849: The Narrator
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Join them this giving season. Donate at OxfamAmerica.org slash American. From WBEZ Chicago, it's This American Life. I'm Hannah Jaffe-Walt sitting in for Ira Glass. This all started with a phone call, a call that eventually led to this episode. So that's where I'm going to start.

I was talking to a journalist in Gaza on the phone. Hello? Hi, this is Hannah. Hi. How are you? This was back in April. I'd been speaking to people in Gaza for months by then, but nobody where Maram was, in the middle area, Derbala. Maram Humeid. She's a reporter for Al Jazeera English.

We were chatting. I was asking some pretty basic questions about what she was experiencing, what she was seeing, what the day had been like. She got interrupted. It was, you know, a little bit calm day in Deir el-Balah. Who is it, Mom? So, Banyas is listening. I need to introduce Banyas to you. Hi, Banyas. Hi. How are you?

I'm fine, thank you. Good. Maram and I kept talking, or trying to. And you're in Dar al-Balaf? Are you in Dar al-Balaf? Yeah, we are in Dar al-Balaf in the central area. Now what do I do?

Is that where you're from? Is that where your home is? Or did you... No, I'm displaced. Yeah. And we're living in our relative's home here with around 80 other family members. Wow. 80! Yeah. 80!

Not 80, not 80. That's a lot. That's a lot of people. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Mom, it's 80, not 80. So, Banias is correcting me regarding the American accent, okay? She's saying, like, what is it? It's 80 or 80? 80?

80. 80. 80. Does she correct you a lot? Yeah, a lot, a lot. She speaks English better than me because I started with her from very young. I'm here, you know, around, but yes. Back to me. Back to me. Yeah. And where, where? She's, yeah. Does she want to talk? Yes, I'm free.

ready. I'm ready ready. You're ready ready. How old are you, Banias? I'm eight years old. You're eight years old. And where did you learn to speak like an American? From mama. She speaks to you in English? Yeah. Do you hear that? Do you hear that? I do. Yeah. What is it? So Banias is

What is it? A warplane. It's a warplane. I do hear it, yeah. Yeah. I of course hear it because it never ends. Benyus then takes the phone from her mom. Having told me what they are hearing, begins pointing out what they are seeing, saying, look at this, as if I can also see, even though we're not on a video call.

She says, here we have the window, as you can see. Here's the curtains. They're flowers. We don't have any sofas. Just, mom, how do you say it? Mattresses? Just mattresses, as you can see. We sit sometimes on bed, on the ground. Women are

Covering their heads all the time, as you can see. She couldn't see. You can't show her. Yeah, tell me. Okay. Oh, did you see our room? No. If you see it, you will run from this. Why? Because it's so old and dusty.

Maram told me later she was so surprised at Banyas' performance in this call. That was the word she used. Apparently, Banyas was marching around with the phone in front of her, telling people, I need the room, please. Jumping on the mattress, standing on the table, pointing, saying, here's my brother, Iyas. There he is. He's pretty and smart like me.

Gaza is full of kids. About half the population is under 18 years old. And about half of that group is under 10 years old, like Banias.

A huge way in which children in this war are different from kids in other war zones is that children in Gaza are not allowed to leave. They're not displaced to some other spot away from the fighting. They're displaced inside Gaza. They're stuck in the violence and stuck with their families in crowded rooms or tents, doing the things that kids everywhere do: building their inner world, trying to make sense of the world around them.

I was calling Maram that day to ask about the situation in Derbela. And Banyas took the phone and said, no, no, no, don't ask her. Ask me. Being in Derbela is boring. It's boring. Really boring. Yeah. Not just boring, so boring. I really miss the burgers. And now we are on canned food. We have just boxes of food, uh,

The food box says, one day, I want to tell you something. Tell me. One day, when we are sitting in our room talking about something...

Then, boom, a big bomb broke all of the windows and the door and the home was shaking. And my baby brother, he has got injured in his head. We have noticed the glass in his head. Is he okay, Benyus? Yes, now he's all right.

We talked for a while and then said goodbye. That was the end of April. And then, in July, I saw Maram's name on my phone. Hi, Maram. Can you hear me? Hello? Yeah. It was Banyas. She wanted to talk, tell me about her day. Then, another day. Hello. Hi, Banyas. Do you want to talk to me?

Yeah, sure. What are you doing? Through the summer into the fall, Banyas called me, and I called her. Maram, her mother, gave permission for these phone calls, but it was always just Banyas on the line, telling me about herself and her life. I wanted to know what it's like to be a kid in this war, and here was this kid who wanted to talk.

Banias was a natural narrator of her own life. She was constantly directing my attention. These are my friends. This is my school stationary, as you can see. Do you want to know what we're doing right now? I'll tell you. Unfortunately for me, she also had zero interest in satisfying my journalistic agenda. If I asked Banias a question she was not interested in, she'd yawn dramatically. Stage yawn. It's getting late. I'm so tired. Let's look over here.

I had been reading and thinking about what was happening in Gaza all the time, talking to people there. Every call with Banias was something I hadn't heard that was completely different from when adults tell the story. So that is today's episode. We're calling it The Narrator.

We're going to listen to this kid in Gaza, a narrator who does not ask permission to narrate. She takes the phone with a soaring confidence that what she has to tell you is interesting and important. And I agree with her. Stay with us.

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It's This American Life. My calls with Banyas were sporadic. Sometimes we talked once a week. Sometimes a month would go by. Usually we talked at the end of the day, her time, while she was sitting on a mattress inside the house, fidgeting. There were always lots of people and activity in the background, but Banyas never explained much about who was there or what they were doing. She told me about what she was doing, what she wanted me to know, and sometimes see. I prefer a little call. F***.

Let me try. Okay. Hi. This is my complete look. That's a good look. She's in a pink shirt that says dream, huge eyes, dark hair, and pigtails with two loose curls, very purposefully framing her face. And you have earrings. I didn't know you had earrings. Oh yeah, I do have earrings. And this is my blue shorts. Yeah. And this

This is my head accessory for today. It has rhinestones. Uh-huh. Purple furry with rhinestones. Yeah, it's beautiful. When Banyas and I first started talking on the phone, my questions were pretty basic. What do you do all day? She was in a house with 80 people, which is unusual in Gaza right now to live in a house. Most people are in tents or schools or other temporary shelters.

Banyas and her mom, dad, and baby brother were on the ground floor of this house, sharing that floor with about 20 relatives. There was one bedroom. She slept on a mattress on the floor alongside her parents, brother, grandpa, uncle, and aunt. Everyone else slept in the living area. If Banyas wanted any time in the tiny bathroom, she got up early in the morning. Then she ate breakfast. And then what? Today we play school games.

What does that mean? We're pretending that we're in the school. I was a student and one of my friends was the teacher. What classes were you taking? A math class. Okay. And did you write actual math or is it just pretend? It was actual.

The plus and the minus and the equal. It was actual, but it was in a game, not real. At this point, July, Banias had not been in actual class in an actual school building for nine months. But she played school every day with three other girls, two younger and one older. There were other kids in the building, but everyone else was just OK or a boy or a baby.

When aid organizations go into other war zones, one of the first things they do for kids is set up schools because children need a sense of routine and a sense that life is moving forward toward a future. There's no safe place in Gaza to set up schools like that. So Banias and her friends in the building created that for themselves. They played school for hours. There were lectures. There were assignments. There were exams.

Who is usually in charge of what you're going to do that day? The girl that's older than me. Her name is Donna. How old is Donna? She is 12 years old and she has an iPad. Donna is generous with her iPad. So this is another part of Banyas' day, games on the iPad.

When the war started, her mother's screen time rules went out the window. But also, Israel cut off electricity to Gaza. There's just generators and solar panels. So screen time is limited anyway.

And today I played a cafe game. Oh, a cafe? That's new. I was the chef. Yeah, and one of my friends was the customer. I cooked some salad and some bread. Say it one more time. I cooked...

Salad and pancake. And I made some hamburgers and some pizza. Banias was reenacting her old life, where she had teachers and exams and went out to cafes. There was one they used to go to every Saturday. Yeah, it was really close. It was just in the next street in our house. Okay. Did they make salad and pancakes? No, but I...

I used to order some noodles and some hot chocolate. What did you eat in real life today? Today we have eaten some beans, some white beans. Do you ever get to eat pancakes or noodles or burgers? I hate pancakes and noodles. You do? Yeah.

Yes. Oh, wow. Do you believe somebody hates these things? No. I do. They're so good. But I hate them. I was never sure what motivated Banyas to want to talk to me. She seemed to like telling me about her day, practicing her English. She had an ongoing fascination with the time difference between us. She always wanted to check in on that. You're at morning or at night? It's the afternoon.

It's just... Afternoon? Mm-hmm. We're in the middle of the night. She'd call when she felt annoyed that Donna got to be the teacher that day, yet again. I'm the oldest. I should be the teacher. And she'd call when she was bored. She'd call because I was an adult who would pay attention to her.

Banyas had to create activity, interest out of such little material. Sometimes I got the impression I was there to help with that. Like one night she was on the phone with me and another phone rang. And like a character in a play, she went, oh, look, the phone is ringing. Oh, my God. Who's ringing the phone? Get away. Get lost. We have to sleep. You're pretty funny, Banyas.

Yes, I'm funny. That's, Donna always say for me that I'm a bit funny. Really? Funny, funny. You are funny. Yes. I'm a funny, funny. So Banias had her own reasons to call me. When I called her, it was for different reasons. I'd call her because I'd read about a bombing campaign or fighting near where she was. Was she okay? And what was she thinking about all the violence around her?

What is this like for an eight-year-old? In the middle of the summer, there was a series of intense airstrikes near Banyas. I was curious if she'd heard them or seen them, but I also wanted to follow her lead and what she wanted to talk about. Do you have some time to talk? Oh, yes, of course. I'm available. Great. I'm actually good.

Yeah? Doing good. Last days, we have heard a little, a bit of bombing around us. Uh-huh. Yeah, it's, I've been reading in the news that there's been a lot of bombing. Yeah, I do know. It was loud. Is it scary? Yeah.

No, for me no. Me and my friends, we were playing hide and seek. We don't ever get bored of it. It's our favorite game. When we are playing, some strange things happen with us. I will tell you that.

Okay, I thought, here it is. She's about to tell me something big about what it's like to be a kid playing hide-and-seek with bombs going off nearby. Banyas told me, so we were playing, and we ran to the backyard. When we run to the backyard, we see some insects in the ground. Mm-hmm.

We see some insects on the ground, and me and the kids, we watch it. That's it. That's her whole story. The strange thing that happened when they ran outside is they saw insects. A kind of insect they'd never seen before. Not the bombing. Bugs.

Children are not known for their sense of scale or the longevity of their attention. And maybe it wasn't surprising that pretty much every time I asked about the war, Banias didn't really want to engage. She didn't exactly ignore me, but it didn't seem to be the main thing she was thinking about. Like when an airstrike broke the windows in her house, she wanted to tell me about a prank she played on Donna.

In mid-August, when ceasefire negotiations between Israel and Hamas seemed to be unraveling yet again, and all the adults I was talking to in Gaza were deeply dispirited, here was Banias. I think there will be a ceasefire soon. You do? Why do you think that? Because it's really close to end. Why? What gives you that idea? Mom and dad tell me.

I heard that yawn, noting it. Discussion of the war, over. There was one moment when Banias was forced to engage. She couldn't avoid it. Banias' family had been sheltering in Derbella for almost a year, when suddenly at the end of August, they got an evacuation order. Israel posted a map on social media designating certain blocks in Derbella unsafe. And I saw that Maram, Banias' mother, had written something for Al Jazeera about the order.

I'd hardly spoken to Maram for months, but I'd followed her reporting on bombings and food shortages. This article, though, was personal. She wrote about her confusion about what to do next. "I've never felt so worthless as a human being," she wrote. A single Facebook post from an Israeli military spokesperson can upend our lives in an instant.

Have you ever felt like a toy, being played with left and right, east and west, pushed from one place to another, south to Hanunis, out of Rafah, back to Hanunis, then to Nusayrat, only to be driven out again? People are literally running through the streets like mad, clutching what little they have left. We have nothing left. Our hearts are broken and our minds are frayed.

I look around at the few possessions I've managed to gather over the past 10 months. A stove, cups, plates, pots, winter clothes, summer clothes, mattresses, blankets, batteries, light bulbs, big bottles of drinking water, tubs to wash clothes in. If I leave everything, there's no way to replace it. There are no markets, no supplies, no money to spare.

We're running and running aimlessly. People screaming, suffering, and dying while the world watches. End quote. And then my phone rang. Hello? Hello? Hi, Banias. Yeah. Do you want to talk? Okay. Today we have done a new thing. What'd you do? We have dropped some pictures.

I imagine that there's a garden, that there's some people walking inside it. I'm crying. I'm in the bedroom. Okay. So let's get to it. Okay. Oh, my friends were with me to drawing. And one of my friends have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have, have

Like a war plane or a plane you travel in? Traveling. Okay. Do you ever draw anything about the war? No, nothing at all. Why not? Because I really can't. Why? I feel mad. Uh-huh. I feel mad of those things. I can draw them, but...

But I don't like a warplane, a helicopter, a rocket. I don't like it. There's lots of things here. I feel mad from it. My friends always make me mad from things. Sometimes...

Okay. Okay. Your friends? Yeah.

I was eager to ask Banias about the news, the evacuation. But what she wanted to talk about was a fight she had that day with another kid in the building. A girl. Banias calls her the girl with the bad personality. That girl told Banias today that one of her pictures was no good. She is, she have a really bad personality. I said for her, are you looking for a fight?

And what did she say? What? Did she not know about the evacuation order? She must, right? I didn't want to scare her.

Vanyas, I saw your mom wrote about people leaving Derbala. Yes, but we will go to Azawada, to our relatives. What do you think about that? I think it was a good idea. We're packing our clothes and our stuff.

Wait for a minute. And we're packing also our mattresses and our money. Where will you sleep if you pack your mattress? In a tent. Our relatives live in a home, but we will make a camp next to them.

Okay. Have you ever lived in a tent? No. Are you? But I want to try. I think it will be something creative. Are you scared to move, to leave your friends or to leave your house? I'm ready to leave them. You are? I'm not ready for more fights. I want to leave them.

Today I told one of my friends that I will leave. I've told everybody. Is that sad? It was drama. Why? Because she is a drama girl. Don't leave.

That's everything. Uh-huh. Don't leave this house. We want more fights. Banias was ready to leave because it meant she could get away from the girl with the bad personality. Almost a million kids in Gaza have made a move like this since Israel invaded, many of them multiple times. So it was interesting to hear how a child was thinking about it. Banias was ready to flee the home she'd lived in for 10 months at that point.

To move into a tent. Because she got into a fight with an annoying girl that day. Because that is what just happened. And because Banias is eight. She told me her friend Donna's leaving too. She's going to Al-Mawasi. But me, I will go to the Zawaii town. Me and my family. Yeah, our relatives are there.

You're not scared? Okay. What does your mom think is a secret?

Hi. Hi, who are you? Good.

Put that away. No, no. Put that away. I'm just here. Please, please, don't hurt her. So, Banias, was he crying? No. Put that away. It's normal. It's normal. I don't want to let anybody know that I was there. No, you were crying. So, she was afraid. She was nervous. And she went into...

afraid I was not nervous of feeling sad and feeling nervous very afraid of what is going on and I just surprisingly heard her saying that I'm not I didn't feel afraid what

that away why why does she not want to talk about that and she's now saying that it's a secret like she doesn't want to recall you know some horrific memories for her or like she wants to she got over the feeling of being afraid when did she find out you were evacuating excuse me i didn't

Why? Why do you make me cry? She believes you. She believes you. She believes you. I know, like, you're a brave girl. Like, you can get over anything. But I'm telling you, Banias, it's not a shame. It's not a shameful thing to feel afraid that you're scared and you're afraid of, like, something like this.

Yeah, so, right. It's normal. You should be scared. Yeah, this is very normal. And do what I can. Okay, mom, you are free to say what you want, but I wanted just to clarify this point for...

When did that happen, Maram? When did you tell her?

Just recently. Oh, wow. Just recently. Okay. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Very recent. You know, very recent. We got the news suddenly. Like you can... I was really nothing when I heard her, you know, trying to show a perfectionist reaction and like so positive. She was very positive. But...

It was totally the opposite, you know, just a few, like two hours, less than two hours, she was hiding behind the curtain, crying and like crazy. And she continued the cycle and then we find it really hard.

I almost couldn't bear hearing this. Banias' visceral, immediate panic was so uncomfortable. Hearing her mother pierce the carefully constructed artifice she'd presented to me. And it was disorienting. It made me think of all the things I didn't know. Does she want to talk again? Yeah, yeah, she's home. She's here. Okay. Excuse me. Come and get me. Hello. Hi, Banias. Hi. Hi. Hi.

I'm not upset. Not yet. Not yet. I'm already so sleepy. I hope so.

An incomplete list of things Banias does not have control over. Can she go home? No. Is there food? Not enough. Is there school? No. Is there safety here? No. Banias lives in what has become the most dangerous place in the world to be a child.

Disease in Gaza is widespread. Children face acute malnutrition. Kids are getting horrible skin infections. Polio has reappeared in a 10-month-old baby. Children are losing their limbs, their parents, and they are being killed. Constantly. More than 13,000 children have been killed so far, including at least 710 babies, some of them born and then killed since the war began.

Maram told me Banyas has seen dead children. She's seen their small bodies wrapped in white cloth by the hospital. I asked Maram later, "What do you think Banyas gets out of talking to me?" She told me, "You're a bubble for her. Every time you call, she treats it like an important meeting, tries to find a private space away from all of us. Everyone around Banyas is in the midst of this chaos," she said. "You're not here. You're not experiencing any of this."

Banias was telling me a version of life where she has ultimate authority, where she gets to be the narrator. Who doesn't want that? I was coming to her to understand the war, but she was coming to me to not talk about the war. Until one day, she did. That's coming up from Chicago Public Radio when our program continues.

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It's This American Life. I'm Chana Jaffe-Walt sitting in for Ira Glass. Our show today, The Narrator. An eight-year-old in Gaza tells us about her life in the middle of a war. This war started in 2023. Hamas attacked Israel, killed about 1,200 people, and took 251 people hostage.

Since then, Israel has launched a 14-month ground invasion and bombing campaign in Gaza. More than 44,000 Palestinians have been killed, and more than 13,000 of those dead are children. Banias and her family never moved into a tent.

After the Israeli army issued that evacuation order for Darabala, her parents agonized over when and if they should flee for days. The dangers of moving into a tent could be worse than tanks outside their house. They decided to stay put. It was early October. The family was coming up on a year of war and displacement, and Banias had an announcement. The war stopped. The war stopped. Dino, the war stopped.

Yesterday there was no bombing or fighting? No. Ever. Never. The worst stuff. What are you talking about? Because our house was bombed. Your house was bombed? Yeah. Just kidding. What are you doing to me, Banyas? There was good news yesterday. Yesterday, tonight, it was good.

We had a party. There was very, very good news. What was the good news? We have killed all of them. What do you mean? Who did you kill all of? Not all of them. Thousands and thousands and thousands of them. But I can't remember. You're talking about the Israelis? Yes.

Yes, yes. Thousands and thousands. We killed thousands, thousands, thousands. I realized as we were talking, this was October 2nd, the day before, Iran had launched 180 missiles at Israel. That was yesterday. Yesterday we had a party for that. We'd drink coffee, make juice. Kayifna. Kayifna?

Yes. What's keyafna mean? That means we had a good time in Arabic. Banias, you're talking about the missiles yesterday to the Israelis? Yes. How did you feel about that? It was, oh, wow. It was very good. Keyafna, keyafna, la, la, la. This threw me, hearing Banias talk about killing Israelis.

No Israelis were killed from these missiles. One Palestinian man was, near Jericho. It's one of those empty truisms about war, that kids in a war learn to hate the other side. A true thing about war that also can feel a little abstract. But here it was, showing up, randomly folded into the rest of Banias' narration. To her playing with me, messing with me, that the home she was sheltering in was bombed.

Which it could have been, but wasn't. I asked Maram if I could talk with her about this day. Told her what Banyasa told me. What was happening that day? Yeah, actually on that day, it was a huge surprise actually. Suddenly we were at home and we heard the sounds of

people around us cheating and chanting the internet was cut and I thought from the first instance that there was a ceasefire or something like this the world ended so

So people around us started to say that Iran is bombing Israel right now. And we could see the lights of the missiles being sent to Israel in the sky. And people around us are just cheering and celebrating, clapping. I was in emotion. I was very emotional.

I really cried. I felt like, oh my God, really? Someone who's trying just to stop Israel and to say that by the missiles and by the rockets, the same language that Israel understands and uses in Gaza throughout the year. Were you celebrating? Were you guys celebrating? I didn't.

Maram told me she does not tell Banias to hate Israel or celebrate when Israel is attacked. Banias' dad, she says, also doesn't do this. But Maram was not surprised to hear Banias was saying this. She remembers feeling the same way when she was a kid growing up in Gaza.

Maram was 10 years old when she first experienced Israeli bombing, after the second intifada broke out. She remembers crying when she saw her first dead body, and collapsing when she saw footage of a 12-year-old Palestinian kid, Mohamed El Dura, killed while hiding next to his father.

Banyas was born in 2016. Her first war was when she was four years old. I totally understand that she herself, as a Palestinian kid, she views Israel as an enemy. An enemy that bombs us, that kills us, that targets us.

There's something I've been thinking about when it comes to kids in wars, but kids in Gaza in particular. It's something a psychologist told me, Dr. Iman Farajallah, who studies the effect of war and occupation on Palestinian kids. She told me it really gets under her skin when people at the UN or healthcare professionals or whatever say kids in Gaza are suffering from PTSD. Post-traumatic stress means the traumatic event is over.

For kids in Gaza, the trauma is continuous. There is no post. There's no opportunity for recovery. Instead, there is just coping. Dr. Farajala says you'll see kids cope in all different ways. Some kids act out. Some can't leave their parents' side. Other kids get obsessed with soccer or drawing. Or children try to shape their world in other ways.

For instance, Maram told me when Banias was six years old, there was an Israeli military operation in Gaza, lots of fighting. And Banias was sitting on the window watching ambulances rush people to the hospital, blowing bubbles out the window. Maram asked her, what are you doing? And Banias said, I'm trying to change the mood.

I know Banias. She's an optimistic one. She's someone who's positive. And she doesn't even want to share her negative thoughts with others. Even when she's fearful. This is my space, Banias. Please go away. I'm talking. She's someone who loves life and loves to play and loves to... It's almost like she's willing it. She's using all of the force to will...

life into being easier than it is. Yeah, yeah. And yeah, and she always trying to change the mood for the people to make them feel optimistic. Hi, Banyas. Hi, Hannah. How are you? That was basically the end of my conversation with Maram. As she did the first time around, Banyas decided it was time for us to move on. I know.

My calls with Banyas have grown more infrequent. The last time she called, I was in my office heading into a meeting. I was going to just say a quick hello, make sure she was okay. Hello? Hi, Banyas. How are you? Hi. Are you calling me on video? Yes, I am. Okay, hang on.

Let's see. Oh, there you are. There you are. Hi. Hi. I'm watching a film. Do you want to see? It's called Home Alone. Do you know it? I do. I love it. Would you like to watch with me? Would you like to watch? I paused, looked at my watch, saw my coworkers heading to the meeting room, and decided to go ahead with her agenda.

Let's see it together. Okay, for a few minutes. Oh my god. I want to cover myself. It's so cold here. Oh, okay. Oh my god. I'm here. Okay.

She's under the covers with her phone and her laptop in purple pajamas. She's sitting on her mattress on the floor, and she's pointing the phone at her screen so we can watch together. I'm covering myself in the tent. Oh, here. Do you see? Yeah, I can see. Oh!

Of course, Panias is a vocal movie watcher. She has a running commentary on the characters, repeats English words that are new to her, explains the movie.

Yeah! There's no skating on the ice. They leave him alone. But he's happy, happy. Would you be happy if that happened? Yes! I'm free! You would? I will shout in the home, I'm free! I'm free! We're the wet bandits.

Macaulay Culkin, who I'd forgotten is also eight years old in this movie, is walking home, crosses a driveway just as the two burglars, Joe Pesci and the other guy, pull out in their van, screech to a halt, and Macaulay Culkin does his blonde surprise face. Hey, watch out! Ah!

That's so funny. Hey, hey. You better watch out for the trap, son, you know? Sorry. Sandy don't visit the funeral home, little buddy. Okay, okay. Merry Christmas. I do like the Christmas design. Mm-hmm. I like this movie.

And when they traveled to New York, oh, where do you live? I live in New York. That's where I live. In New York? Mm-hmm. Yes. Yes.

Kevin's family travels there last time. You live in New York. I do. Oh, I want to tell you something. What about this statue that you have? The Statue of Liberty? Yes. It's in New York. Yeah. You see it? I want to see it. Yeah, I don't see it right now, but I see it.

I see it pretty often. When you are out of your house, you see it? Yeah, when I go to work, sometimes I can see it. Oh, I want to go to work with you to see it. I love to. Banyas, the houses there in that part of the movie, does it look anything like Gaza? No. How is it different? No. Gaza is more beautiful. Even now? Yeah.

Two days earlier, Israeli airstrikes hit Al-Aqsa Hospital in Derbella, right near Banias' apartment. The hospital was surrounded by tents filled with displaced people sleeping. The airstrikes caused a fire that ripped through those tents. I'd seen Maram sharing images and videos of people sleeping in the tents burned alive. I wondered if Banias had seen those images, but I didn't ask.

Instead, we watch this Christmas movie. We watch Kevin trick the burglars into thinking his family is home by staging a fake party in his house. Any war is a series of plot points. Even in an ongoing war, a never-ending and no longer new war, we track its progress by the worst moments.

I kept calling Banyas with this expectation, waiting for the story of the war as I was understanding it to somehow intersect with her life as she was experiencing it. I kept imagining, dreading that one of those moments will break through, that something bad will happen to Banyas. One of those horrible plot points will become her plot point. But something bad is happening to Banyas. This is the plot point for her.

She's sitting under the covers with no electricity, no heat, winter approaching. Banias has not been in school for over a year. She has no home. She has a cough, and there is no medicine. Her friends have scattered. Some of them are dead. Her relatives are all over. Some of them are dead. She's eating canned beans instead of burgers. She's finding glass in her brother's head. This is her life. This is the story she has to narrate. They want to see me.

Where he will go. I don't know exactly where he will go. He's hiding. He's hiding. Okay, Banyas, I'm going to go. Oh, do you want to leave? I want to continue this movie and then go to sleep. Okay, sleep well. I'll talk to you soon. Where are you? Are you still here? I'm here. Hello. Hello.

Hello? I'm here. You're still here? Yes, I am. We have a couple minutes left in this episode, and I have a small update. Recently, Banyasa's family moved. Not far. An apartment a couple miles from Derbela, where they've been staying. The new place is less crowded. There's more privacy for her family. It has trees outside and a refrigerator. That doesn't work, but still. The apartment is quiet, temporary, and it's not home.

Banias knows she can't go home, to the north of Gaza, where she's from. She knows her home was destroyed. She's seen pictures of her neighborhood exploded on fire. And she's seen video of the empty space where her house was, the small mountains of rubble.

The gray couch with yellow cushions that she sat on after school, the chandelier her mother chose, the mirror by the door, the teacups and trays filled with treats, her new reimagined big girl bedroom with an Elsa bedspread, her desk, the pink moon they hung on the ceiling. All of that is somewhere in that pile of rubble. All of that is there in the north of Gaza, their life. But the north of Gaza has been transformed.

There were about a million people living in northern Gaza when the war started. Over 270,000 homes. Everyone was told to leave, to go south. Most people did. And now, those people are separated from the north of Gaza by a wide, militarized zone that they cannot cross.

Israel has been building and fortifying this military zone for the last few months. It cuts right across Gaza, splits Gaza in two, completely separating the north of Gaza, where Banias is from, from the south of Gaza, where she's been displaced to. This military zone is called the Netzerim Corridor. It has a constant military presence, and it's big, around 20 square miles. It takes up more than 12% of the entire territory of Gaza.

In order to build it, Israel cleared out a wide stretch of land, demolished hundreds of buildings from the Israeli border all the way to the ocean. And in that space, Israel installed checkpoints and paved roads and flags and water lines and cell phone towers. It looks like something you'd put in place if you're planning to stay a while. A former chief of staff of the Israeli military has called the emptying out of the north of Gaza an ethnic cleansing.

He said, quote, the land is being cleared of Arabs. Human Rights Watch, Oxfam, Amnesty International have all called what is happening in Gaza an ethnic cleansing or a genocide. Israel denies this. And the Israeli military sent me a statement calling the charge of ethnic cleansing entirely baseless. It says it's working to dismantle Hamas's military infrastructure and is adhering to its obligations under international law.

The people who remained in the north and never left are under siege with increasingly limited food and medical care. The UN says children are, quote, as ever, the first and most to suffer. So this latest move for Banias' parents, it feels like a new phase. It's a move from, I can't believe it's gone on this long, to this is going to keep going on.

For Banyas, it's more of the same. More temporary, more displacement. Displacement that looks pretty likely to last most, if not all, of her childhood. I asked Banyas if there was a song she thought we should use at the end of the show. This is what she suggested. She says she danced to this song at her uncle's wedding two days before the war started and has not stopped listening to it since. Come on Barbie, let's go party.

Today's episode was produced by Valerie Kipnis and edited by Laura Starczewski.

The people who put together today's show are Jendayi Banz, Sean Cole, Michael Comete, Henry Larson, Catherine Raimondo, Stowe Nelson, Nadia Raymond, Anthony Roman, Ryan Rumery, Francis Swanson, Christopher Swatala, Matt Tierney, Nancy Updike, Julie Whitaker, and Diane Wu. Our managing editor is Sara Abdurrahman. Our senior editor, David Kestenbaum. Executive editor, Emmanuel Berry. Welcome to the world, Elias Berryman Chase.

Special thanks this week to...

Corey Short with the City University of New York, Jamin Vandenhoek with Oregon State University and the UN Satellite Center. Dr. Iman Farajala's book that focuses on the experiences of children in Gaza in particular is called My Life is a War.

This American Life is delivered to public radio stations by PRX, the public radio exchange. To become a This American Life partner, which gets you bonus content, ad-free listening, and hundreds of our favorite episodes of the show right in your podcast feed, go to thisamericanlife.org slash lifepartners. That link is also in the show notes. I'm Chana Jaffe-Walt. Ira will be back next week with more stories of This American Life.

So this whole episode of the show is all conversations with you. Okay. That's great. I will be the star of Gaza. I'll be a star. I'll be a star. By the way, the mushroom too wants to be the mushroom star of Gaza. Mushroom is joining us in the conversation. Hi, Mushroom.

joining you to the conversation. Do you want... Well, Bobby, we're just getting started. Thanks for joining the podcast of This American Life.

In Lily's family, there's a story everybody knows by heart. How many times do you think you've heard this story? Fifty, hundred, many times. If this story had never happened... All of us wouldn't be here right now. Sammy wouldn't be here. Nana wouldn't be here. Marion wouldn't be here. Wally wouldn't be here. Anyone that we know wouldn't be here. So what happens when Lily's mom tells her this story is not true? Next week on the podcast or on your local public radio station.

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