“A woman in our country is appreciated, covered, and protected. She cannot feel sadness or tragedy ever because we are the ones who provide her with the means of comfort, safety, and stability.”
This is what I hear echoing in my head, and I’ve heard it said by individuals in my community since I existed on this Earth. It was what I believed in, and it was a stable principle in my mind. I never knew that with the passage of time, principles fall away, and that this principle might disappear with my experiences and age.
My life was very comfortable when I was a child, but as I grew up — or rather, my body and mind began to mature — everything changed. I, and other women, began suffering from misogynistic Eastern ideas, which stipulate that women are a means of proving a man’s dignity. I also began debates and discussions with those who were demonstrating against women’s rights agreements, especially the United Nation’s CEDAW (Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women). At that point, it felt like the worst thing that had ever happened to me, but things changed after the war began. At that point, I was forced to stay silent about what women are facing.
Since the start of the genocide in the Gaza Strip and my evacuation from home on the thirteenth of October 2023, I have seen another picture of women that I had never seen before.
In the first months of the genocide, I was living in Nuseirat camp with my family and many other displaced families. Everything was available at first: food, drink, clothing, and sanitary supplies. Over time, and with the increase in the barbarism and aggression of the occupation, all supplies entered into a deep scarcity.
It was difficult to find flour, water, and other necessities of life at affordable prices. Among the basic supplies that were scarce in the markets were sanitary pads. The price of sanitary pads has increased to five times its normal price, and the very expensive package does not contain enough pads to cover seven days of the menstrual cycle. But we were forced to buy them, even with their high prices and the inability of everyone to pay.
We never imagined that this product would be completely cut off from the markets. I was trying my best to provide what was needed for me, my sister, my mother, and the other displaced girls in the same house, but I was not able to.
We had no other solution but to take pills to stop the menstrual cycle, given what I mentioned previously about the lack of sanitary pads and also the lack of water necessary for bathing. After taking enough of the necessary pills, our menstrual cycle was delayed until the next month. I did not want to remain silent when this happened, so I posted a story on my Instagram account and said what happened. Then I found my female friends reposting it on their personal accounts until it became viral and an issue of public discussion on Twitter.
That month passed without my period coming, but I did not imagine that it would not come to me even in the coming months. Taking these pills caused me problems with my hormones, and I stopped menstruating for another four months. I felt vaguely sad, and I was running from one hospital to another to find out what happened to my body. I wasn’t sure, but I knew that there were other girls who took the pills at the same time and it caused them similar problems, so this made me relatively calm.
When I evacuated for the third time to the city of Rafah, sanitary pads were abundantly available, but indeed their price was not the same as the normal price. I felt happy just to have one of my rights that should be normal; however, for me and for many other girls, it was not normal anymore.
Living in a tent on the sidewalks in Rafah, the responsibility on my shoulders increased. My life, and the lives of all displaced women, became a matter of washing, kneading dough, filling gas for cooking, cleaning, preparing food for the family, and running after institutions that provide free food and drink and food aid.
I felt oppressed every time I wanted to lie down but I could not, because I literally live in the street. The extreme heat made me want to sit without wearing a hijab, just wearing yellow summer pajamas without anyone speaking to me. I just wanted to take a real shower in a comfortable bathroom, but I couldn’t.
In Rafah, my life was turned upside down. I never imagined that one day my house of 250 square meters would be replaced by a tent of 4 square meters. Or that this tent would be a home for seven people: a bathroom, a kitchen, a salon, and a changing room all at the same time. I couldn’t have imagined that my pleasure in wearing luxurious clothes would disappear and that I would only be left with the long black abaya my mother gave me.
I never imagined that I would stop spending my time in cafes and nightlife places and that I would only strive to provide food, drink, and other essential items for the family.
This genocidal war made me a completely different woman than I had been. It completely changed my life, as it did the lives of all the women in my country, and what is most regrettable is the dread that what is coming is going to be worse.
The injustice that we were subjected to as women and that the occupation imposed on us is not a small thing. Rather, it is a major psychological trauma that will remain stuck in our minds. I will never forgive those who caused our suffering.
But I will force myself to believe that what is to come will be better. I will strive to make the future better for the women around me in any way possible.
