“TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHES, HABIBI! DOWN ON your knees, and put down everything you have on the ground,” the Israeli soldier abruptly ordered. There were dozens of them, all heavily armed. As I complied, they blindfolded and handcuffed me. I could sense them all around me. Then I heard a machine gun being loaded. Beneath my bare skin, the sand felt like burning charcoal.
It was the middle of April. I had come to a military checkpoint along the Netzarim Corridor with my wife, Asmaa, and our 2½-year-old son, Rafik, on our journey from Gaza City to the southern city of Rafah. After months of bombardment, displacement, injury, illness, and starvation, we were fleeing to Egypt. Asmaa was five months pregnant. We were leaving the rest of our families behind.…