Since the war started, the job has become his life. Many of the people who were bombed were his neighbors, people he grew up with.
Hatem Al-Attar, 25 years old, was not married. His courage was not reckless, or born of ignorance. He knew he could die at any moment.
“All the days of war Since October 7th So far it has been difficult. Every second of this war was difficult. “You could lose your life or the life of someone dear to you at any moment,” Hatem says.
He is sitting in the Civil Defense office in Deir al-Balah with his companions. They talk and check their phones. Every one is a survivor.
Ninety-four of their comrades were killed. More than 300 people were injured, nearly half of Gaza's civil defense personnel.
For Hatem, death was closer to the explosion that knocked him off his feet in a house near Nasser Hospital.
“There were people who were injured and killed around the house,” he recalls.
“I went in to make sure there was anyone there, alive or dead. As soon as I entered, a reconnaissance missile hit the house.”
Footage taken by one of his colleagues shows him entering the building. There is a fire burning to the left of the frame.
Then there was a loud explosion, clouds of smoke, and a man staggered out, but it was not Hatem.
His friends come back inside and drag him out. He's coughing and has to be lifted up. But he survives.
Others close to him were not so lucky.
On March 14 last year – the beginning of Ramadan – he received a phone call at 4 a.m. from one of his brothers.
No one in Gaza, in wartime, called at that time with good news.
“He told me that our house in Bureij had been bombed and that my father had been killed.”
Hatem went to Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir Al-Balah and met a family friend who took him to the morgue.
“When I went there, my father was lying on the ground next to eight other bodies. They were my sister-in-law and her seven children! I was shocked.”
However, Hatem continued to go to the scene of explosions, collapsed buildings, and rubble where the dead, and sometimes the living, were buried. Remove the bodies and parts of the bodies.
Then came the hour when the bombing and shooting stopped.
The first night without air raids. It's time to start thinking about something that wasn't guaranteed over the past 15 months – the future.
His thoughts turn to education and romance.
“With this deal, I have to think about what I will do next. I will continue my university studies once universities are back in session. I am single but I will think about getting married.”
Environmental Protection AgencyIn trying to tell the story of how Gazans experience this war, my BBC colleagues and I have relied on the tireless efforts of local journalists working on our behalf.
Israel Preventing foreign media from entering Gaza To report on the war independently.
Local BBC journalists have been on the streets almost non-stop for the past 24 hours to capture images of the atmosphere in Gaza at the time of the ceasefire: a gunman standing on the road in Nuseirat in central Gaza, shooting into the air; Hamas fighters and police reappear; A few yards down the road, another group of men fired into the sky; Crowds gather in cross streets and corners; Man kneeling and kissing the ground.
But all this happens against the backdrop of devastation. Trucks and cars pass by, burdened with people's belongings. Some use donkey carts to transport possessions left over after multiple displacements.
There are hundreds of thousands of flights in Gaza today. Some of them are already underway. Others exist in the imagination. Everyone has one direction – home.
Professor Jumaa Abu Shiha arrives at what remains of his home in Nuseirat.
First, he says the feeling of survival is “indescribable.” He prays to himself: “God is the best disposer of affairs in our affairs.”
He repeats this as he moves from one destroyed room to another. His wife and several children follow him.
The walls were blown up. The interior is full of machine gun marks and shrapnel.
Professor Abu Shiha describes how he built the house “piece by piece,” painted it, and cherished the moment he brought his family to live here.
“I can't find a house,” he says, “I only see destruction and not the house.” “I didn’t expect that. I was expecting to return home and find a place to shelter me and my children.”
He points to his daughters' and sons' rooms, carefully decorated and now deserted. “The feeling is indescribable,” he says.
There is a huge rebuilding task ahead. The United Nations and relief agencies have repeatedly done this Israel was accused of obstructing the flow of aid; The United States at one point threatened to reduce military aid to Israel unless more aid was allowed into Gaza. Israel denies imposing restrictions on aid.
Aid trucks were crossing into the Strip throughout the afternoon. Among them was a convoy from the Jordanian Hashemite Charitable Organization. Which we reported on last weekOn the flight from Amman to Gaza.
Forklifts transported tons of medicine and food to help nearly two million displaced people in Gaza – nearly 90% of the population.
Getty ImagesThis assistance is tangible assistance. They can be weighed, counted, loaded and finally distributed. People can be fed and given medicine. But there is another challenge whose demands are enormous, and which will have a profound impact on Gaza's future.
The war has created unknown numbers of traumatized adults and children. We recorded some of their stories But they know of tens of thousands more that remain unknown.
The children have faced severe suffering. According to a survey of caregivers of 504 children, L War Children UK charity96% of children felt that death was imminent.
The interviews also found that 49% had a death wish. Our journalists often heard young survivors say they wished they could join their deceased mother, father or siblings.
Ten-year-old Amr al-Hindi was the only survivor of an Israeli raid on the building where he lived in Beit Lahia last October. Our colleague in the region photographed Amr in the hospital immediately after the attack.
The ground around him was covered with wounded. A woman sat with blood pouring from her ear. Nearby a man had just died.
“Where's Sharif?” Amr asked repeatedly. The nurse told him that Sharif was fine. “I'll take you upstairs to see him.” But his brother Sharif did not survive. Neither his other brother Ali, nor his sister Aseel, nor his mother and father. The whole family is gone.
Immediately after the announcement of the ceasefire agreement, we returned to see what happened to Amr al-Hindi. He lived with his grandparents, and it was clear that they loved him with care and affection. Three of the child's toes were amputated after the bombing, but he was able to walk normally.
Amr sat on his grandfather's lap and stared directly into the camera. He was still and collected, as if he were looking out from behind a thick protective curtain. He started talking about his brother Ali and how he wanted to go to Jordan to study to become a doctor.
He said, “I hope to become like Ali. I want to fulfill his dream and travel to Jordan to become a doctor.” But after the last few words the tears started to fall and he burst into tears.
Amr's grandfather kissed him on the cheek; “Baby,” he said and patted his chest.
At this moment it is understood that there are many wars here.
Some that have stopped. Others, for the survivors, will live long into the future.
With additional reporting from Alice Doyard, Malak Hassouna and Adam Campbell.
