My freshly baked ka’ak. Photo by the writer

We had always celebrated Eid by buying sweets, and sharing them with relatives and friends. War had not made me forget my traditions and culture so, despite the return of drones and the explosions that could end our lives at any moment, I resolved to break the barrier of despair and create something joyful with my family, if only for a few moments.

I decided to bake ka’ak and maamoul—cakes and cookies—in the clay oven. I would overcome my panic and fear, and defy the harsh conditions and our limited resources. To my surprise, it was the most delicious ka’ak I had ever tasted, and my children loved it very much.

I felt compassion for the other children in our neighborhood in Al-Zawaida. I decided to distribute the ka’ak among them, hoping to bring smiles to their faces. One of the children was Hamza Murad Al-Dahdouh, a six-year-old boy with innocent eyes. When I offered him a piece of ka’ak, his eyes sparkled as if he had received a precious treasure. I still remember his joy as he savored the cake with pure love. That was around Asr time in the late afternoon, before everyone returned to their homes or tents with the arrival of the eerie night.

We felt the ground shake

I was grateful then that I was able to bring this bit of joy to the children when the war had stolen their childhood and smiles. My husband encouraged me to make more ka’ak. The drones had not stopped flying above us, watching us. I was anxious about an imminent bombing but I started to bake a new batch.

Only minutes had passed before we felt the ground shake from the power of an explosion. It felt like the Day of Judgment—I truly thought I had died.

I couldn’t continue making the ka’ak, even though I had already prepared the dough. The fear paralyzed me. I sat down to read the news to find out where the incident occurred:

“Three dismembered martyrs, including two children, due to the targeting of a tent sheltering displaced people from the Lafi family in Ard Al-Tarazi by the beach of Al-Zawaida in the central Gaza Strip. They are: Asmaa Anwar Al-Dahdouh, 25 years old; Raji Ibrahim Lafi, 12 years old; Hamza Murad Al-Dahdouh, 6 years old.”

There was Hamza’s name, the child who only a few hours earlier, was delighted to taste my ka’ak. How was it possible that joy could turn into grief so swiftly?

My sorrow merged with rage. I became certain that this was no coincidence, and it was not a mistake either—it was a deliberate act by Israel. They target children even on days meant for celebration. They target pregnant women as part of their policy to reduce birth rates and motherhood. The occupation doesn’t only bomb buildings; it seeks to erase us and systematically cut off our lineage.

Rebuilding our lives

A year ago we fled my husband’s family home in Deir Al-Balah. When we returned, we found our home and garden destroyed. But when the ceasefire was announced on January 19, 2025, we all returned to the city with our children. We had decided to rebuild our home and garden. We planned to restore our lives and create new and beautiful memories.

We planted tomatoes in the ruins of our garden. When the seedlings began to grow, I felt they were sending me a message of resilience. As soon as I woke up each day, I went to water my tomato plants. They were my source of hope. I had something to live for.

We had barely had time to rejoice in the truce before it vanished. Everything we built and planted was destroyed. Where are my tomato plants now? They have gone—wiped out once more, along with my dreams.

My neighborhood, where Hamza was targeted. Photo by the writer

We were forced to evacuate our area for the second time after Israel resumed its campaign of genocide. Our garden was among the targeted agricultural lands. Despite this, we remained in our neighborhood. We stayed steadfast, waiting for relief.

But on March 31, 2025, the day that Hamza was martyred, I was left with a deep ache in my heart. I later learned that he had also been displaced from the town and returned with his family during the days when the ceasefire was in effect. Like us, his family believed that peace had returned and that we could all continue what was left of our lives in renewed calm and safety.

Our most basic rights are denied

We don’t dream of a better life—we simply want to feel safe, if only for a few moments. Just for a few seconds, we wish to experience the taste of comfort.

In every corner, I hear people cry: “We are tired. Our bones are weary.” In other corners, people want to die, believing that death is more merciful than this endless suffering.

How much more horror must I endure? My home and garden are destroyed. I was forced to evacuate my city. I saw corpses lying on the ground. Little Hamza died after I gave him a piece of my Eid ka’ak. How much more of this war must I endure before I completely break down?

It has been one year and six months—18 months, more than 555 days—since the genocide began. How much longer must we wait for someone to hear us? To help us? To stand with us?

How many more children like Hamza must we bury before the world remembers its humanity?