In Gaza, he taught thousands of children to swim, now man counts the deaths of former students
I stay in contact with the children who I taught to swim, but war decimated and separated our team. I must believe this is not the end; that our dream lives on. When I head toward the tower to find a better signal, I tremble. The news comes on and I break down. My legs go weak and I cannot breathe.
- 1 month ago
August 8, 2024
RAFAH, Gaza ꟷ Thinking of the young students I taught to swim who have since fallen victim to war in Gaza creates unbearable pain for me. When the bombing started after October 7, 2023, I shook like a leaf. This felt like a war far greater than anything I experienced before.
On that day, my family and I lay sleeping in our home in northern Gaza. A few hours later, as my wife and I readied our children for school, we heard a loud bang. In shock, we thought someone had been killed. A few minutes later, we learned about Hamas’ operation in Israel, and expected a massive counter offensive.
Where we live, we witnessed high intensity shelling and total destruction. In those first few days, we barely had a chance to breath between bombs. In desperation, we had no choice but to flee to safety.
Young swimmer trains Gazan youth for Olympics, but facilities are destroyed repeatedly
At 20 years old, I dreamed of swimming in the Olympic Games. As one of the top swimmers in Gaza, my father maintained high expectations, hoping I might qualify in Sydney. Though I did not make it to the Olympics, I made the choice to become a swimming instructor. I wanted to bring younger swimmers to the goal I missed; to pass my dream on to them.
In those days in Gaza, few people knew how to swim. During the first course I offered in 1999, only five children appeared. The next year we had 40. At first, I hosted classes in the sea, in a sheltered corner of the Gaza pier. No swimming pools existed there at the time. [With conflict being nothing new to Gaza], war often destroyed our swimming places.
When that happened, I dug ponds on the beach and on farmlands. I hired bulldozers to dig sand from the beach and used debris from conflict to create protective barriers against the sea in Beit Lahia. In a few years, by the early 2000s, the progress proved astonishing. Some of my students seemed poised for the Olympic Games. Then, the Second Intifada [a major uprising of Palestinians against Israeli occupation] complicated the situation.
When Hamas came to power, my hope fell definitively. Wars, death, and destruction became continuous from that day forward. The Gaza Strip transformed into an open-air prison. In 2005, the first pool I built became unusable as bombardments destroyed sewers and contaminated water in the harbor. I built a second pool on the beach, digging a trench and covering it with plastic sheeting, but it too crumbled under an Israeli offensive.
Through repeated conflicts, Gazan swimming instructor repeatedly rebuilds
Refusing to give up, I decided to build a pool on my own farm in Beit Lahia where my family lived for generations. A magical place, the farm boasted acres of fruit trees descending a gentle slope. I remember diving on their branches and settling into the extraordinary tangle. The trees formed a cozy place, protecting you from the sun. It became an oasis of peace for my students who loved to pick strawberries.
In 2008 and 2009, this dream also came to an end under Israeli artillery fire. In 22 days, over 1,300 Palestinians died, over 300 of them children. Among them were two of my nephews. Hamza, 11, and Mahmoud, 17, were part of our swimming team.
Years passed and conflicts left parents without the financial resources to pay for swimming lessons. I stopped teaching and a deep sadness settled in. Then, five years later, in 2014, five children from my village drowned in one week. I realized I needed to start again – to teach children to swim.
Using a small excavator and rubble from destroyed buildings, I built a new pool in the sea of Beit Lahia. Funds from different supporting organizations allowed me to give the classes free of charge to children. That year I taught swimming to 350 Gazan children, 40 of whom were schoolmates of Hamza, my little nephew who died.
I wanted them to come to the pool to have a little fun and forget their suffering for a while. By 2020, I put together the best team I ever coached. They aspired to one day qualify for the Olympics, then the COVID-19 Pandemic hit, and I became derailed once again.
Man’s dreams for the children of Gaza disappear after October 7, 2023
We never stopped dreaming; my students and I trained, always thinking about the Paris Olympics. Then, something happened far worse than we could have imagined. On October 7, 2023, war broke out between Israel and Gaza.
I remember the leaflets dropping proclaiming southern Gaza as safe. It felt like our only chance at survival. I took my five children, wife, and elderly parents, got in the car with nothing but blankets, and headed south. The one route established as safe passage suddenly got hit by bombs. Within minutes of us crossing – just after we passed – 100 people died. Shocked and afraid, It felt like we were saved by a miracle.
During our stay in the south, we heard regular air raids. For several days, we became submerged in endless gun battles, and I believed we would die. When the ground invasion crept closer, we fled again, this time to northern Gaza. Eventually, we settled at a camp where we finally found refuge. The camp sits in the ruins of a children’s playground in Khan Yunis, in the center of Gaza.
My wife, children, and I share a tent made of plastic sheeting. My days consist of queuing in line to collect essentials: a tank of drinking water, some flour, sugar, and maybe the quick use of an electrical socket.
With occasional internet access, when I go online, I feel piercing pain, learning about the deaths of my friends, neighbors, and former students. Tears fill my eyes as I post tributes to them. I constantly fear another child whom I taught to swim dying or being injured.
Gazan swimming instructor recounts his students who died or lost family
When I consider that the deaths I know about represent only a fraction of the real impact, I mourn the children killed. The scale of child deaths feels unprecedented, leaving a permanent negative impact. It will take great effort and years to heal. Nothing can compensate for this unbearable loss.
Sometimes, sitting in camp, I fantasize about continuing life. We planned to teach 1,000 poor children this summer as we did for the last three years. Unfortunately, summer began and we cannot resume. Instead, we have been plunged into hell.
The helplessness I feel is akin to a spiritual death. I cannot help myself, my family, or my students in any way. Just finding drinking water, a piece of bread, or gas for cooking remains challenging. We feel thirsty and hungry, spending the entire day to obtain one meal for our own kids.
I stay in contact with the children who I taught to swim, but war decimated and separated our team. I must believe this is not the end; that our dream lives on. When I head toward the tower to find a better signal, I tremble. The news comes on and I break down. My legs go weak and I cannot breathe.
Recently, I posted a picture of a little boy in a blue three-piece suit. Little Mohammed Mosalam smiled brightly. He was one of my best swimmers who died in an air raid. I also wrote a few words for Mariam Dawas, 11, my little pupil and the daughter of my cousin, who lost her legs in an attack.
In another tearful message, I wrote about one of the trainers who accompanied me for years. One of the first students I ever taught, Naser Rajab, 28, followed my example and decided to entertain local children. He became one of the only clowns in Beit Lahia – charming and cheerful. He died in a bombing along with four children.
Cradled by the sea, man forgets the world for a while
The stories go on. Two of my swimmers remain blockaded with their families in the north. Five more remain displaced in Rafah in the south, and three managed to flee Gaza. Bakir Mossalam, 17, saw his father and brother Hamoudi killed in a bombing. He sustained a wound to the neck. Now, he takes responsibility for his whole family, sheltered at a UN camp in Northern Gaza.
These swimmers are like my own children. I stay in contact with all of them, but war has separated us. Still, I want to think we can continue one day. In early June 2024, I went swimming again. It marked the first time I went into the sea since January 18. From the refugee camp in Rafah, I entered the cold water and stayed there for a half an hour.
The swim did me good, physically and mentally. Feeling the sea cradling me after such a long time, I rediscovered the magical feeling of weightlessness in the water. I felt the meditative rhythm of my strokes and my breath. A body away from land, floating there, I felt myself escape the world and all its worries for a moment.
Sometimes, it feels impossible to consider all we lost: the farm, my projects, but above all, my people. Today when the sun rises, the heat bakes rotting remains in the streets of Gaza. We watch as people emerge from the holes of their tent closures. Row after row of white tents rise from the dusty car park.
“I gave thousands of children a taste of freedom” in Gaza
Children sit in the shade and play languidly with stones. Men cut each other’s hair. Newly acquainted neighbors wait outside to receive their shared meal, a couple of loaves of bread and an odd can of tuna or beans. Some of the children grapple with uncontrollable tremors, memory loss, self-harm, inability to see a future for themselves, and insomnia.
Many have changed shelters multiple times. They appear malnourished, lacking clean water to drink or wash with, exposing them to numerous diseases. Since the war began in October, these kids witnessed horrific scenes and death, which remain a real possibility every day.
Sometimes children visit me at the camp. We talk about the circumstances we face to clear our heads, remembering some beautiful anecdote we shared in the past. I feel my eyes water as I hold back tears. When we laugh, I realize what I miss most: their joyful voices and the sound of splashing in the pool. I loved watching the children run along the beach.
Their eyes shined and their hair flew in the wind. I miss seeing them dance from one foot to the other while dodging waves and their little footprints in the sand. I never had the opportunity to go to the Olympics. Nor did I get to take my swimmers there. Yet, over the years, I gave thousands of children a taste of freedom. I long to get back to the water.
