The corner that I created where I live now, as a place to pray. I also study here for my master’s degree in international relations and diplomacy. Photo: Nada Abdel Karim Hamdona

It was not a large or luxurious room — just a small space near a window that had once been used to store some old household items and books, in our home in Al-Sudaniya. Every Ramadan, I used to turn it into a peaceful place where I could read the Qur’an, pray, and make du’a for simple things: a small mirror on the wall, a gentle swing where I could sit and think, and peace enough to feel closer to myself and to God.

I have always loved silence and tranquility. The room carried the faint scent of incense. Children playing and the call to prayer from nearby mosques used to be the only sounds that interrupted the silence. Its window opened directly to our garden, where trees and plants filled every corner with life and color. I used to sit by that window and admire our garden as it breathed with us.

The garden of our home, as seen from the window in my quiet corner of our home, before it was destroyed. Photo: Nada Abdel Karim Hamdona

My favorite part of the garden was its small hut. On weekends and holidays, the whole family would sit there together and talk about our days. I would tell them about what I did at work, and my brother who studies medicine abroad would join us on a video call and tell us about his work at the hospital and the difficulties he faced with patients. My sister would talk about her university and what she was doing there.

There was a jasmine flower plant that covered a large part of the garden. Whenever I touched it and rubbed my hands, they would smell like jasmine for hours.

The room itself was calm and fresh. It was built only two years before the war, and it dutifully held all of my girlhood dreams.

When the war began, we were forced to leave our home. We managed to return during the ceasefire in late January 2025, but in the middle of Ramadan 2025, the fighting resumed and we had to leave again. A few months later, in July 2025, our home was completely destroyed in an airstrike. The garden that had once pulsated with trees, jasmine, and family gatherings was reduced to barren land covered with rubble.

I lost my prayer room when we lost our house. The silence I once loved had also disappeared.

The corner in my old room, before the war, where I used to pray and study. Photo: Nada Abdel Karim Hamdona

My uncle had an empty apartment, and he divided its small space into three bedrooms, a living room, a tiny kitchen, and a bathroom so our family could stay there. My sister and I shared one of those small rooms.

As Ramadan approached once more, I lived with mixed emotions. I was afraid, yet I still wanted to celebrate. So I chose something simpler — to live quietly, without excessive expectations, and to search for peace within.

But every time I shared my dream of creating a small room or quiet corner for myself with my mother, she would give me a gentle, sorrowful look. I tried to explain that I simply needed a quiet place, even if I were to lose it again.

I told my mother that I had saved a little money and wanted to buy some Ramadan decorations. She looked at me seriously and said, “Keep your money. You have no idea what could happen next.”

Although I understood her fear, I still felt the need to create something small for myself, even if it was a quieter version of my dream.

Instead of buying decorations, I decorated my corner with pictures of my dreams. I printed photographs that represented the future I longed for: a graduation cap, an airplane lifting off, and a city skyline.

I searched for those images on Pinterest, then sent them from my phone to the owner of a local stationery shop and asked him to print them for me. Because I wanted them printed on thick card stock so I could attach them to the wall, each photo cost one dollar, or about three shekels. I dream of studying abroad one day, perhaps in New York City or earning a scholarship in the UK. I also dream of writing and publishing my own book, When the War Writes Me.

In my corner I placed my grandmother’s old sewing table. It had been buried beneath the rubble after our home was destroyed. Fortunately, it had suffered only minor damage. My father pulled it out from under the debris and repaired it, and I later placed it in my room.

I covered the table with a simple cloth. On it, I arranged my favorite books and notebooks neatly, placed a cup and a few daily essentials, and used a small black basket to organize my belongings.

Some of those books had been rescued from beneath the rubble. Although a few pages were torn, they were still readable. Most of the books, however, were ones I bought during the war. A large number of stores were destroyed during the war, but new popular markets appeared in certain areas, such as Al-Sahaba and Al-Saha. These were not traditional shops, but rather small street stalls where people sold different items. Some of these stalls sold books, and I used to buy books from them.

With so little else to do, reading became the best way to fill my time. During the war, a single book cost around 60 shekels — about 20 US dollars — roughly double its price before the war.

On the table, I placed my favorite books including the Qur’an, while the dream photos filled the wall above. That small corner became my own private sanctuary, where I prayed Taraweeh during Ramadan every day.