The New Yorker:

When the war in Gaza started, my family fled to the Jabalia refugee camp. Then Israel started bombing the camp.

By Mosab Abu Toha

It is 6:20 p.m. on Friday, October 27th. My children are playing in the house where we have taken refuge, in the Jabalia refugee camp. “I’m getting hungry,” my wife, Maram, whispers to me. “Let’s eat some snacks.” We sneak into the next room and sit on the stairs, where our children are less likely to see us. We miss these private moments, when we could spend time together and joke.

Outside, a red light flashes in the dark sky, like lightning; it is followed not by rain but by rubble that pounds the roofs of houses around us. Maram stops eating. When I stand to peer outside, the air pressure pushes me back.

I walk over to my father, who is anxiously holding up a radio to his ear. “Al Jazeera says that they have lost connection with their correspondents in Gaza,” he says. “There is no signal.”

I take my phone out of my pocket. For the first time since the escalation, three weeks ago, there is no Internet, and neither of my sim cards has any service. My older sister, Aya, who has five children, asks us to warn her when we see bombs fall, so she can cover her ears before the blast reaches us. “My ears are aching,” she says.

I remember that my iPhone has an Emergency SOS feature for when there is no signal. But, when I pull it up, it tells me, “You’re in a region where the satellite connection demo is not supported.” I find another option called crash detection—“If you’re in a car crash, iPhone can automatically call emergency services.” I think that Apple should create a feature called bomb detection—but the people who could help us do not live in Gaza.

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