Since October 7, my life in northern Gaza has been consumed by fear, hunger, and relentless despair. Anxiety, thirst, and bone-deep cold have become my constant companions. I cannot grasp the enormity of our suffering, nor can I find words to reconcile the devastation we face. Life here defies logic, reason, and hope.
The war has stripped me of everything—my home, my possessions, my identity, my ambitions. It has robbed me of my humanity, reducing me to a state of survival where I think only of protecting my family. My bitterness grows, directed at the Arab and Muslim world, whose silence feels like a betrayal of our pain.
I ask myself daily: When will this nightmare end? When will Israel cease its war crimes? When will Hamas and Israel reach an agreement to stop this torment, which falls not on leaders but on ordinary people like us? Most haunting of all, I wonder why we must endure this suffering at all.
A Fateful Conversation
Recently, I managed to contact a friend in Ireland after months of failed attempts due to Gaza’s unreliable internet. His words were a turning point: “Leave Gaza at any cost. Preserve your life and your soul. Whatever you’ve built here is gone. Save your family’s future.”
That conversation shattered my resolve to stay. The realization hit me: survival is not about clinging to what’s lost but escaping the darkness that consumes us. Leaving Gaza is not about abandoning my roots; it’s about saving what remains of my spirit.
Trapped in a Cycle of Survival
I now live in Shuja’iya, a neighborhood in eastern Gaza, after fleeing my home when the ground invasion began. Every day, I long to return—to retrieve a memory, a piece of my past, or the winter jacket I bought with my friend Youssef, who was killed in an airstrike. But danger makes that impossible. Israeli tanks patrol the area, and my building lies in ruins.
The indignities of survival are endless. Food is scarce; I’ve lost 17 kilograms since the war began. Water, a basic necessity, comes at an extortionate price from those lucky enough to have wells. We live on dry barley bread—animal feed, really—because sustenance, however meager, is the only goal.
Writing Amid Tears
As a journalist, my role is twofold: I must provide for my family while bearing witness to Gaza’s suffering. With no international reporters allowed into the Strip, we are the voices of our people. We document the hunger, the tears, the stories of children left without food or hope, in the faint hope that the world might listen.
But journalism here comes at great personal risk. To report, I must travel exposed areas to access the internet or reach bombing sites. Each step is fraught with peril. Even the local journalists’ union offers no protection, leaving us to navigate this deadly landscape alone.
Dreams Reduced to Ashes
Since October, my life has crumbled. My aspirations—once so vivid—feel like distant memories. I graduated from university two years ago with hope and determination, believing in a future worth fighting for. Now, those dreams lie in ruins, eclipsed by the stark reality of war.
Each word I write is a battle against despair, a testament to resilience in the face of unimaginable pain. But the energy to continue wanes. My hunger, both physical and emotional, grows heavier by the day.
The leaders call for patience, but patience cannot rebuild what has been shattered. Gaza, this dark corner of the world, has stolen not only my dreams but my belief in a brighter tomorrow. For now, survival is all I have left.
