My life was simple before the war. I had a mix of ambition and anxiety inside of me like many other young women in Gaza. My dream job was to get an honors degree from the Islamic University and work as a writer. I was worried that my continued education and writing career would be hampered by the constant attacks and instability in Gaza.
However, I never imagined that everything I knew about would vanish, leaving me with a dreadful struggle to keep going.
We assumed that the war would just be another quick rout of fighting, one of the many escalations we had experienced in Gaza. However, there was a change in this regard. The explosions were louder, longer, and more intense. Soon, we realized that this nightmare was only going to get worse.
Our first “evacuation order” was issued on December 27, 2023. There was no time for reflection. When the bombing’s loudspeaker grew, we only had begun assembling a small number of items. The building’s upper floors were being targeted.
We hurriedly left the building with only a small bag in our bag. I held my younger brother’s hand as my father pushed my grandmother into her wheelchair, causing me to flee into the street without knowing where we were going.
People were running, screaming, crying, and carrying what little of their lives still lay around. It appeared to be from the horrors of the Day of Judgement.
We found temporary lodging at a relative’s home as the night fell. Without any privacy or comfort, sixteen of us slept in one room.
We had to make the difficult choice to find shelter in one of the “humanitarian zone” of camps we had been visiting early in the morning. We hardly ever owned anything. We only had a few blankets and the weather was bitterly cold. We used traditional methods to wash, clean, and cook. As if we had traveled through the Stone Age, we lit candles and prepared food.
We were informed that our home had been bombed in the middle of all of this.
I resisted what I was told. I couldn’t comprehend the tragedy, so I sat and sobbed. We lost everything when the building was destroyed, not just the walls and the roof, which my father’s goldsmith workshop had on the ground floor.
The days were sluggish and miserable, passing by slowly and heavily. I lost touch with the majority of my friends, and I could no longer hear the warm voices that once filled my days. Every time I had a chance to connect to the internet, I would check in on my closest friend, Rama. She resided in northern Gaza.
My friend Rawan wrote me a message on January 15, 2024. I didn’t receive it right away. Due to the communications blackout, it took days.
The phrase, “Rama was martyred,” was simple, and it shattered me from the inside.
My closest friend at school, Rama Waleed Sham’ah. I was in shock about it. I repeatedly read the message, looking for a different conclusion or denial. But it was harsh, merciless, and silent.
I missed the opportunity to bid my goodbyes. I didn’t speak to her in her final moments, hold her hand, or say “I love you.” I smelt like I was breathing a thousand miles away.
On February 16, 2024, my father’s entire extended family, including all of his cousins, their wives, and their children, were all killed. I witnessed my father breaking in a previously unheard of manner. Words cannot adequately express his deep grief.
Then, fate knocked on our door.
When the Israeli army surrounded the area on June 8, 2024, we had just moved from our tent to a rented apartment and were trying to restart our lives. The tank started moving up the street as it was being seen first. I yelled and cried out in panic to my father. But I was unable to contact him. A missile struck the building we were staying in at that precise moment. The air was merely a cloud of thick smoke and dust.
I had no idea whether or not I was still alive. By God’s grace, I was able to say the shahada when I attempted to do so. Then I began yelling and calling my father. He had a soft voice from a distance warning me to stay inside because the drone was still bombing.
I made a few steps before I lost consciousness. They only stick out in my memory as they carried me down the building and blanketed me. I was bleeding. I would lose consciousness after a brief period of time before returning.
The tank’s location at the entrance prevented the ambulance from reaching our street. For two hours, my sister, my mother, and I endured pain before some local young men came over to help us. I was transported to the ambulance by a blanket. In front of everyone, the paramedics immediately began bandaging my wounds in the middle of the street.
I was told all along by their whispers that I was in the middle of something. I could not speak, but I did hear them.
When I arrived at the hospital, doctors informed me that my hands, legs, and back had been injured. My mother’s absence made the pain worse for me, and the absence of her made things worse. I needed surgery right away.
I made it.
I had to return to the hospital to change my clothes. Each visit was painful, to say the least. Every time I saw the blood, I would choke. Every time my father came with me, he would make an effort to ease these visits, remarking, “You will be rewarded, my dear, and we will get through this.”
I experienced severe physical and emotional pain as a result of this. I sprang into a spiral of sorrow, fear, and exhaustion that seemed to end in an endless spiral. I was no longer aware of my breathing, my breathing pattern, or my purpose.
We couldn’t find a roof to sleep on. It was difficult to find food. I was left with the agonizing memories of my deceased loved ones. I felt completely helpless because I was afraid my family and I could lose our lives at any time. I could not continue because I felt like everything was screaming.
Yet, day after day, I remained alive in the midst of despair. I endured pain, but I lived.
I resumed reading whatever books I could find. Then I enrolled when my university announced that classes would resume online.
I was unable to use my broken, cast-bound hand. My mother occasionally held the pen in my hand while I drew notes. My professors were sympathetic to me and made the best effort to help, but there were many difficulties. I had trouble getting my phone charged and the internet so I could download lectures. Sometimes I’d have to postpone my exams because of power outages or poor network.
I stayed put all the way. My physical condition gradually improved.
We still reside in a tent today. We struggle to provide for basic necessities like food and clean water. Like everyone else in Gaza, we are going through famine.
I realize that I am no longer the same person as the ones who left behind the scars of war in my body and memory. I discovered a strength inside of me that I had never known.
Despite the loss, I have a way through the rubble, meaning in the suffering, and a reason to write, witness, and resist. I’ve made the decision to speak, stay alive, and love.
Because, simply put, I owe it to myself to live, just like everyone else does.
