Palestinian traditional instruments and embroidered garments hang within Noon Café like living memories, narrating the tale of a people clinging to their identity in spite of all attempts to eradicate it. Photo: Nada Abdel Karim Hamdona

I decided to go out one Thursday after a long and demanding day at work. Friday is our day off, and I had a ton of work that needed internet connectivity, which is now a rare luxury in our homes. I thought I’d work from a neighboring café named Noon on Al-Rimal Street in Gaza. I didn’t realize that this small action would take me to a scene that would remain with me for a very long time.

Calm inside the café

The door separating the café from the street felt like a boundary between two entirely different worlds. I felt a quiet jolt the moment I stepped inside, as if I had crossed into another reality. Outside were the images of a life weighed down by suffering: streets full of destruction, rubble, wreckage, and noise. Inside, an unfamiliar calm suffused the space, with warmth, soft music, and people attempting to preserve a sense of normalcy.

The names of Palestinian cities are engraved one by one on the wall of the café, making it very evident that the region is still remembered and that Palestine has not been obliterated. Photo: Nada Abdel Karim Hamdona

Decorations caught my attention: a map of Palestine, carefully calligraphed city names, and embroidered Palestinian garments hung on the wall. It was as if they were declaring that Palestine has not been erased, and that this space could help preserve a fragment of the life that has been taken from us.

Living in tents

Mornings in Gaza begin differently than they do elsewhere in the world. Waking up here means confronting the harsh reality imposed upon us. As an English translator and a member of a field team that conducts inspections in shelters across the Gaza Strip, I wake each morning already carrying the weight of the day ahead. My work goes beyond words; it is to witness the suffering that people endure daily.

During one visit, I stood inside a tent where rainwater had pooled across the ground. A small child clutched his shoes in his hands, unsure where to step without sinking into the mud. His mother watched silently. She looked exhausted. Her eyes were fixed on the floor as if speaking required energy she no longer had. No one asked questions.

Outside the café door, makeshift tents extend between damaged buildings, where waiting becomes a daily ritual and life is reduced to cramped quarters. Photo: Nada Abdel Karim Hamdona

On another day, I met a woman sitting beside the entrance of her tent, carefully adjusting a thin plastic sheet in an attempt to block the wind. She told us she had lost count of how many times the tent had collapsed.

Behind her, children lay wrapped together for warmth, their faces pale and quiet. The air was heavy with damp and resignation. Unbearable overcrowding, poor hygiene caused by water shortages, and limited truck access form a silent ache that shows in people’s eyes before their words can form.

With every visit, I feel we have reached a breaking point. I find myself asking the same questions again and again: How can a human being live like this? When will reconstruction begin? When will dignity return? When will this pain, which has lasted far longer than it should, finally end?

I cannot stop thinking about these questions. I carry them home with me each evening and sit with my family, sharing what I have seen. We live in a relative’s house with no real walls, but it protects us from rain, cold, and flooding. “We want a better home than this,” my siblings often say. I tell them about the people living in tents. I don’t wish to silence them, but only to remind them that, despite everything, we are still in a slightly better position. We accept our reality because others are enduring far worse.

Suspended between two worlds

I began to see the Noon Café as a gateway between two worlds: the outer world forced upon us, filled with suffering and deprivation; and an inner world that reminds us of what life could be, what we deserve, and what we continue to hold onto despite everything.

When I sat down to work, my heart remained outside. I felt suspended between the two worlds, looking at the reflection of rubble on the windows while hearing the noise of the street beyond the glass. We are born into this gray space, grasping moments of peace whenever life allows us to breathe, while carrying grief within us.

A single door separates the peace inside the café from the outside, which appears to be a world covered in dirt and tents, and a daily struggle for survival. Photo: Nada Abdel Karim Hamdona

At that moment, I realized that the problem was not the existence of this peaceful world, but the injustice surrounding it. Why should calm be a privilege? Why do even the most basic aspects of life become distant dreams? Still, I held onto the warmth the café offered, gathering the strength I needed to return to the other reality.

We may not yet have answers about when the pain will end or when rebuilding will begin, but we still have the ability to speak and to hold onto our humanity. While there are people who see, write, suffer, and dream, hope has not been defeated. Even while living between two worlds, we remain free to choose the direction of our lives.