her son won’t survive another night of bombing and if he does, will she be able to track down the medicine he needs to fight the infection that has set in? “The occupation is deliberately preventing [the antibiotics] entry,” she says.
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Duaa says there is food and water available where they are, but everything costs a fortune. The infrastructure in Gaza is so tortured that even though the money is donated through reputable collectors like Chuffed.org and GoFundMe and then being distributed through reliable cash networks on the ground, a a huge chunk of the money, Duaa says, can be kept as a handling fee.
In a way, my connection with Duaa has made me feel more helpless than ever. I’ve kept my contact with her to once a day and I’ve apologised to her for not being in touch more, telling her I have been busy with work. This is partly true, but it’s also because the updates are so grim and my guilt-filled privilege can quickly overwhelm.
I know, poor me in my Dublin 8 apartment, sipping the Gaza Cola (a Palestinian-owned soft drink) bought from a Dalymount Park fundraiser.
I’ve told Duaa that we’re doing all we can here in Ireland to help the people of Gaza and Palestine. Her heartbreaking response? “Can we leave Gaza and go to Ireland, anywhere? I hope we can live a happy life.”
I can’t tell her that next week our Central Bank acting as a regulator is due to once again approve the sale of Israeli bonds in the EU. I won’t point to the feet-dragging on the Occupied Territories Bill. I will continue to share her story, listen to her updates and wish I could do the same for a thousand Duaas in Gaza and a million Duaas around the world.
