Once preparing for the Paris Paralympics, Gazan para-cyclist now pedals through the wreckage of war
As the planes roared, breaking the fragile silence darkness sought to protect, the truth became undeniable. Sitting at home in Khan Younis, I tried to distract my children with stories while the cold crept into our bones. Then, the impact hit suddenly, a rumble, shooking every fiber of my being.
- 2 weeks ago
December 20, 2024
The war interrupted Hazem Suleiman and his team's training for the Paris Paralympics, leaving him to ride his bicycle through the wreckage of once-thriving streets. | Photo courtesy of Hazem Suleiman 
RAFAH, Gaza — Before the war consumed Gaza, tragedy had already reshaped my life. In 2018, during a protest at the border with Israel, a bullet shattered my legs. For years, I underwent countless surgeries, clinging to the hope of walking again. But in 2021, doctors amputated my left leg—a moment that felt like the ultimate defeat. However, against all odds, I discovered joy in cycling through Gaza, propelling me forward.
Today, my bicycle has become my lifeline and companion. It carries me through the ruins of my city, fetching food, water, and medicine for my family. It also supports my work as a photographer, helping me reach Gaza’s most devastated areas to capture the images the world cannot afford to forget.
Discover more stories from Gaza at Orato World Media.
Overcoming amputation and war: cycling becomes a beacon of hope for Palestinian man
For years, I played soccer, with the grass beneath me and the ball as an extension of my dreams. Representing Palestine was not just an honor, it was my reason for being. However, in 2021, when doctors amputated my left leg, I thought I lost everything. But somehow, the sport found me again.
Before the chaos consumed Gaza, my bicycle served as my sanctuary. I called it “My Freedom.” When I pedaled through the streets of Khan Younis, I felt free, even if only for a moment, from the weight of the occupation. On wheels, when I believed there was nothing left to fight for, I discovered the Gaza Sunbirds, a Paralympic cycling team. They became my new family, giving me a renewed sense of purpose. On the asphalt, I rediscovered the resilience I thought I had lost.
Eagerly, I joined the Sunbirds, a team of dreamers who believed in the power of sport as resistance. We won competitions and rode scenic routes now etched in memory, carrying Palestine’s pride with every turn. Nevertheless, everything changed the day a bomb destroyed my home, burying my bicycle under the rubble.
When the war began, I thought I already experienced pain in every form. However, the night my house was bombed, I realized suffering could deepen in unimaginable ways. As I watched my home crumble, my children clung to me. The world stripped everything away, reminding me how fragile our possessions are. Now, every pedal stroke becomes a battle, not just against the chaos around me, but against the emptiness the war left inside. On the bicycle, despite the pain, I keep dreaming. As long as I can move forward, Palestine lives on in me.
Through the ruins, man searches for safety for his children
The night my home was attacked remains etched in my memory. As the planes roared, breaking the fragile silence darkness sought to protect, the truth became undeniable. Sitting at home in Khan Younis, I tried to distract my children with stories while the cold crept into our bones. Then, the impact hit suddenly, a rumble, shocking every fiber of my being. The ceiling crumbled like paper, filling the air with dust, burning my eyes and throat.
Fire and screams replaced the comfort our home once provided. Distressingly, the furniture and family mementos mixed with the rubble. As my children cried, I clung to them, leading them to safety. As we advanced through the ruins, the burning smell of fuel surrounded us. Every step became a challenge amid the debris and the fear of another attack. The house next door burned as friends and neighbors screamed, searching for their loved ones.
When we finally escaped, rain began to fall, a cruel irony. The water, meant to sustain life, mixed with the dust and ash, turning everything into a cold, relentless mire. I watched my youngest daughter, Amira, shiver in my arms, her eyes searching mine for answers I did not have. Every raindrop felt like an accusation: why?
I lost not only my home but also my ability to dream and to believe things could improve. Yet, as I looked at my children, I understood I had to resist, even when everything seemed to tell me otherwise. The attack took everything from us, except our will to survive. Amid the dust and rubble, shattering our home’s fragility, I decided to flee to Rafah. Taking my family, I carried the hope to find refuge where fear would not consume us.
Riding through Gaza’s ruins, capturing the struggle for life and hope
I remember riding my bicycle before the war when it symbolized my freedom as a routine. I joined the team and cycled along Al-Rashid Street, Gaza’s coastal road. That route felt magical, especially at sunset. We pedaled as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting golden and orange hues over the sea. The breeze from the water embraced us, while nearby markets provided a lively soundtrack to our rides. Families strolled and children played in the sand as life flowed peacefully.
Often, I stopped to take photos, capturing moments like the sunlight glistening off the water or the cheers of people lining the road. We trained hard, not just to compete, but also to represent Palestine, showing the world we were more than a conflict zone. We were athletes, dreamers, and human beings seeking our voice. Riding those streets, I knew every corner, every bend, every tree that once shaded my path. Sadly, those streets are now a maze of twisted metal and dust.
Sadly, my bicycle, once a symbol of freedom, became my survival tool. I use it to gather supplies for my children and to document the devastation around us with my camera. Every time I pedal through Gaza now, a lump forms in my throat. My wheels struggle through the mud and remnants of the city. I pass collapsed buildings once bustling stores and cafes. The heavy silence replaces children’s laughter, occasionally interrupted by the cries of people searching for loved ones.
Displacement becomes routine: family fights for survival in Gaza
Each move added a painful chapter to my life. My home, once a sanctuary, became a target. Explosions forced us to flee, each evacuation a desperate attempt to find safety. After the attack on our house, the city crumbled around us, and we escaped toward Rafah, seeking peace. But peace was an illusion. Guns and planes followed us there, turning hope into despair.
My children, exhausted, and my wife, struggling to stay strong, carried the weight of displacement as I fought to protect them. The streets of Rafah grew even more dangerous, and we moved again. Displacement became routine—a cycle of fleeing destruction only to encounter more. Makeshift camps filled quickly, surrounding us with others equally lost and struggling to survive. Rain turned the ground into mud, and I spent sleepless nights holding my children, searching for safety that never came. Displacement became more than physical—it left a scar on our souls.
A month ago, during a bicycle ride, I stopped at the ruins of my children’s school. Once alive with laughter, its simple walls now lay in rubble. This was where my children learned their first words, where the courtyard rang with joy. Amid the debris, I spotted something small—a torn child’s shoe, covered in ash. Picking it up, grief overwhelmed me. Whose shoe was it? Did the child escape, or was their story silenced?
That shoe became a haunting symbol of Gaza’s shattered childhood. As I pedal through devastated streets, I wonder how many stories lie buried in the rubble. The shoe reminds me of my children’s stolen laughter and dreams. It represents the weight I carry with every stroke of the pedal—a promise to keep sharing these stories, to ensure they are never forgotten.
Cyclist fights against the cold to seek treatment for his sick daughter
Recently, as the heat faded and the cold began to bite, I took my daughter, Amira, barely two years old, to the only doctor nearby. I wrapped her in an old blanket and pedaled through the icy wind, to shield her from its sting. Her little feet, swollen and covered with sores from infections caused by stagnant water in the camps, transformed every movement into a painful ordeal. As I navigated the muddy streets, littered with debris, I recalled all the promises I made her before this nightmare began: a future filled with laughter, joy, and security. But now, even easing her pain seemed impossible.
Amira’s tear-filled eyes sought my comfort as the doctor cleaned her wounds. It was as if the world had stripped away my ability to be the father she deserved. At the same time, the camp we now call home after the attack on our house offers no sanctuary. Water seeps through the ground, forming endless puddles that breed diseases, especially among the children. As the rain fell, cold and unforgiving, I held her tight and promised everything would be okay, even though I did not know when.
As I pedaled with Amira asleep in my arms from exhaustion, I could not stop reflecting on how we arrived at this point. Gaza, my home, became a place where survival itself was a battle. Each stroke of the pedal reminded me of the weight we carried daily: the weight of fear, pain, and uncertainty. Watching my daughter suffer broke me, but it also fueled me to keep moving forward. I know even when protection seems impossible, love never loses.
Capturing family’s resilience amid Gaza’s harsh realities
A few days ago, I set out early with my camera, just as I did countless times since the war began. The early light barely touched the crumbling streets of Gaza, while the cold air mingled with the dust rising from the rubble. As I walked down a side street, a scene grabbed my attention. A family huddled around a small fire, seeking shelter from the cold and hunger. I saw their faces coated in soot and their bodies visibly exhausted. Yet, I noticed a spark of resilience in their eyes that no one could extinguish. Their eyes revealed a fierce determination to keep moving forward despite the pain.
In that agonizing moment, time seemed to freeze. The camera in my hand felt like an extension of my soul. I watched the children cling to their parents as the mother cooked whatever she could on the fire. The scene radiated with both hopelessness and unyielding struggle. The image did not merely capture their worn, tired faces; it immortalized something much greater: the collective resistance of our people.
As I witnessed the heart-wrenching moments, I felt I captured the very essence of Gaza’s history. It was a history that would not fade, even if every building collapsed around us. Through the moment, I understood their resistance and refusal to be broken would live on, no matter how much destruction surrounded us.
Every second reminded me of everything we lost, our home, normalcy, and future
The most difficult night arrived when the rains flooded the camps. A thick black sky hung over Gaza, as though the universe wept for all we had lost. The storm hit with fury, sweeping everything in its path. Within minutes, the tent, already fragile and falling apart, collapsed. The tarp quickly soaked through and gave way, letting cold water seep in from all sides.
Shivering with cold, my children, clung to me, seeking protection amidst the chaos. Though I tried to keep us safe, every corner of our shelter turned into freezing mud. We had no warm clothes and barely enough blankets to combat the cold. The tattered and dirty clothes we fled in were all we had to protect ourselves from the icy wind. The cold became unbearable as each drop of rain felt like a direct blow to our already broken resistance.
My children, their eyes filled with fear, hugged each other while I struggled to cover them with the few blankets we had managed to save. I shivered, not just from the cold, but from the helplessness of not being able to give them what they needed most: security. Hours dragged on like an eternity. Under the black sky, I felt overwhelmed, trapped between war and nature, as my body and soul buckled under the weight.
Every second reminded me of everything we lost, our home, normalcy, and future. Relentlessly, the rain kept falling. My family remained by my side. Even though I lacked the strength to continue, their presence gave me strength to fight. That stormy night, drenched under the gloomy sky, proved love and the will to resist kept us afloat.
Each pedal stroke becomes a quiet protest
Devastation consumed me as I heard rumors regarding some Sunbirds’ disappearance. We knew they became trapped in various parts of Gaza, some possibly dead, others displaced like us. We exchanged no farewells, only an emptiness, pressing heavily on my chest. Every time I ride my bike, I feel the absence of those friends who are no longer with us, as if the wheels turn more slowly in their memory. Cycling no longer feels the same without them. The routes we once shared now remind me of the life we lost—a life of fleeting hope shattered by violence and war.
Today, I struggle to find normalcy in a world no longer knows it. After the attack on my home, Gaza turned into a place of survival, where my daily routine is marked by uncertainty and pain. I live in a makeshift camp, where the tents offer no shelter from the cold, and hunger looms closer. My children and I are surrounded by others who, like us, have lost everything. Despite the devastation, I still look toward the future, though it is fractured.
Cycling, once my passion, now feels distant. At present, my bicycle, which once served as my escape from physical pain, has become my tool of resistance. Each pedal stroke becomes a quiet protest against destruction and a silent cry for my land and people. As I ride through Gaza’s ruins, my pedals move with the weight of the past and the promise of a brighter future.
