Photo: Basma Almaza

My dear Gaza,

I write to you from Malaysia, 7,632 kilometers away. The world stood still for three long years during COVID-19, but now it watches in silence as you suffer. Is it because you are not Ukraine? Is that why your pain is easier to ignore? I see people watch the fleeing on their screens — north to south, from Khan Younis to Deir Balah — and with each new place of refuge, another massacre unfolds.

How do you endure, my dear, sweet friend? I miss you so deeply, and I grieve for you while the world turns its attention to the lives of turtles. I cannot understand how protecting turtles has become more important than saving human lives. Has the world forgotten you? Or does it just no longer care?

Sending love always,

Basma

Dear Basma,

Things are dire here. Despite my diverse population and high education levels, my schools and universities are destroyed. This means for at least five years there will be no education system in the city. And our medical system has been destroyed as hospitals became targets for this genocide. Sorry to tell you that is why your cousins could not make it, along with their children. Can you imagine the suffering of your family and other families, knowing their dear loved ones were killed in a hospital while seeking medical care for cancer or while having a baby?

Ironically, I once produced gauze that heals the world, yet its Palestinian origins remain overlooked. I cannot imagine how painful it is waiting, sleepless, for any news of your family’s survival, feeling helpless as you strive to raise awareness, fearing the loss of your loved ones in an instant.

I hope you are safe, Basma. I wish every Gazan could be safe.

With love,

Gaza

Dear Gaza,

I admit that I feel guilty that I am safe, miles from you. I am counting days with labored breaths, waiting for this weary soul to be freed from its tired body.

When they say, “But you survived!”
I smile and nod,
searching for the girl I once was,
lost amid the ruins of hope.

I was born into this turmoil, my childhood marred by a series of wars: Operation Cast Lead (2008-2009), Operation Pillar of Defense (2012), Operation Protective Edge (2014), and countless smaller skirmishes that never made it to the evening news. Each conflict left indelible scars on our psyche and our landscape. The constant threat of bombings turned our homes and schools into precarious refuges. We were handed slips of paper advising us to avoid war debris, a cruelly inadequate attempt at ensuring our safety.

Despite the carnage, there were brief respites. Aid organizations occasionally brought a semblance of normalcy, organizing mental health workshops where clowns tried to coax laughter from war-weary children. These fleeting moments of joy were a balm, but they could never fully mask the trauma that clung to us like a second skin.

One event remains etched in my memory: the Al-Fakhura massacre. I was only eight years old. Everyone thought I was dead, and I returned home covered in the blood of other martyrs. The sheer confusion and terror of that day still haunt me.

Even poetry fails, but let me try once more:

In Gaza, where the sky falls apart,
And families are torn, heart by heart.
We live through the echoes of sorrow,
Borrowing strength for each tomorrow.

I vow to survive and share our untold stories, despite the overwhelming pain like a knife in the middle of my heart.

Love and Peace,

Basma

Dear Basma,

Thank you for keeping those memories alive.

When Palestinians show the world the bloodshed of their children, it’s not for pity — it’s a plea for recognition. Supporting our cause isn’t about gratitude; it’s about acknowledging our humanity. Despite the distance and devastation, we endure, seeking a semblance of normalcy while yearning for a home that no longer exists. I am so sorry to tell you what you already know, that the Gaza of your childhood, the Gaza of your dreams no longer exists. I am a mere ghost, haunting the memories of my people.

Many people don’t know that in this post World War II period, in an era of supposed human rights, I have so far endured over 65,000 tons of explosives — more than hit Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined — under the guise of Israel’s self-defense. What logic is this?

I was thinking recently that perhaps it’s time to introduce a new concept in psychology: Palestinian Trauma PTSD. This unique form of trauma is not just a fleeting wound but a deep, enduring scar that cannot be healed and will always live within those who experience it. It embodies the relentless cycle of conflict, displacement, and loss that Palestinians endure, shaping their identities and lives in profound and indelible ways.

I mourn for my losses,

Gaza

Dear Gaza,

The sea is your horizon, a symbol of unreachable freedom. I watched children who once eagerly awaited weekends now long for the routine of school, their lives upended by the destruction around them. The notion that the sea itself could be taken from us underscored our pervasive sense of entrapment.

I vividly remember Ms. Wafa’s animated voice reading aloud to our class: Article 2: Right to life. This right is often considered absolute, yet exceptions exist where the state may use necessary force, such as:

To protect someone from unlawful violence.

To prevent someone escaping from detention.

To stop a riot.

This introduction to human rights in school, particularly in sixth grade, shaped my understanding of humanity. It was through these lessons that I first confronted the reality of my refugee status, an identity thrust upon me, not chosen. This experience ignited a desire to explore life beyond our confined city, to envision a world free from the constant sirens and the echoes of captivity that defined our days and nights.

In 2022, I had what I didn’t realize would be my last glimpse of Gaza. It was my introduction to the world beyond, a world that resonated with peace — where the morning air was filled with the soothing sounds of birds, traffic hummed on the roads, and people engaged in ordinary conversations.

However, my newfound perspective took a somber turn by October 2023. Despite my continued observation of the world around me, my focus shifted. In the midst of it all, my family, my only anchor, lost everything, even their sense of self. Separated from them, I found myself anxiously waiting for any message that would assure me of their continued existence.

What hurts the most is the guilt and sorrow of parting without knowing it was the last time. “The last time I saw you” has become a haunting refrain in our lives. Each farewell carried an unspoken fear that it could be the final one, as friends and family members disappeared into the chaos of war.

Film festival badge. Photo: Basma Almaza

Recently, at the FreedomFilmNETWORK FilmFest in Malaysia I was invited to read a story of a young woman from Gaza who lost her entire family. My reading followed a screening of the film, Three Promises, about a family’s experiences during the Second Intifada. Our lives have become a story, a film for others to watch. My heart aches with the pain of knowing that while people choose to observe and listen, they often fail to take meaningful action.

Being far from Gaza does not diminish the pain; it amplifies it. We carry the trauma and the memories of those who couldn’t leave. The privilege of safety is overshadowed by the persistent guilt of leaving loved ones behind in a place where danger is a daily reality.

I realized that in this dance of life and death, we are all just searching for a place where our hearts can rest, a sanctuary where our souls can find solace, always connected to home. But actually, after finishing my study, I will have nowhere to go for a place once called home. I will be a refugee again but this time in a foreign country.

No one chooses to be a refugee
No one chooses to be a refugee
Let me confirm it for the third time. We don’t want to be refugees. The world took our home
With violence and blood…

With solidarity,

Basma

Dear Basma,

I carry your home within me — the home you’ve longed to return to, just as much as the people who fill it. I know how deeply you cherished your grandmother, Shama’a, and how precious your memories are, whether from school or college. I trust you’re doing well in your studies while keeping my spirit alive, even if my voice may have faded. Your voice, and the voices of all Gazans in the diaspora, must continue to resonate.

Hold on, my dear child — I have not forgotten you. Without you, the world would not truly know me. To me, you are not a refugee scattered across the globe, but the soul of every place you touch.

Gaza

Dear Gaza,

You are my mission — you are my message to the world. After facing deep dissatisfaction with my academic journey and wrestling with countless thoughts about the future, I know how far humanity has fallen. All I see are those who watch our blood spill on their screens, indifferent to our suffering. This realization has only strengthened my resolve to fight for justice, to bring awareness, and to make a difference. Gaza, you are my cause, and I carry your message in everything I do.

For so long, I lost the will to engage in anything I was passionate about, haunted by the endless news of death from you. But when I finally found the courage to step out of my silence and attended a conference in collaboration with the International Islamic University Malaysia and International Institute of Advanced Islamic Studies — focused on Ummatic political analysis and the future —I discovered it was all about you. Despite the powerful forces of propaganda, there remains a deep-seated fear that the Ummah-Community will awaken.

Conference auditorium. Photo: Basma Almaza

Today, I saw you on the biggest stage, a mirror reflecting the world’s failures. I hope that after all the suffering you’ve endured, the world will finally recognize and honor your sacrifices.

With unwavering love & commitment,

Your dear child Basma

The end – hoping Gaza will write me back soon

Dear world,

We endure, not because we are strong, but because we have no other choice, so stop calling us resilient!

Even a warrior need strength just for once, not even twice.

Till this day I am still wondering how normal life would be?

Basma