We knock on the tank, so that the soldier will know we are inside, and that there is no need to shell the house. We are not a threat, we are not resistance fighters, just women and children and some men, desperate, terrified. We knock on the tank so that he hears us, so that he doesn’t reduce the house to rubble. This is our last hope, our last act of communication before dying.
We knock on the tank. The tank doesn’t knock back.
We have lost the right to suicide. We die all the time, but we cannot choose when or how. Suicide is an act of autonomy, an ultimate refusal. But we no longer own even our deaths. If we throw ourselves from a balcony, we will simply be considered another airstrike victim. If we overdose, we’ll just be counted among the rubble. Here, dying is so common it erases the act itself.
We speak of “martyred children” but never of terrified ones. We allow no room for fear, trauma, or grief that doesn’t serve a purpose. We are encouraged to show our murdered children on camera, bodies still warm, limbs missing, because this might win us sympathy. But we are not allowed to cry too much. We must be resilient, dignified. We must mourn beautifully.
Our resistance is expected, demanded, romanticized, but never humanized. The world loves the idea of our heroism but is repelled by our sorrow. They want poetry, not panic. They want steadfastness, not screams. Our grief must be curated: eloquent, photogenic, righteous. We cannot be shattered. We cannot say: I want to die.
We are not allowed to die privately. Even our corpses are political. Every mass grave is a press release. Every funeral is content. If you collapse from hunger, someone might film it. If your child dies, your reaction is scrutinized: Are you angry enough to go viral? Are you dignified enough for donors?
We no longer have the luxury of despair. Despair is selfish. Despair doesn’t mobilize. Despair doesn’t fundraise. Despair doesn’t fit the narrative. So, we swallow it, hide it, bury it deeper than the bodies. Instead, we write: “We are fine. Alhamdulillah.”
Gaza Herald chose to publish this essay not for drama or spectacle, but because it speaks to what too many in Gaza endure in silence. It exposes how even grief has been colonized — how pain must perform, and survival itself becomes a shameful act. May this serve as both witness and warning, a reminder of the human cost that statistics and headlines cannot carry.
Let this piece travel. Let it provoke. And above all, let it not be forgotten.
“We Knock on the Tank”: On Dignity, Shame, and Survival in Gaza
Gaza Herald | Republished Essay
Originally writtenby Husam Almadhoun
(2024), formatted and shared here by Gaza Herald
