The Soundscape of Genocide

May 8, 2026 - by Ahmad Sbaih

Photo credit: “2015 Dron DJI Phantom 3 Advanced,” from Wikimedia Commons.

I have become an expert in distinguishing the sounds of Israeli death blasts.

The roar of warplanes.

The relentless thump of shelling.

Each day in Gaza is a new battle to navigate the different cacophonies of Israel’s massacres.

But it’s the smaller machines, like the buzzing quadcopter, that get under my skin. That eerie hum haunts me, a reminder of how easily it could pierce through our walls, how one careless command could mean the end.

I have lost count of the nights I regretted not closing my window as soon as it drew near, its presence both suffocating and terrifying.

Every night brings a familiar choice. Keep the windows shut and choke in the stifling heat? Or let in a small breeze at the risk of my life? Drenched in sweat I lie there, torn between a moment of comfort and the fear of what that comfort could cost.

Of all these sounds, nothing is as torturous as the hovering drone—zanananana . . . Day and night, it is ever-present overhead, to remind me that peace is elusive and that danger is omnipresent.

The drone’s hum doesn’t just fill the air. It feels as if it is perched right beside me, under my roof, unraveling my mind.

Don’t you ever tire, demon? You greet me on my threshold. You watch me in my bed. You turn quiet to dread. What is left of my existence is captive to your humming, as you hunt your next prey. Evil suspended above us, you promise butcheries. The horror will never leave us.

Carpet bombing is another merciless reminder of my proximity to death. The noise is relentless. With each blast coming closer, I feel as though my turn is next. The world seems to pause. Memories and faces flash through my mind as if preparing me for the end. Every strike tears into the earth, transforming neighborhoods into cemeteries, debris marking the places where lives once thrived.

A month into Israel’s genocide of Gaza, I was talking with friends outside one afternoon, hoping a moment of normalcy would distract me from nights void of sleep. A loud continuous bombing echoed across the street. We instinctively dropped to the ground, but the sound was too close, too real.

Panic took over.

Horror and sleep deprivation froze my mind. Only one thought drove me—I sprinted toward my home.

Blocks and rocks rained down around me as I reached it. At the sight of our walls still standing, my mother’s tear-streaked face peering down at me from above, I collapsed.

We learned later the strike had hit the al-Taj block, a kilometer away, murdering 500 people. I visited the area afterward; blood and ruin filled the streets. It was more than just a massacre.

Almost two years of surviving genocide has sharpened my hearing, and cursed me with the ability to pinpoint bombings by sound alone.

My family trusts me more than they trust the news now. Where did the latest blast hit? they ask me. The Tuffah neighborhood? The Daraj neighborhood? Jabalia Camp?

My skill, which once reassured them, has only turned their fear into routine.

There are moments when I wonder if it’s better that they’ve adjusted, numbed to the terror. But what about those who aren’t spared? For them, each blast isn’t just a sound. It is an end.

When I go out searching for any internet connection, my sight sometimes sticks to a random destroyed house, inscribed with the names of the people buried under its rubble. Each had a life like mine.

But here I am—one step away from the omnipresent death.

My dreams feel insignificant. The world views our suffering as unremarkable.

I am a stone in the river, weathered and worn by the constant flow of destruction.

Unnoticed.

Forgotten.

Left to endure.