War has a way of shrinking your world. It traps you in a loop of worry and waiting. Every breath feels heavy. Time stretches unbearably, each second dragging into the next. It bends and breaks, demonstrating every law of physics — no matter how contradicting — all at once, as if mocking the attempts to find meaning in its passage.
But in this chaos of time and fear, I found my refuge in books — and e-books, as all bookstores have been destroyed. While reading, time obeys no rules but my own: It could pause, leap, reverse, or even cease to matter. The world outside might crumble, but I rebuild my sense of self inside these stories. Some might call it an escape to worlds that didn’t exist, but to me, these words and worlds hold the pieces of my survival. Each one speaks to me in a voice of its own. Each one offers a different kind of comfort, a constant that anchors me when everything else seems uncertain, and the “real” world falls silent.
Brave New World
When the bombs weren’t falling, the air was thick with silence — a silence that almost felt worse. During these moments, I picked up Brave New World, Huxley’s dystopia of controlled happiness. I read this book when we were forcibly displaced away from home. It was one of the books I could take with me during evacuation.
The sterile world of the novel, where people are conditioned to feel nothing, felt like the opposite of Gaza, where everyone is forced to feel too much. Everything was orderly in the world of Brave New World, a sharp contrast to the chaos around me.
The noise of war could never breach the borders of Huxley’s imagined world. The people there didn’t feel pain. No fear, no uncertainty. It was a place where soma, a fictional drug that produces feelings of happiness and escapism without negative side effects, dulled every emotion, and I sometimes wondered what it would be like to live that way. To not feel the constant anxiety, the aching dread that comes with every air raid away from home.
Yet, as I read about John the Savage, who longed for real human emotions, I realized I didn’t want numbness. Despite the fear and loss, I want to feel a full range of emotions, to remember the beauty of life, even in the ugliest times. Like John, I need a world where humanity isn’t sacrificed for safety. I held onto that thought every time a siren wailed, every time I wondered if it would be easier to stop feeling.
Of Mice and Men
My best friend Oliana recommended John Steinbeck’s book to me. I read it in our partially destroyed home when we could return to it. It was a time when I craved a normal conversation just like those we used to have on “normal” days at college. I looked up the book online and found it as a PDF. After finishing the book and discussing it with her, it made me think about the situation here in Gaza — bombardment, evacuation, ambulances, blood, martyrs, bullets — and the resemblance between my life and the book.
One day, darkness fell, but I didn’t need light to see the image of Lennie and George walking the fields in Of Mice and Men. Their dream was simple: a small piece of land, rabbits, and peace. Yet, even this dream seemed as fragile as life itself. In Gaza, the dream of peace was just as delicate. Lennie’s dream of simple things — land, rabbits, and peace — seemed like a remote fantasy. But as I listened to George’s patient replies, I could almost see it.
I was reminded of the life we once had, before the bombs and bullets that pierced my bedroom walls, before the endless waiting for peace. In Lennie and George’s companionship, I found a reflection of my own longing for a world where simplicity was still possible. Lennie’s innocence mirrored the innocence I saw around me — the children who didn’t understand why their world was exploding. I felt like George, trying to hold on to a promise of safety that seemed impossible.
The Stranger
The Stranger by Albert Camus came to me during one of the longest stretches of conflict, where days bled into nights and time lost all meaning. It was also recommended by Oliana. I can’t imagine life without a friend who recommends books and discusses them with me.
Camus’ Meursault, the man who felt nothing even as his life dissolved, made me reflect on my own reactions. His indifference was unsettling in a strange way. I cannot say I understood his indifference, but there are moments when I, too, feel like I am watching my life from a distance, unable to comprehend the scale of what is happening.
War has a way of stripping things down to their bare bones, and like Meursault, I sometimes feel detached, as though the horror around me had dulled my senses. It is sometimes easier to detach, to pretend that none of it can touch me.
But then Camus would remind me of the absurdity of it all — the randomness of life, the strange way that death could come out of nowhere. Meursault was a reminder that I didn’t have to make sense of everything. I just had to survive it. But unlike Meursault, I knew this numbness wasn’t permanent. I could feel anger and sadness waiting just below the surface, ready to flood in when I let my guard down. The randomness of war, the senseless loss — it was all part of the absurdity. But instead of giving in to indifference, I chose to care, to fight against that darkness.
A Thousand Splendid Suns
Khaled Hosseini’s portrayal of Mariam and Laila, two women trapped in the turmoil of Afghanistan’s wars, spoke to me in ways the other books hadn’t. The resilience of these women, their strength in the face of unbearable hardship, reminded me of the women around me — my mother, my sisters, my aunts, my friends, my neighbors — who carried on despite the daily bombardment when there was no end in sight. They, too, were survivors, like Mariam and Laila.
Mariam’s hands, worn yet steady from years of hardship, reminded me of every woman around me. They reminded me of my mom — the strongest woman I have ever met. Despite losing her best friend and a job she loved and working twice as hard as before the war in chores like laundry, cooking, cleaning, and baking with very primitive tools, she managed to keep the family close together. Her stamina surprises me every time we have to evacuate immediately; her adorable smile still finds its way to her mouth.
Laila’s eyes, filled with sorrow yet still carrying hope, reminded me of youth here. Together, Mariam and Laila were a force of nature. The bond between the two women in the novel, formed in the crucible of war, made me think of my own friendships — how we leaned on each other during the worst days. Even though each one of us is in a different place and can’t really meet, we find moments of resistance in laughter or the smallest acts of kindness.
The return to silence
Every time I finish a book, my world returns to its “quiet” stillness, but the voices of the books linger. The world around me is unchanged. The air raid sirens and the distant thuds of explosions are still there. But I have built a fortress inside myself, brick by brick, with the words of these authors. Each book has given me a new way to understand the chaos, a different kind of courage.
The fields Lennie and George longed for were far away from the war-torn streets outside my broken window. And yet, I cling to their dream of a better world. As tempting as it is to imagine a life without fear, John the Savage taught me that I don’t want to lose the memories and the connection to the people I love. I let him remind me of passion, love, and all the things worth holding onto, even in the darkest of times. In a world that feels like it is spinning out of control, Meursault’s calm is a strange source of strength. The Stranger taught me to confront absurdity without surrendering to it. Mariam and Laila showed me that survival isn’t just about making it through. It is about finding meaning in the aftermath. They showed me the resilience of the human spirit, especially when held in the hands of women.
In Gaza, the war outside is raging on, but inside, I am fortified by stories — stories that remind me I am not alone and that I, too, would find my way through.
