Mohammed Abumhadi teaches an injured child, Isaac, to play the guitar, August 2024. Photo: Osaid Kotkot

In December 2023, when I returned from displacement to my neighborhood in Jabalia camp, my house had been burned just two days before. There was only silence to convey my feelings as I walked slowly through the blackened rooms, my mind taking a tour through all the memories my family had lived in this house. Though each corner represented unforgettable moments, I eventually reached the one that had been my sanctuary — the corner where I kept my musical instruments. Everything was reduced to ash. Fragments and my heart burned along with them, for nothing remained of the music that had once been my solace.

One of Mohammed’s burnt guitars in his home, December 2023. Photo: Mohammed Abumhadi

Before the war, my life was full of achievements, and I was excited to finish my final semester at university, especially after being chosen to showcase my musical talent on stage at the graduation ceremony that was meant to take place on October 7, 2023. Instead, on that very day I lost my home, my instruments, my graduation, and the version of myself I had worked so hard to become.

As the days passed heavily afterwards, I got stuck in depression, feeling my identity being erased. For a while I stopped dreaming and planning. I watched time pass before me while I remained in the same place, not making any progress.

Finally, when the overthinking about my current situation became more than I could bear, I asked myself a simple question. If everything has been taken from me, does that mean I should surrender as well? Life moves forward whether I am happy or sad, and grief will not rebuild my house or bring back what was burned. So I decided to reclaim the ambitious version of myself and return to music as a way to find meaning again in living through each day.

Losing my instruments was a big obstacle, but I remembered that a friend of mine had a guitar. It was old, but I did not care. It could still make music. I asked if I could borrow it for a few days. When I began to play, I felt something strange that I could not understand at first. It was a beautiful feeling, as if someone was comforting me, gently placing a hand over my heart. It was true healing.

That motivated me to buy a new guitar so that music would once again become an essential part of my life. It felt as though I had regained a friend I thought I had lost forever. I played every single day. Those quiet moments with my guitar became my refuge.

The next step in my journey of healing came when I decided to take the music beyond just my own personal solace. I carried my guitar to the displacement camps, where people were living in classrooms and tents. We gathered together with just my guitar, no microphone, no speakers.

Though the activity itself was simple, it was so special when I introduced the guitar to the children. I let them explore it as children — to touch the strings, ask questions, and connect with it in their own way. Then we sang together, played melodies, and shared the joy I had first felt when I discovered music.

Mohammed plays guitar and sings with children in the Alhayat Initiative in Northern Gaza, May 2025. Photo: Osaid Kotkot

The children loved it and began to look forward to my visits. When they saw me in the street, they asked eagerly, “When will you come again? We want you to come here every day.”

One day at the camp, I overheard a child singing one of the songs we had sung, humming its familiar tune:

Where to, Ramallah? Where to, Ramallah?
Oh, my darling traveler, where to, Ramallah?
Have you no fear of God? Have you no fear of God?
You stole my heart, have you no fear of God?

 Where, my love? Where, my love?
Leaving me and going, where, my love?
My fortune and my fate, my fortune and my fate,
My love for you is from God, my fortune and my fate

The song is Wen A’ Ramallah, a piece from our Palestinian heritage that is often performed in celebrations. I realized that through music, the children could connect to our culture and identity, even in the middle of the constant attempts to erase them by the Israeli occupation.

With that insight, what began with a single guitar slowly grew into something bigger. I became a guitar instructor within a small team that included an oud player, a choir instructor, and a group of children who were no longer just listeners, but creators. We began training them to sing and perform traditional Palestinian songs. Some learned to play instruments. Others discovered confidence in their voices. A few even started writing their own lyrics, turning their experiences into words.

Mohammed with his students Alma, Ghazal, Majd, and Judy, training them to play the guitar in a class at Gaza College, June 2025. Photo: Osaid Kotkot

One of them was 14-year-old Zain Abu Lebda. Despite his young age, he wrote the lyrics to a song he titled “Ya Ghazzah.” His song was inspired by our experiences, as it describes the suffering of the people of Gaza and the destruction caused by the occupation, and it asks why the world has remained indifferent. The day he performed it, I was beside him, accompanying him on the guitar, listening to his deepest feelings flow through his beautiful voice:

Oh Gaza, your situation is hard to bear
Destroyed by Netanyahu, the Zionist
Gaza, Rafah, and Beit Hanoun are gone
Why does it mean so little to you?

I don’t know why they destroyed every stone
They exterminated us and left nothing, not even the trees
Our right to life has been trampled on and denied
And we have become worthless to you

Music was once a hobby I enjoyed, but it became my healer. Once lost in despair, I have managed to complete my bachelor’s degree remotely and am now an English language teacher. I see now that music is a creative force, a form of resilience and resistance. Sharing music with others has allowed me not only to offer education and recreation, but to nurture cultural awareness and connection to identity. And most importantly, to spark hope, pride, and confidence in children suffering so much in this war.