In the first instalment of features made with Malkit Shoshan, stemming from her project ‘Border Ecologies on the Gaza Strip’, a Palestinian family shares its story of land, labour and loss — both uniquely difficult and all too common. Through this testimony, we stand witness to extreme machinations of spatial politics, through the innumerable lives shattered by ongoing acts of genocidal violence.

This conversation is part of KoozArch's issue "Terra Infirma."

Introduction by Malkit Shoshan

In her seminal work, Eichmann in Jerusalem, Hannah Arendt examines dehumanisation as a key factor enabling the perpetration of evil. When individuals are portrayed as "the other," they lose their uniqueness and individuality, becoming mere stereotypes. This dehumanisation not only targets these individuals for violence and oppression but also allows societies to justify their harmful actions. In her exploration of the banality of evil, Arendt notes, “The chief qualification that Eichmann brought to his job was his undeniable ability to make people’s lives unlivable.”

Over the past several years, I have been in conversation with Amir Qudaih and, through him, with his family in Gaza. During the Covid isolation period, we spent hours on zoom discussing and developing the project Border Ecologies and the Gaza Strip, which won the Silver Lion at the Venice Architecture Biennale.¹ For nearly a century, fluctuations in the shape and form of the border have affected both human and natural ecologies, leading to the formation of spaces of exception — environments that, at times, seem paradoxically more resilient and sustainable than those with steadier histories.

This iteration of the Border Ecologies and the Gaza Strip project traces the transformation of a small farm in Khuza’a, a Palestinian agricultural village in the Gaza Strip situated along one of the territory’s most militarised borders with Israel. In the past few decades, the four-dunam — or 4000 square metre — farm, owned and managed by Abd el Haleem and Khaldya Qudaih, has been attacked, damaged, and destroyed time and again by Israeli air raids, shelling, and patrols.

Despite his immense pain, Amir remains optimistic, proclaiming, “I need to be happy for my family.” He believes that his happiness offers them a glimmer of hope that cannot be diminished. Since October 7th, the fence beside his village has been breached by Hamas, allowing various armed groups and enraged Gazans to invade nearby Israeli communities, resulting in devastating attacks. Recognising the imminent threat of retaliation, the villagers understood they had to escape — and the retaliation inevitably followed. This conversation aims to recount the journey of Amir's family since October 7th and their struggle to survive genocide — the unprecedented and indiscriminate Israeli bombardment against life in Gaza.

MALKIT SHOSHAN What does the farm mean to you, and can you describe it? What did daily life on the farm look like during an ordinary day, and how did it change during the war?

AMIR QUDAIH Growing up in Khuzaa, a community where everyone relied on farming for survival, shaped my perspective on agriculture. Our farm was our sole source of sustenance, the backbone of my family. It was our only source that made us survive all those years under the strict blockade on Gaza. The farm was the source that made us successful in sending myself and my siblings to engineering college. For us, the farm was more than just a place to produce food. It was a connection to the earth, a place to play, learn, and give back. We ran, played, ate, wrote, and learned how to plant there. Our farm was a sanctuary, a classroom, and a community hub where we give and share. Despite the repeated Israeli invasions that destroyed our village and farm, we were resilient. We rebuilt, persevered, and kept the farm alive. The farm witnessed countless hardships, yet it stood strong until the devastating Israeli invasion of December 15, 2023, which destroyed much of the village.

After school, we would head to the farm to tend to the plants. Our typical routine included checking on the crops, cleaning, and watering them. Fridays, our only day off from school, were reserved for harvesting tomatoes, for example. We'd often wake up as early as 5 AM; many community members would join us in the harvest, a common practice of mutual assistance in our village.

The farm was my lifeblood. It was the primary purpose of my existence back home in Gaza, the sole destination I visited daily from the age of six until I left Gaza at 23 years old. Except during wartime, I never missed a day there. It was my sanctuary, a place to turn to in joy or sorrow. Here, I did my homework, wrote, and cultivated a deep connection with the trees. I tended to them individually, ensuring their health, and cleaned around them regularly. I felt a profound bond with them. Without this farm, I might not have made it to engineering college and got my degree.

On weekdays, I followed a strict routine: waking up at six, preparing for school, and walking for twenty to thirty minutes to reach it. After school, I immediately returned to the farm to work. Occasionally, I completed my homework there, until just before sunset, when we would return home to enjoy the fresh fruits and vegetables we had grown.

As our town is situated near the Israeli border, we have faced numerous invasions and attacks. During these times, we were confined to our homes, going outside even looking from the windows risked being killed by drones or snipers. Even in normal times, drones constantly patrolled overhead, posing a threat. The fear of aerial surveillance limited our nighttime movements. Random gunfire every morning keeps farmers away. We must be cautious and avoid the farm at night, as drones and snipers pose a deadly threat. We have been shot at while working on the farm on many occasions.

MS Can you share the chronology of your family's journey since October 7? When did they decide to leave, and what motivated that decision? Where did they go and how did they settle in their new location? Who accompanied them, including any members of the community, neighbours, or family?

AQ In October 2023, my family was forced to evacuate our home as Israeli bombs fell dangerously close. My mother quickly gathered the essentials, taking only what clothes and important documents she could carry. While they were checking the rooms, a nearby shell exploded, sending shrapnel through our windows and scattering glass everywhere. My sister screamed in terror and my father frantically checked to ensure everyone was safe. He then went downstairs to where my older brother lived with his wife and their two young daughters, ages 2 and 3. Thankfully, no one was injured, but the situation had become even more dire. They locked the door quickly and left the house, knowing they had to find safety quickly.

As my family walked, my mother cried, glancing back at the house she wasn’t sure she would ever see again. She left behind a lifetime of memories and the hard work she and my father had invested in building our home over the past 35 years. They walked for hours until they reached Location 2, a U.N. school near Nasser Hospital in Khan Younis. Many of the people there were from our village. With his deep sense of responsibility as a community leader who had represented the village for years, my father took immediate action to help. He organised emergency teams, coordinated aid, managed food distribution, and handled other critical tasks to support the over 6,000 people sheltering in the school; I also sent him money to buy a water pump so they could get water to the displaced people.

A few weeks later, food supplies became critically scarce, and many people were in desperate need. Many of my male cousins sought refuge in the streets or coffee shops, gathering to check the news and discuss the situation. Knowing that our farm had a surplus of vegetables and fruits, my father decided to take a significant risk and return to the village using a donkey to pick anything left on our farm for those in the school. Despite the danger to his own life, he felt that providing food and assisting the people was his foremost responsibility. He managed to collect as much as he could from the farm during this perilous journey. When he returned, the children’s faces lit up with joy at the sight of the fresh fruits he brought back.

On October 22, 2023, I was on a hiking trip in Vermont with friends. We were enjoying breakfast and preparing for a hike when I received a message from a cousin living abroad. The message listed the names of our cousins in Gaza and included the phrase “Allah yrohmum” (may God have mercy on them). I immediately checked the local news and learned that an airstrike had hit a café in Khan Younis, killing 22 people, most of them from the Qudaih family. That day, I lost sixteen cousins.

MS In our conversation, you highlighted the importance of mutual aid and solidarity for community survival and shared how your parents supported their community. How were these values reflected in their experience while taking refuge at the UN school?

AQ In November 2023, my older brother went into the city centre to gather supplies for our family. While he was walking, an Israeli bomb hit a building near him, causing severe injuries, he was severely injured. They took him to the hospital, but the hospital was barely operating as the number of injuries was over what they could take. So they had to send him back to school with my family as he started to recover slowly.

During such challenging times, our community stands together. It is this solidarity that has helped us endure through the years. In these difficult moments, we come together as a family, sharing food, clothing, care, love, and humanity.

Amidst the city's widespread bread shortage, starvation loomed. My mother crafted and built an oven from clay in the model of our traditional ovens, unknown except in the villages. My mother wanted to give something to the community by baking bread. Kids were sitting around her, patiently waiting for fresh bread to emerge, to eat or even smell. This simple act of sharing stands as a beautiful symbol of our resilient mothers in the community.

The morning news shattered my world. As it says: Israeli bombs had struck a U.N school near Nasser Hospital. My heart pounded as I anxiously paused the videos, searching for familiar faces. To my horror, I recognized my uncle, carrying a child killed in the attack. Fear consumed me as I imagined my family's fate. Eight people, including children and a mother, were killed that night. Miraculously, my family survived, but the trauma was indelible. Witnessing loved ones die and falling debris on them had left them deeply scarred. Seeking “safety”, on January 11, 2024, they decided to relocate to Rafah, as it was called and named by the Israeli army as the safe zone.

MS After your family was forced to leave the UN school, displacement increased, fighting escalated, and access to food, water, and safe shelter became even scarcer. What happened next for your family?)

AQ On the Rafah side, Mawasi town is a tiny 8-square-mile area that the Israeli army's so-called “safe zone” where Gazans were forced. It was rapidly overwhelmed by over 1.2 million refugees. With no food, water, or shelter, my family struggled to survive. Unable to find a tent, we end up building our own shelter from fabric and wood. Living in that tent with the heat of the summer and lack of water, my family of seven endured the harsh conditions. They had to boil the seawater to make it potable.

On March 17, 2024, an Israeli airstrike hit very close to my family tent (in a so-called safe zone), destroying the tent and injuring many people. My family tried to repair the tent because they had no choice. Later, in a few weeks, a catastrophe happened when the Israeli airstrikes hit the tents in Rafah, causing them to burn while people were sleeping. Killing many people, including many children. My family had no choice except running away to Abasan.

Abasan is a town located east of Khanyounis, close to our own town of Khuza’a. On May 8, 2024, after realising that even the so-called safe zones were being bombed, my family decided to take the risk of sheltering in an abandoned storage facility in Abasan. My father arranged for my older brother, his wife, and their two young daughters to set up a tent near the sea in Khan Younis, which was relatively safer. This separation was a strategic move by my father to ensure that, in the event of a bombing, at least the children might survive; even if the rest of the family did not, at least some of the family would stay alive.

On July 1, 2024, the area where my family (my mother, father, and sister) was staying in Abasan was heavily struck, resulting in the tragic deaths of five relatives (a father and his child, and 3 girls). Faced with the decision to either stay or leave, my family had no choice but to be displaced again when the Israeli army announced its intention to invade the area for the fifth time. They were forced to embark on a perilous journey in the dead of night, carrying everything they owned on their shoulders. With so many people they navigated through darkness, debris, and ongoing gunfire, making their way to Khanyounis and finally reaching the sea by 4:00 a.m., where my brother's tent was set up. Since then, they have been living in that tent by the sea, clinging to the hope of emerging from the dark smoke and finding freedom amidst the sounds of ongoing bombings.

MS What instances of violence did your family encounter, and are there any moments that you feel are important to share?

AQ My family shared this story with me. After they were forced to leave their home for the first time, they were able to return during the initial ceasefire. They found the house damaged with many artillery shells. Later in February, they were able to visit again, but to their shock, the house had been completely destroyed, burnt completely. Additionally, they discovered evidence of Israeli soldiers occupying the house before it was burned, including discarded water bottles and trash behind them. It was clear that they had intentionally damaged our belongings before setting the house ablaze, as many items were visibly broken or thrown outside. Sadly, my father's personal items and important documents were also stolen.

While scrolling through Instagram one day, I came across a video of an Israeli soldier firing at a mosque. The mosque looked strikingly familiar, and it took me a moment to realise that the view in the video was from my own room. It was a shocking realisation that the soldier had been inside our home, using it as a vantage point to fire at the mosque and even sleeping there before stealing items, and then completely destroying the house.

MS How do you stay in contact with your family, and what do you do when you are unable to reach them?

AQ In the first 5 months, I was unable to contact my family at all. The Israelis had cut off all Internet and cell service in the Gaza Strip, leaving me constantly scrolling through news reports and lists of casualties, hoping not to see my family’s names.

After several months, I finally managed to receive text messages from them via WhatsApp. Whenever they were able to text, they would ask me about the latest news and if there were any updates. Completely cut off from the outside world, they were unaware of current events and held onto hope for a ceasefire.

My mother attempted to call me, but we were never successful in establishing a connection. Whenever we did manage to talk, it was rarely for more than a minute. These days, the connection remains very poor, and I hear from them only once a week through text messages.

MS Can you talk about your eventual passage into Egypt and what that experience was like?

AQ After months of relentless emails, calls, and inquiries, I struggled to find a way to evacuate my family and secure medical attention for them. They have been suffering from infections and severe symptoms, unable to receive proper diagnoses or treatment due to the lack of available medication. Many of the medicines they needed before the war have become impossible to find. For instance, my father hasn’t been able to obtain his diabetes and blood pressure medications for the past seven months, leading to a severe decline in his health.

Despite my efforts, I was unable to evacuate them for treatment. I travelled to Egypt to connect with a company taking advantage of the situation in Gaza by asking for an insane amount of money for evacuations from Gaza. However, by the time I arrived, the Rafah crossing had been taken over and destroyed by the Israeli forces, making it impossible for anyone to leave Gaza. Being in Egypt, just hours away from my family, was a harrowing experience. The guilt of being able to eat and drink while my family endured such suffering so close by was overwhelming.

MS Amir, thank you for your candour and courage in sharing this part of your story, and that of your farm. We will continue this conversation to discuss the means of forging new networks of solidarity, in emerging and precarious realities.

Bio

Malkit Shoshan is a designer, author, and educator. She is the founding director of the Foundation for Achieving Seamless Territory (FAST), which initiates and develops projects at the intersection of architecture, urban planning and human rights. In her work, she uses spatial design tools to make visible systemic violence, engage with various publics to co-design alternatives that centre social and environmental justice, and advocate for systemic change.

Shoshan is a design critic in Urban Planning at Harvard University’s Graduate School of Design, and a visiting scholar at NYU’s Institute for Public Knowledge. Her work has been published and exhibited internationally. In 2021, she was awarded, together with FAST, the Silver Lion at the Venice Architecture Biennale for their collaborative presentation “Border Ecologies and the Gaza Strip.”