My father, Dr. Muhammad Abushawish, sits among displaced children in an UNRWA school, watching “SpongeBob.” Photo: Omran Abushawish

During this genocide, we lost our sense of what it means to truly live. The most basic human rights—clean water, electricity, safety, and even joy—have become distant memories, replaced by daily struggles for survival.

Water, once taken for granted, has become more precious than gold. Electricity, too, has become a luxury—available only to those with small generators or solar panels.

In the face of such deprivation, we stopped dreaming. We stopped expecting basic necessities.

Even the sound of children’s laughter disappeared. In this descent into demoralization, a small moment shifted everything for me.

Returning from Rafah to Nuseirat

After a long and exhausting experience of displacement in Rafah from January to March 2024, my family and I made the decision to return to our home in Al-Nuseirat camp, in the middle of the Gaza Strip. The ground operation had receded, and we heard the situation in the camp had become somewhat stable. We came to find the Israeli Occupation Forces had caused massive destruction in the camp, but except for the broken windows and doors, everything in our home was fine.

We found the camp quiet—emptied of the energy, movement, and resources that once made it living. There were few people and facilities. Even solar charging points were nowhere to be found. So, my family decided to buy a small solar panel system to at least meet our most basic needs: charging phones, powering a small lamp.

A wave of emotion

A few days after setting up the solar panel, we turned on the TV for the first time in seven months. It started as a simple attempt to soothe my little sister, Aleen, only a year old, who had been crying nonstop. We tuned into Spacetoon—a channel every child in Gaza knows by heart. I don’t remember exactly which cartoon was playing, but I’ll never forget what happened next.

One by one, my older brothers and the children in our extended family began gathering in our living room. Our apartment is on the ground floor of a four-story building, and soon the kids from the upper floors came rushing down, cheering for everyone to join. It felt as though we were hosting a grand event. No one wanted to miss it. After months of darkness and silence, the glowing screen lit up the room—and everyone’s faces. Everyone stared as if they were witnessing something magical, unheard of, something long forgotten. Their eyes weren’t just reflecting light; they were radiating awe, curiosity, and something even deeper: life.

Watching everyone, I felt a wave of emotion rush through me. First came nostalgia, a longing for the days when life was less burdened, when sitting in front of the TV with my siblings was just a normal part of childhood. Even I, in that moment, was pulled back into memories of laughter, safety, and innocence—things we had all been forced to grow out of. Then came disbelief, because it struck me how these children, from my own family, had been robbed of such ordinary joys. And finally, a heavy ache emerged in my chest, not anger exactly, but a deep sadness at the unfairness of our forsakenness, our suffocation. How could something as simple as watching a cartoon become an extraordinary moment?

From living room to backyard cinema

After three or four days of sharing these viewing luxuries with our family and neighbors, I knew we couldn’t keep it to ourselves. Every child deserved this simple pleasure—not as a luxury, but as a basic right. So, we opened our doors—and our hearts—to the neighborhood kids. We invited all of my youngest brother Khaled’s friends into our small living room to watch their favorite cartoons. “SpongeBob” and “Tom and Jerry” lit up the screen, and sometimes “Masha and the Bear”—especially to bring joy to the little girls in the crowd.

Soon, our modest living room could no longer accommodate the growing number of children who showed up. That’s when a new idea sparked in my mind: What if I transformed the backyard/garage of our house into a small cinema?

I began by preparing the space. I laid a large bed sheet across the ground so the children could sit comfortably. The biggest challenge wasn’t seating, it was figuring out how to safely install the TV in the backyard. With border crossings closed and supplies nearly impossible to obtain, we had no equipment to build a screen stand.

So, I came up with a solution. I went to a local carpenter with sawhorses we had at home. With them he built a mobile television stand. Now our backyard cinema was ready.

We continued with the same routine of playing cartoons, adding small touches to make the atmosphere even more exciting. My mother began preparing popcorn and small snacks to hand out, adding a festive, movie-theater feel to the experience. Those tiny details—sharing food, familiar people, and laughter—helped transform our backyard into a pocket of joy in the middle of heartbreak.

Light began to spread

As we continued hosting backyard cinema sessions, something unexpected happened: our story began to spread. We started putting short clips and photos on social media, to share the joy we were witnessing—the children’s laughter, their clapping at the end of each episode, the sparkle in their eyes.

Soon, an international educational nonprofit, operating in Gaza for over a decade, noticed our initiative. They provided us with a larger screen and a stronger battery. This was a turning point for the family project. What began as a personal effort to bring comfort to my siblings and neighbors had grown into something much bigger, something that could reach children across the middle area of Gaza.

In our garage, I entertain a group of children with joyful singing and games. Photo: Omran Abushawish

For five months, and with the new equipment, we organized screenings, not only in our backyard, but also in Al-Aqsa Hospital, schools, temporary shelters, and other displacement camps. We no longer only showed cartoons; we created drawing sessions, singing circles, and friendly competitions. We included anything that could help children express themselves, release their emotions, and focus on a pleasure rather than the heaviness of their lives during the genocide. Every event felt like we were trying to plant a small seed of hope.

My family has remained the backbone of this project. My father, brothers, and cousins—all of us volunteered from the very first day, united by one belief: Even in the darkest times, children deserve moments of light.