At the age of twenty-two, Plestia Alaqad, like many others, published her last post on October 1st: three smiling photos, curls straightened by the hairdresser, the classic Sibylline aphorism in the caption. Then life changes. The next video on her Instagram wall (@byplestia) explains everything before Plestia opens her mouth: she is at home and bombs are coming through the window, not only the noise but also the movement of the air. Plestia’s hair moves like a hairdryer, her eyes widen. Shortly afterwards the air is full of dust.
Since October 7, journalist Plestia Alaqad has been documenting how to survive in Gaza while waiting for Israel’s announced “significant ground operation.” On October 1st he had three thousand followers; today more than 400,000. His social diary about the difficulties of communicating with the Strip without power is a primary source. “Be patient, I can’t answer all the interviews,” he writes. “I have 5% battery and low energy.” And you can find out what you need to know here. A few snapshots, the “Press” helmet instead of the veil (which she doesn’t wear, even though it’s mandatory in Gaza). “But the helmet is useless. The Israelis still shoot journalists.
9th October. Out the window the surrounding houses, in crumbs. On the street someone shouts “Ambulance!” “But there are no ambulances.” Another hit: The building appears to have been damaged. Plestia lives with her family and they go out on the streets with their neighbors.
October 10th, night outdoors. He leaves “without words” and inspects his house after the bombs: the whole block is in ruins, “I expected the worst.” And yet the house is standing. We’ll fix it. The neighbors are gone, as is the electricity. “I thought my grandparents were exaggerating when they talked about the Naqba in 1948. But here we are, 2023, reliving it all again.”
October 11th, hands in the rubble of a building: a pile of intact family photos, who knows if the family still exists. Her hair is tied back and the circles under her eyes are becoming increasingly black. “Don’t call me on WhatsApp, I don’t have a battery,” he begs. Her fragmentary reports travel around the world; everyone wants to hear from her what life is like in Gaza.
Plestia goes for a walk and films, gets in the car and films. “Cities are being evacuated by bicycle.” Two men pedal, mattresses rolled on their shoulders. “Yesterday I finally got to change,” he’s actually wearing a boy’s T-shirt, “but it feels like it’s been five months since the war started.” It shows the traces of phosphorus bombs in the sky (through treaties forbidden). He posts photos of children in the hospital: “Who knows them?” We are looking for parents.” The uproar doesn’t stop in the comments: “And the Israeli children, don’t you feel sorry for them?” “And the beheaded newborns?” ” How can you post when there really is no internet in Gaza?” (Answer: “I’m running away to the hospital”). Dozens of them. Then: found the parents.
October 12: “I see things that I cannot support.” Heartbroken children. Another in-car video. “I can’t imagine what will be left of Gaza.” The next day: “I don’t think Gaza will ever exist again.”