Fragments of survival: A Gaza woman’s chronicle of unseen loss
“Is this still life – or just an extended ending?”
I write these words from a tent in the al-Nasr neighbourhood of Gaza City. Me and my family – my husband, our two sons, and two daughters – came here after being displaced in mid-May from Jabalia – it was the fifth time.
Israel has now all but erased Jabalia – a refugee camp in the far north of Gaza – from the map. Nothing remains of home – just ghosts of what used to be.
Now, we live with nylon walls that breathe dust and cold, and a ceiling that trembles with every drone that hovers overhead. There is no safety in Gaza. Just waiting for the next strike.
There is no water. No food. No electricity. Yesterday, we couldn’t find a single kilo of flour.
Two days ago, Muhammad, my husband’s nephew, was killed while searching for food. He was only 15. A child with a plastic bag in his hand and an empty stomach. He only wanted to feed his family. He said he’d be right back. But he didn’t return.
We used to see him often. Now, his absence fills the tent more than his presence ever did.
Sometimes I sit in silence and ask myself: What are we surviving for? Is this still life – or just an extended ending? I survived missiles and tanks and grief. But who am I now? I keep breathing, but I don’t feel alive. Is that still called survival?
Every night, I stare into the darkness – not to dream, but to endure. I no longer pray for miracles. I only ask for a morning where no one dies.
I think of all the pieces I lost. Places. Moments. People. Parts of myself. And I wonder – will I ever get them back? And if not, will what’s left of me be enough to build something new?
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Palestinian writer documenting the human cost of siege and displacement, focusing on women's voices and psychological survival