My lovely little friend Rahaf. Photo: Sara Awad

Just a week after the January 2025 ceasefire, I was engaged in the mundane task of ironing clothes on a Saturday morning when a piercing scream reverberated from below. My world froze as I recognized the voice of my mother. In a heart-wrenching moment, I witnessed her loss of balance and her body collapsing against the wall, and I felt as if my heart had halted.

Time seemed suspended as I rushed to her side. The ambulance arrived quickly, and I made the determined decision to accompany her to the hospital, gripping her hand tightly and reassuring her that everything would be okay. In that ambulance, I glanced at my father, a figure of strength in my life, and tears welled in my eyes, knowing how dearly he cherishes my mother.

After six weeks of hospitalization at Al-Helou International Hospital where she had two significant surgeries—one on her spine and another on her leg—my mother was transferred to Al-Wafaa Hospital, the sole facility in Gaza dedicated to physical therapy. Throughout this entire time, I was by her side feeding her and helping her to walk and sit up and generally giving her a sense of comfort.

Admittedly, the toll of this experience weighed heavily on me; during my first week at Al-Helou International Hospital, exhaustion overtook me and I fell ill. A compassionate nurse named Reham noticed my pale face and insisted I receive treatment to regain my strength, ensuring I could continue to support my mother’s health.

As the eldest child, I was not only my mother’s caretaker, but also the caretaker of the household. The responsibilities that accompanied my new role were daunting. With Ramadan upon us, I found myself balancing family obligations like cooking, cleaning, and caring for my siblings while simultaneously supporting my mother at the hospital. Despite feeling overwhelmed and exhausted at times, I recognized that each ordeal brought a newfound appreciation for my family’s well-being.

Moreover, while navigating my personal responsibilities, I also grappled with my academic pursuits. The war had interrupted my journey in pursuing a bachelor’s degree in English literature at Islamic University of Gaza. Nevertheless, I continued an online IELTS (English-language proficiency test) preparation course even on the day of my mother’s first operation, managing to participate in class while she underwent surgery.  My father encouraged me not to forgo my education despite the overwhelming circumstances, leading me to adopt a mantra of “one step at a time.”

A page from my journal. Photo: Sara Awad

One particularly harrowing night at Al-Wafaa Hospital was on March 18 when the ceasefire was broken by Israel at 1:40 am. I was awake writing this story and taking care of my mother when suddenly I heard the deafening sounds of airstrikes across all of the Gaza Strip. In that moment, fear gripped me. Horrified, I pondered how we could possibly manage both my mother’s health challenges and the omnipresent threat of war, which previously had forced us to be displaced from our home to a terrible area for 45 days.

Yet, shockingly, I found my feelings growing numb; having faced such profound hardship, I came to realize that the worst has already occurred, and nothing could possibly surpass the horror we had experienced.

During my time in the hospital, I met a remarkable young woman named Hadeel, who had sustained severe injuries but remained one of the strongest individuals I encountered. She was injured in the war in her spine and her skull was fractured. Her unwavering faith in her recovery inspired me. Hadeel is a symbol of strength; she is very mature and knows how to deal with her injuries smoothly. Despite the physical effects of the large amount of medicine she has to take, she hasn’t lost her pep and self-confidence. I wish all the best for Hadeel and I make du’a (prayers) for her to recover soon.

I also met a young girl named Rahaf. She is 10 years old. In a blink of an eye she lost all her family members, and sadly she got injured in both of her legs. Rahaf now lives with her grandfather who is completely responsible for her. Rahaf is still shocked and has been living in the phase of denial since the day of the catastrophe.

On the other hand, Rahaf still has the power to play, laugh, and even cry. I remember when she asked me to play a Lego game together and rock, paper, scissors. I believe that this time of playing will benefit her so she doesn’t have to think about her future life without her family members. l love spending time with her and I feel sorry for Rahaf and everyone who is suffering from loss.

Rahaf playing to distract herself from grief. Photo: Sara Awad

Thinking back on these past two months and more, I see lots of pain—from within my family and in others I have met recently.

Another inspiration to me: Yazan, 10, who lost his father and brother in an Israeli attack to their home in November 2024. Skull injuries have caused memory loss. Photo: Sara Awad

But at the same time, I see endless potential and hope for a future here in Gaza. Indeed, I firmly believe that Gazans have a special superhuman power to deal with all the challenges around them. I have learned the importance of appreciating what we have, even amidst adversity.

My experience navigating the dual challenges of familial responsibility and educational aspirations in the aftermath of war has taught me resilience and gratitude. Life’s unpredictability can lead us down unfamiliar paths, yet with support from loved ones and a commitment to personal growth, we can endure and thrive.