Hanan and her family. Photo: Taha Refi

As I crouched by the firewood helping my mother cook lentils, I found myself lost in thought, and suddenly Aunt Hanan* came to mind. Fourteen years of her life distilled into two fleeting minutes. How does she endure this war? Is she waiting for the road to open between Gaza and the West Bank so that she can return to Gaza? Or is she waiting for her husband to come to her? I want to share the story she told me, as if Hanan is speaking for herself.

Fourteen years ago I married and lived with my husband, content with what little we had. But after 10 years of marriage, and many attempts to conceive, I discovered that I couldn’t get pregnant naturally. I went through many emotional ups and downs during those 10 years—who doesn’t love children and want them? I prayed a lot and asked Allah for a child to brighten our dark life.

I was getting older, and so was my husband, and after years of medical check-ups and countless doctors’ appointments, I finally decided to delve deeper into the topic of IVF. After many questions, and much confusion, I realized that such a procedure would cost a great deal, more than we could possibly save in several years.

My husband works as a house painter and his job is unstable. Sometimes he works twice a week and other times there may be more than two months without any work or income. As for me, I work as a kindergarten teacher with a salary that does not exceed $100 a month. Therefore it has been difficult to save any amount.

But, praise be to Allah, my siblings gathered the amount I needed for IVF from their own money, and generously covered the cost of the procedure and the stabilizing injections. Those were long months, filled with pain, exhaustion, and strict restrictions on movement to protect the baby. But the sparkle in my husband’s eyes gave me the strength and hope to endure it all.

After nine months I gave birth to a baby boy whom I named Mo’men. Joy spread everywhere, and everyone wanted to hold him because he was different and precious, “not like the others,” as they used to say. I was happy and grateful to Allah for turning the impossible into reality and for completing our family with this beautiful child.

My husband was overwhelmed with both happiness and anxiety. Though he didn’t say it, I could sense the sadness in him. He was thinking about how he would buy the baby’s essentials, as he could barely manage our affairs before the arrival of our only child.

After two years filled with debts, expenses, and worry, I decided to take a step that might make things worse for me and my husband, but our child was more important. I had waited 10 years for him, dreamed of him wearing the finest clothes and playing with the best toys. But now we could barely afford his diapers. After a month of convincing my husband, I decided to apply for a “patient visit” permit to see my sister in Hebron, hoping that this would allow me to leave Gaza and find work. I used to see life in the West Bank as rosy, and, in the eyes of many Gazans, Hebron is a city of dreams. I wanted to go there to give my child everything he needed and more.

The application I submitted was accepted. I arrived in Hebron and the first thing I did was find a job at a date factory. I worked hard and for long hours to secure as much money as possible to ensure my child would have the best life. But how could he have the best life without his father?

A few months later, in October 2023, the war on Gaza began and my fears grew. Negative thoughts started to eat me up inside. Constantly thinking about my loving husband’s situation in Gaza drained me. He had waited for 10 years to finally have a child with me, and now weeks passed without me knowing where he was or how he was doing. Had life become easier for me in Hebron because my husband was destined to be martyred in Gaza?

Whenever I had the chance, I made video calls with him so he could spend as much time as possible with Mo’men. I always told him that I regretted coming to Hebron and wished I had stayed by his side in Gaza, without food or house; that just being next to him with our child, whom we had waited for together for so long, would make my life complete. He replied that, even if he were to die, he was happy knowing his son had a chance to leave Gaza before the war, displacement, and famine began. But I was torn apart. I finally had enough food, clothes, and money, yet I no longer wanted to live without my husband, our child’s father.

Now, my only prayer is for the war to end and for the roads to open so I can return to Gaza, the place I once desperately wanted to leave. I long to return to my home that was destroyed and to my husband who has changed. These past 18 months have aged him 20 years.

I have started to avoid calling him because it breaks me to hear his lonely sighs and the question that burns my heart: “When will you come back, Hanan, you and Mo’men? I’m so tired without you both.”

*The writer has requested that Hanan’s last name be withheld for her security.