A man walks alone through the ruins of Gaza, where entire neighborhoods have been reduced to rubble. Photo: Ibrahim Alhabbash

I once heard a story about a man who was imprisoned unjustly, a story often referred to in discussions about psychological adaptation and the normalization of suffering. At first, the man was outraged and demanded his freedom every day. But strangely, over time, the prison began to feel not as harsh as it had at first. His cell had a bed with a mattress, a small TV, bookshelves, and even a carpeted floor. All of this made the prison a little easier to bear.

“It’s all temporary,” he told himself, waiting for release.

Days passed. He began reading, watching TV, organizing his books—he found a routine. Then one day, the jailers took the TV. The man felt empty. He stopped thinking about his freedom—he even forgot that he had been imprisoned unjustly. Instead, he began demanding the return of the TV.

“It’s okay, I’ll adapt,” he whispered. Time passed, and eventually, he did adapt.

But then they took the bed. The man grew furious. Yet he no longer remembered the TV—or that he was in jail unjustly. Once again, he convinced himself, “It’s okay, I’ll adapt.”

Soon after, they took the mattress. Then the books. He was left in silence and darkness. Still, he kept repeating, “It’s okay, I’ll adapt.”

More days passed, then months, then years—until they gave the bed back. He smiled, grateful.

Then they returned the TV. “So he doesn’t think we’re bad,” the jailers laughed. And the man was overjoyed.

He forgot that, once upon a time, he had a bed with a mattress, a TV, and books. He even forgot that he once had freedom.

Gazans are living a similar story, but with a difference

After more than 600 days of ongoing genocide, the demands of Gazans have diminished not because they’ve adapted to suffering, but because they’ve come to understand the truth about this world.

While the imprisoned man in the story forgot his rights because he got used to pain, Gazans have not entirely forgotten. But we realize that this global jungle only enforces its laws on the weak—not on everyone. As the genocide continues, it becomes more and more difficult to remember the joys and dreams we once held as every day is focused on survival.

Before the war, Gazans called for the end of the siege. During the war, they shifted to demanding an end to the extermination of their people. And now, the demands have shrunk further—reduced to asking for the entry of a few trucks of food. For bread. For water. For fuel. For the border to open.

People now compare days of suffering to days of slightly less suffering. They even long for the earlier days of the war itself—because at least back then, food was available. Travel was still possible. There were still protests across the world, where people held signs calling for a stop to the massacre.

Now, we are being tortured slowly. People are forced to live without life. We are being conditioned to normalize every shape of suffering—to give up what remains of our dreams.

In mid-June 2025, internet access was cut off in Gaza. My friend Ahmad Abushawish and I began a long and exhausting journey just to find a place where we could activate eSIM cards. We went to the sea, then near the Israeli border, sometimes climbing to the highest spot we could find—just for a few drops of connection.

In one moment of quiet exhaustion, Ahmad turned to me and said, “The hard part isn’t death… it’s forgetting how life used to feel.”

I scroll through social media, trying to revive my memory with posts and stories. I see someone going for a morning run and remember that I used to love jogging to the beach at sunrise. I see a group of young people organizing a volunteer event and remember that I was once passionate about community work. I feel strange seeing someone enjoy their morning coffee—because I’ve gotten used to waking up to the sound of airstrikes. And I start asking myself:

Is the sky really quiet outside Gaza?

Do they really not know the taste of death?

Do they know what it’s like to lose everything?

When I sit with Ahmad’s words, I realize how much the meaning of joy has changed. Before the war, joy meant achieving something. It meant staying out late with friends, laughing past midnight. Now… we’ve been pushed to the edge of survival, until even the most basic human rights feel like luxuries.

A loaf of bread makes us grateful.

A few hours of quiet skies—without the buzzing of drones—feels like a miracle.

A simple cup of tea, even without sugar, brings comfort.

A tiny bit of progress in ceasefire negotiations becomes a reason to celebrate.

Slowly, we forget what full lives used to feel like.

We forget the smell of morning coffee—the kind that clears your mind and energizes your whole day.

We forget the calm of a Friday afternoon.

We forget the sound of the sea—when it used to reach the heart without being drowned out by warplanes.

To forget what you loved doing—and who you are—is the real tragedy. Not the hunger, not the fear, not the destruction—but the forgetting.

This psychological shift is intentional

Gazans are being reshaped into survivors without choice. Their sense of justice is warped. Their suffering is being slowly normalized. Even the memory of joy is fading.

When an entire population is pushed into such depths of deprivation, they don’t just lose resources—they begin to lose memory. They start equating a slight lessening of pain with justice. A mattress becomes mercy. A temporary ceasefire becomes peace. Survival itself becomes an achievement.

When a whole people forget what joy felt like, what freedom once meant, and what it was like to dream beyond survival, it becomes easier to keep them caged forever—chasing scraps of their day instead of chasing their dreams.

A whole generation of Gazan children is growing up without knowing normalcy or peace. Their minds and futures are not adapting; they are being reshaped by trauma, chronic fear, and loss. That is not adaptation, it’s a rewriting of identity.