Artist: Ghaidaa El Helou, Flyers for Falestin

I am Maram, from Gaza. I was born in a city that never saw peace. I grew up to the sounds of bombings and collapsing walls, in neighborhoods where the smell of gunpowder was stronger than the smell of bread. I became accustomed to fear from childhood and learned to smile even when everything was collapsing around me.

But what began after October 7th was unlike anything I had ever known. It wasn’t just a war, it was something else —  something deeper, harsher, piercing the soul and erasing the face of life.

In the early days of the war, I lost my son. My little boy. The one I thought would grow up clinging to my dress. He had wide, curious eyes that never stopped asking questions, even when there were no answers. He once told me he wanted to build homes stronger than the ones we’d lost.

He disappeared in an instant. There was no goodbye; I couldn’t kiss him one last time. I searched for him under the rubble, called his name, held what was left of his shirt, convincing myself he was only injured. But the truth, when I found it, was shocking—cold as the missile that ended his existence. From that moment, my voice changed forever, as if my scream had pulled something out from deep within me, never to return.

Days later, I received the news of my father’s martyrdom. He’d always been the last wall I hid behind, even from my own sorrow. He was a carpenter with rough hands and a gentle heart—his fingers knew how to shape wood and to pat a child’s head with the same care. He believed dignity was the only wealth worth keeping.

His death wasn’t unexpected—death in Gaza is never a stranger—but I couldn’t imagine life without him. I used to turn to him in every moment of weakness, crying quietly in his presence, and his silence alone was enough to calm my heart. When he was gone, no tears came. I felt as though I’d turned to stone inside.

Then I lost my brother. He was the funny one, always turning sirens into jokes and cold nights into campfire songs. He wanted to become a teacher, changing minds even if he couldn’t change the world. We grew up together under siege, sharing bread, fear, and laughter all at once. He always told me, “I’m still here with you, don’t be afraid.” But he, too, left. I didn’t scream, didn’t cry, didn’t feel anything. Loss became familiar, a pattern replaying without end.

And finally, my husband—the man who embraced my fear and comforted me with just a glance. He had lost everything he’d built—our home, brick by brick, the savings he had set aside for our children’s future, even the small notebook of dreams he kept hidden in his drawer. He had a voice that could calm storms and hands that always felt warm, even in the coldest shelters. He dreamed of opening a bakery and naming each bread after a family member.

Then the place we were sheltering was targeted, and he was among the victims. I remember his last words: “We’ll survive… we’ll live.” I wanted to believe him, but something inside me already knew. He left behind a void no one can fill.

I am still here. Breathing, yes—but I don’t live as I used to. Everyone I loved has become a martyr. And yet I haven’t turned into a shadow. I’m still a mother, a daughter, a sister, a wife.

I didn’t survive because I’m the strongest, but because their story must be told. I carry their names in my heart and walk with them in every step. I’ve become their voice, the memory of their faces, a love that didn’t end with their departure.

I’ve learnt that strength doesn’t mean not crying—it means carrying on, even through tears. Cooking food no one eats, washing clothes no one wears. And telling myself, “I am still here.”

Here for you, my son, my father, my brother, my husband. And for Gaza.

I am Maram, from Gaza. From the ashes and rubble, I try to create light. With my tears, I plant the seeds of new hope. I teach children to love, to dream, to endure, even in the hardest moments.

It may seem as though I’ve lost everything—but I haven’t lost my humanity. I continue to believe that after every night, a morning is born. And in my heart, no matter how shattered, there is still space for life, and a more beautiful tomorrow.

I am the one who remains to tell your story.