As I celebrate Christmas in London, my neighbourhood in Gaza is being flattened

While I indulge in festive food, my family back home is being starved. As I dance to cheerful music, my people run from the sounds of bombs. And as I enjoy the warmth of a conversation over drinks, my loved ones are fighting for a sip of water.

On December 12, while I was at a Christmas party, I heard the news that Dr Sayeed Joudeh had been killed. He wasn’t just a doctor – he was the lifeline of our community in Jabalia, northern Gaza. For decades, he had healed not only bodies but hearts, too.

We called him ‘Uncle Dr Sayeed’ because he wasn’t just a physician – he was family. He was there for everyone, always. I remember one night when my mother fell ill. Dr Sayeed came to our house at two in the morning. On another occasion, he showed up late at night to tend to my father’s back pain. He never turned anyone away, no matter the hour or the circumstance. His kindness was boundless, his care unwavering.

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When the genocidal assault on Gaza began in October, Dr Sayeed came out of retirement without hesitation. His son Majd begged him to leave Gaza, to save himself, but he refused. “This is my duty,” he told him. Even after Majd was killed by an Israeli drone while searching for neighbors buried beneath rubble, Dr Sayeed stayed. He grieved, but he didn’t stop. He continued to move between Kamal Edwan and Al-Awda, the last remaining hospitals in northern Gaza, risking his life every day to save others.

On December 12, as he traveled between the two hospitals, an Israeli drone struck him down. Unarmed, healing the wounded – this was his crime. His death shattered us. When my mother called to pay condolences to his family, we learned something even more heartbreaking: Dr Sayeed had been quietly battling cancer. He had told no one except Majd, not wanting to burden his family. Even in his own suffering, he thought only of others.

Dr Sayeed’s death is more than a personal loss—it is emblematic of what Gaza has lost. He was one of tens of thousands—teachers, doctors, mothers, fathers—who have been erased in this genocide. But his story must be told because it speaks to the humanity that Israel’s bombs are trying to destroy.

His story is woven into the destruction of Jabalia, the place where I was born. Our home there was more than a building – it was a sanctuary, filled with love, laughter, and generations of memories. But Jabalia no longer exists. After weeks of relentless bombing, it is a wasteland, emptied of life and stripped of its soul.

My father – nearly 80 years old, older than the state of Israel itself – refused to leave. “I have been displaced too many times,” he told us. “I cannot do it again.” We begged him to go, but he stayed, even as the bombs fell closer and closer.

On December 3, an Israeli F-16 bombed the home of the Jouda family, our neighbours and close friends. A father, mother, and their four children were killed. The next day, Majd – Dr Sayeed’s son – was killed while searching for their bodies. Their deaths broke my father. I called him, and I heard him sobbing uncontrollably. I hadn’t heard him cry like that since 1991, when my sister Amani suffocated from Israeli tear gas.

The destruction escalated. Israel launched what they called a “ring of fire”, erasing entire neighbourhoods, including ours. My father’s house was partially destroyed. A relative risked his life to pull my father from the rubble, carrying him to Kamal Edwan Hospital. By December 10th, Jabalia was empty. My father finally joined my mother in Gaza City, but the devastation he witnessed will stay with him – and with us – forever.

While my father endured the destruction of our home, my sister Sammah and her family faced horrors of their own. At a checkpoint near Al-Andonisi Hospital, as they fled Jabalia, Israeli soldiers separated the men from the women. My brother-in-law Mahmoud was stripped naked, humiliated, and beaten. My sister held tightly to their young son, Youssif, refusing to let him go.

A soldier grabbed her son and shouted: “If you don’t let him go, I will kill him in front of you—and then I’ll kill you.” My sister screamed, clutching him tighter, while her husband and brothers stood helpless, meters away. An older woman intervened, pleading with her: “Please. Let go. They’ll kill us all if you don’t. Yalla, walk. Your son will come back.”

With no other choice, my sister let go of her son. She walked away, her heart breaking with every step. Hours later, Youssif was returned to her, but nothing can erase the trauma of that moment. Mahmoud was detained for three weeks before being released in southern Gaza. For my sister, reuniting with him meant enduring unimaginable risks, but she made it.

These stories – Dr Sayeed’s sacrifice, my father’s heartbreak, my sister’s ordeal – are not unique. They are threads in the fabric of Gaza’s suffering, woven together by resilience and unimaginable pain. Dr Sayeed, in particular, represents a profound loss not only for my community but for all of Gaza. He was a quiet hero who chose to stay and serve his people, even after losing his son. His story – and the stories of tens of thousands like him – must not be forgotten.

What is happening in Gaza is not a war. It is genocide. It is the systematic erasure of a people, their history, and their humanity. The people of Gaza have done nothing to deserve this. Their only crime is being born on a land that the world has deemed expendable.

As we celebrate Christmas here in London, how many of us will think of the people of Gaza? How many will remember that this holy land, where Jesus was born, is now a land of suffering and destruction? While we gather in warmth and comfort, families like mine are fleeing bombs, starving for food, and begging for water.

Dr Sayeed’s legacy lives on in the countless lives he touched and healed. It is up to us to honour that legacy—not by turning away, but by telling these stories, by refusing to let these lives disappear into silence.

This Christmas, as we celebrate hope, love, and new beginnings, I ask you to remember Gaza. I ask you to remember its people, who continue to hold on to their humanity even as the world looks away.

Dr Sayeed stayed because he believed his people were worth saving. We must believe that, too.

Ahmed Najar is a playwright and director from Gaza now living in London.

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