I dreamed of having a big party for my little baby, Ayla, who would turn one on Dec. 9, 2023. But everything changed for all of us on Oct. 7.

One day during the attacks, while other people in the world were waking up to coffee brewing, I was awakened by the thunder of nearby rockets. Just like the other times a home was bombed, we heard people screaming, ambulance sirens, and the shouts of civil defense and neighbors running to help. The atmosphere was so full of dust that I could barely see what was in front of me.

As I looked out the window, I saw many people carrying all their belongings, running from the apartment tower next to mine. Many displaced Palestinian families that had already evacuated from their homes lived there.

I yelled to my family, “Someone must go to see if we are next!” We received the message that it’s true — we would be the next to be evicted. We told our neighbors that the Zionists had warned us to leave and to run for our lives.

We made the decision to leave our apartment tower and raced to save our souls from being killed. We threw our mattresses, pillows, clothes, and wraps out the window. Once on the street, we picked up these bags of belongings that, slung across our backs, have become the symbols of displaced people.

Shortly after we left, the Zionists bombed the tower.

We moved to a family friend’s home and lived there for a week, until we received bad news. My aunt, Mona Allosh, and her husband, Khalil Alsweisi, their twins, Aya Alsweisi and Nour Alsweisi, were all martryed. My aunt’s two sons were also injured in the attack, and one of them lost both of his legs. My uncle’s wife, Intsar Allosh, was also martyred and his daughters were injured. One of his daughters lost one of her legs, and another of his daughters, Rawan Allosh, a mother to a ten-month old girl, was martyred.

How can displaced people receive bad news? We have no place to cry. We have no place to grieve.

Multiple more dispossessions

The terrifying sound of the Zionist tanks grew so near that those of us still alive decided to leave Khan Younis for the reported safety of Rafah, which already contained more than a million displaced people. Once there we had to move again, not once, but twice.

We rented space in a garage for one night. The garage had no walls so at night it became cold, and as the frozen air hit our bodies none of us could sleep.

Next, we moved to the home of a friend of one of our remaining relatives. We lived there for a month, but the owners of the house became increasingly upset as the risk of Israeli attacks increased. Understandably everyone was worried about allowing strangers to live in their home.

They asked us to leave, even though we had no place to go. Can you imagine what it feels like when you lose dignity and must beg people to please let you stay because you have children and no place to go?

We were unable to find a house to rent, but thank God we at least found a room to rent, because many other displaced people are living in tents on the street. The room was never intended to house human beings, but we convinced the people to rent it to us because we have nowhere else to go. The walls contain many gaps. We cover the two windows with nylon and a curtain the neighbor gave to us.

There are 19 people living in one room. Adults and children eat and sleep in the same room. Children take showers in the room. My dad bought a tent for men to stay and sleep in so that women and children can have a bit of privacy.

The room is so cold, yet there are no wraps to warm our bodies. We built a bathroom from scraps of wood and wraps. If someone has to go to the bathroom, there will be at least three people in front of you. Hot baths are not an option since the bitter weather makes the bathroom air freezing.

One day, I found a mouse in the room. I was so sad and scared, because there was no other room in which to escape.

The water pumps every 10 days. We use it to wash the dishes, our clothes, and our hands, and to take a bath. The water lasts for five days. Every day, men walk for hours to find water that is good and safe for drinking and cooking. We have forgotten how good water tastes, since the water we can obtain now is so salty and looks polluted.

There are no supermarkets because there are no goods to sell. Everything is expensive. For breakfast, cheese costs $4 and beans cost $2. We can barely find lentils or rice even on the black market. A packet of diapers costs almost $60, which lasts only ten days for one child. A packet of biscuits costs $2. All of these items are practically out of reach for most Palestinians in Rafah. I have to buy three packets of diapers for each one of my two children per month.

All of us are becoming increasingly sick. Contributing factors are polluted air, rubbish, and decomposing bodies of animals in the street. There is no medicine at the pharmacy and the hospitals are very crowded that you will have to wait for hours until your turn comes.

Ayla brings joy, her birthday sad memories 

My daughter, Ayla, who is one year and three months old, does not yet walk. There are no healthy foods for her to eat. There is no milk. There is no meat. There are no fruits. The canned food in the market is not healthy and does not provide the nutrients that children need to thrive.

On her birthday, I was supposed to be busy looking for shoes for her dress, jewelry, and decorations; choosing the theme of her cake; and making or ordering sweets. I wanted Ayla to have a big party with family and to leave her with good memories in photos so that when she grows up, she could look at them and be happy.

But the Israeli military forces decided another fate for us and furthermore, on Ayla’s birthday I received bad news. My instructor and my model, Dr. Refaat Alareer, who taught me to write and who encouraged me to believe in my abilities, had been killed and martyred a few days earlier. This was the worst news I have ever received in my whole life.

Ayla’s birthday celebrations will never be the same. In fact, I don’t know how to celebrate anymore. Many of our loved ones who should be celebrating with us are gone. My remaining relatives will not stay in Palestine after losing their families, their places of work, their homes, and the destruction of universities.

This was the first time since the war began that I felt such an extent of a mother’s anger, defeat, and pain.  It was the first time that I have felt so helpless and that I had let my child down. I don’t know what to do or where to go to keep us safe. My heart is filled with anger and fear. To quote a journalist, Yousef Adel Alaal,

How can we forgive those who let us down?
How can we forgive those who think killing and maiming us is for their enjoyment?
How can we forgive those who repeatedly lie and then intentionally kill and maim us?
Just tell me how we can forgive them?