Gaza is no longer Gaza. Israel increases the ground offensive in the south of the strip and the entire enclave is bombed, including the refugee camps of Al Burayi, Nuseirat and Maghazi. 70% of Gaza's buildings are rubble, according to a latest estimate by The Wall Street Journal. Less than a month ago the Secretary General of the UN, António Guterres, spoke of 60%.
The year ends and in Gaza the numbers reach unimaginable levels just three months ago. In the Israeli offensive against Hamas, 1% of the Gazan population has died, more than 21,600 people in total, more than 200 victims every 24 hours, according to the enclave's Ministry of Health. And the displaced people fleeing conflict zones are more than 90% of the 2.3 million Gazans, details the UN refugee agency, and they are experiencing a humanitarian disaster due to lack of food, water or electricity.
But there is no pause. After the Hamas attack on October 7 that caused more than 1,200 deaths in Israel and dozens of hostages, of whom 129 remain captive, it is clear that Israel is unable to find the leaders of the Islamist organization. And everything accelerates.
The United States just approved sending $150 million in weapons to Israel without going through Congress. Prime Minister Beniamin Netanyahu's war cabinet deepens its offensive while adding holes: it was supposed to meet last Thursday to discuss post-Hamas Gaza, but he delayed the meeting to this Tuesday due to disagreements over its content, in particular due to complaints from the ultras of his Government. The possibility of a new ceasefire, its conditions or the future role of the Palestinian Authority stress him.
The war in Gaza is dragging on, negotiations for a new truce are expected, but they have not yet materialized. Netanyahu hesitates, and nerves grow in disputed Jerusalem over its consequences.
And it is that in the old city of Jerusalem that houses the Al Aqsa mosque, the Jewish Wailing Wall and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where according to Christian tradition Jesus died and his tomb is empty, there are fears that the delicate balance between their communities. The Armenian, Christian, Jewish and Muslim neighborhoods are all four within the same walled city and have been holding their breath since October 7 and the start of the war.
Today, when a non-religious visitor asks at the entrance to the Muslim quarter of the old city which way to follow to visit the esplanade of the Mosques, he is told that it is better to go through the Christian quarter. Or by the Jew, further away. “Entering through the Muslim is not prohibited, but there are the police and the situation...,” he explains.
In the Muslim neighborhood you see few people walking, there are many Israeli security forces with weapons in hand and cameras on the most nondescript corners. An Italian religious (there are many in the Holy Land) who lives in this neighborhood explains: “You don't see the Muslim neighbors. They prefer to be at home. Yes, we see a lot of ultra-orthodox people pass through that did not pass before or at least avoided it.”
In the Media Luna office next to the Muslim neighborhood they do not want to talk about how the war is experienced in the communities of the old city. Neither does a minor hairdresser who runs a tiny shop measuring three by three meters in the Muslim neighborhood. On the same street, a thirty-something man who orders his souvenir stall even though there are no tourists simply responds: “Now the neighborhood is always empty and it doesn't matter if it's in the morning or in the afternoon.” In the alleys the terrain is steep, and talking about the consequences of the war is equally so.
And even more so when this past Friday the Israeli authorities restricted access to the Al Aqsa mosque and there were riots. Or when a few days before the police arrested an Israeli for desecrating the Muslim cemetery at the foot of the walls of the old city with a donkey's head.
In the Christian neighborhood, Father Samuel del Santo Sepulcro says, reclining in his armchair, that “here we are used to war, but minorities are not the problem, they are wars from other parts that are fought here. Everything will be fine. “Here it is between neighbors, not between states.” Aram is 64 years old, he is Armenian and lives in the Armenian neighborhood, with about half a thousand inhabitants. He is a tour guide and since the 7th he has not worked. He receives money from the Israeli Government. And he, who has walked its streets since 1967, says that “there are no problems. Here the neighbors have an international education.” Then he stops, straightens the brown beret he is wearing, looks at the empty street, and adds: “Well, there are fanatics everywhere.”
At crossroads in the old city, plaques honoring the Jews murdered there stand out. One, shot in the eighties. Another, stabbed in the nineties. Another, shot in the near 2021.
Aviad is tall, blond, and wears a white shirt and dark pants like many Jews in Jerusalem. He does not give his last name, like almost everyone today, and he believes that the situation “is a point and apart. “It's like a divorce and then wanting to go back.” Then two friends approach, he tells them that the journalist wants to know what the relationship between the communities is like, and they smile: “It's complicated,” they simply say.
Everyone looks to 2024 with uncertainty.
