From Dreams to Despair: My Life in Gaza
Life in Gaza has always been a complex mosaic of community, hope, and resilience. Growing up in Beit Hanoun, a town in northern Gaza, I experienced a childhood filled with simple pleasures and collective warmth. My daily routine was rooted in normalcy: rising at 7 a.m. to attend university, returning home by mid-afternoon, and then tending to our land—feeding chickens, cultivating vegetables, fruits, and olives. Farming was more than just a livelihood; it was a passion that connected me to the land and to my family’s heritage.
Our neighborhood was a close-knit tapestry of neighbors who cared deeply for one another. We shared celebrations, mourned losses together, and found joy in everyday moments. My father’s stories, told over cups of tea with neighbors, created a sense of belonging and warmth that defined our community.
At university, I was a student of engineering, standing on the cusp of building a better future. Alongside my classmates from the College of Engineering, we harbored dreams of establishing a consulting engineering firm dedicated to providing Gaza with sustainable and safe energy solutions. For 18 years, the ongoing Israeli blockade has restricted access to electricity—an average of just 8 hours daily. Our goal was to help address this critical issue and improve the lives of our people.
However, those dreams were shattered by the brutal reality of war. The conflict descended upon us suddenly and ferociously, turning our hopes into ashes. The school classroom that once buzzed with ambition became a scene of devastation. Out of our 36 students, nearly half—around 18—lost their lives, including many of my friends and classmates. Since the conflict erupted, I have lost contact with the rest, and their fates remain uncertain.
The war has not only destroyed our educational pursuits but also robbed us of our future and our sense of security. The memories of university gatherings, outings, and shared aspirations haunt me daily. The pain of losing those close to me is a heavy burden—tears often come as I recall the moments of friendship and innocence that now feel like distant memories.
Faced with relentless violence and destruction, we were forced to flee our homes repeatedly—more than five times—seeking safety. Currently, we are living in the streets of Zawaida, because no place is truly safe, and overcrowding has become a new harsh reality. Some families, including ours, are even living by the sea, seeking shelter where they can find it.
Every day brings new heartbreaking news—reports of neighbors, relatives, friends fallen in the violence. My father tirelessly tries to reach our former neighbors in northern Gaza, but each contact ends with tragic news: more lives lost, more families devastated. The loss is profound, and the pain of our collective suffering is woven into the very fabric of our community.
While the future remains uncertain, the resilience of Gaza’s people endures. Despite the despair, we continue to hope for peace and stability—that someday, the dreams we hold onto for ourselves, our children, and our community can be reborn from the ashes of conflict.
