In the shadow of humanity’s darkest corners, where the grotesque and misery intertwine, lies the grim tale of my homeland. Gaza is where wars have swallowed souls and scarred our imagination. The harrowing stories that emerge from war are usually overshadowed by a generously funded propaganda which brings a verse from the Qur’an to mind: “They wanted to extinguish the light of Allah with their mouths.”

I was shocked to absorb that verse so clearly, though it was not my first time to know it. I witnessed how a few false words spoken — “there are no civilians in Gaza” — justify killing tens of thousands, displacing and starving millions, and erasing whole cities.

A siege suffocates us, bombings devastate, and a hunger gnaws in both body and soul. Death has become a neighbor, a common presence. But it’s not just the dying that breaks us — it’s the living, the relentless weight of survival.

10 a.m., October 2023, Rafah

While I was preparing food in our home, the children were playing outside for the first time in days. Suddenly, a deafening explosion erupted a few feet away. The bomb struck our neighbor’s home with such force that it felt as if our house was made of paper. Windows shattered, and a wave of intense heat and smoke engulfed the air. For a moment, we were paralyzed, unable to comprehend what had happened until my mother’s shaky voice pierced the silence: “Habiba! Where are Habiba and Rita?”

A state of panic seized us. We rushed to open the door to find my younger sister and my cousin’s daughter but the door was jammed from the blast. Panic accelerated, so I grabbed my phone to call my uncle next door, hoping he would tell us that the children were safe. But there was no signal.

My brother finally managed to open the door. Outside, we found Habiba and Rita standing there, trembling, their hands shielding their faces, their steps burdened. We cradled them to relieve the fear engraved on their expressions, but their bodies were shaking violently.

Then, I noticed drops of blood on Rita’s hands. “Was it terrifying?” I asked, desperate to draw out their pain with words. But the chatty young girls were silent, looking at each other with wandering eyes.

Habiba began to cry: “I felt like I flew into the sky and then crashed to the ground.” She added that an ambulance came to transfer the martyred. “A hot shrapnel hurt my hand.”

Their words rendered me speechless. My heart ached as I wondered, what crime had stolen their innocence? All I could say, with a profound sense of helplessness, was: “You’re safe now.”

3 p.m., December 2023, Rafah

After successfully securing some vital supplies, my family and I gathered around the table, as we were in a good mood to play. That night was filled with an unexpected warmth. The horrors outside seemed distant, if only for a while. We decided to play a game of Truth or Dare. My cousin, Yara, asked me what love meant to me. I answered, “Love is feeling at home.” She looked at me with surprise so I elaborated: “Love is a home — a place where your vulnerabilities are embraced, your strengths are celebrated. It’s a refuge filled with warmth, a space where you feel secure in life’s ups and downs.” I had encountered this with my aunt and her husband. Their love hasn’t faded with time; it has deepened. She never misses a chance to remind him he’s the best divine gift she has ever had, and he’s always there, gently tucking her hair behind her ear or holding her hand in a crowd, as if to remind the world she is his.

But the tranquility of that night was shattered by an unprecedented bombing. We woke to chaos. Someone outside was shouting, “They’ve targeted Harb’s family square!”

We screamed, “My aunt’s family!” My brother, Abdallah, rushed outside. Though he returned within half an hour, it felt like an eternity to us. “The ambulance took them,” he said, trying to reassure us. “I called Ahmad; they’re okay. Luckily, my aunt and her young children weren’t at home.”

But his words failed to comfort me. Moments later, my sister descended the stairs, dressed in black with a cautious silence that paralyzed me. It felt like a sign of mourning, though I didn’t know for whom. Then came the breathtaking news: My aunt’s husband was killed.

I imagined her heartbreak as she saw his lifeless face. I imagined her saying, “For the first time, he didn’t smile at me. It’s the last time I will ever see him.”

12 p.m., September 2024, Khan Younis

I hugged my best friend Fatima tightly, after nearly five months of separation and displacement. The embrace carried the weight of shared suffering. As we recounted our displacement stories, we each filled with pain. We laughed bitterly at our grim reality, but then the roar of tanks interrupted us. I was trapped in Fatima’s camp that night.

Her neighbor, Aisha, lent me a blanket, and we had a nice conversation with her.

Fatima whispered: “Aisha’s smiles carry fresh pain. Her newborn baby was killed in an incubator that was bombed.”

Frankly, I was not shocked, as I had come to accept the reality that loss surrounds us, ever present.

My friend and I unintentionally listened to people’s stories from other tents. Privacy is a luxury tents do not afford.

The camp got confined with quadcopters, airing sounds of a baby’s screaming. Aisha left the tent under the influence of trauma to look for her son. She took a while to get her mind back before she wept for hours.

The sun dared to unleash its hot arrows after that night and bite the sleeping bodies in the tents. Aisha emerged with a cautious calm posture. She started immediately tidying the tent and lighting a fire to bake some bread. Her husband, Mohammed, had gone to buy whatever he could find in the market for dinner.

“Hey Omar, why do Gazans’ bodies not decay? Because we have eaten mountainous numbers of cans full of preservatives,” Mostafa, their neighbor, joked. Aisha smiled desperately and entered the tent, looking at herself in the mirror. Then she bent her head to see the deodorants, lipsticks, and eyeliner she stocked up on as a reminder that she was once a normal woman who lived a normal life. Aisha picked up a picture of her baby as a fatal reminder she is not a normal mother living a normal motherhood.

11 p.m., December, 2024, Al-Nuseirat camp

Before I die I imagine myself to be a carefree woman in my seventies or eighties, living an easy life in a small house with tall white walls and a breathtaking view of the sea. I sleep on a soft, royally designed bed and follow a peaceful routine: waking up early to pray Fajr, preparing breakfast, watching the sunrise over the sea. Nights are marked by a cozy shower, styling my short grey curls, slipping into silky green or white pajamas, and enjoying my favorite drink under the full moon while listening to “City of Stars.” A handmade chard mask for pinkish cheeks, my written will at my side. I’d embrace a peaceful end.

This is the kind of life — and death — I’ve always dreamed of. But such ease contrasts sharply with my reality. I recall my first displacement when I spent more than a week without saying a single word as I held an uneasy feeling in my chest and a storm of black thoughts attacked my brain. This feeling did not fade after more than seven months of displacement.

Seeking escape, I watched people from a second-floor window that overlooked the market, while enjoying my cup of instant coffee. I saw their pale faces and floundering steps. My mind attempted to diagnose their fatigue. So many people who lived between bombs and breaths, wondering what was the curse that silenced their emotions. I remembered someone had once said that we will never get used to the pain until we lose. Imagine how immense our loss would have to be to get used to all this pain.  I returned to watch people who show no reaction when, once again, the news announces: more martyred and more injured were targeted in X-area.

I’ve got a glass full of tears. Drink and say: Cheers!

After more than 400 days, death is no longer feared. Sometimes, it is even wished for. A merciful escape from the crazy noise of suffering. Yet the real tragedy is not just the deaths or the bombs, but the siege itself that tightens like a noose, slowly squeezing the life out of us until death feels like a release.