Mera Abu Zena’s four children, before they had to evacuate their home. Photo: Mera Abu Zena

Before

Before the war, Mera Abu Zena lived in Deir Al-Balah, in a house east of the city that was later destroyed. She worked as a teacher at an UNRWA primary school and was a mother to four children: Jouri Abu Zena, 9; Jalal, 8; Lara, 4; and Mahmoud, 2.

Her daily life was structured and carefully planned. “I used to wake up early in the morning to prepare my children for school and kindergarten,” she said. “I made them their lunchboxes, and they ate milk and biscuits for breakfast. At the same time, I prepared my own teaching materials and lesson plans for school.”

After finishing her workday, she returned home around 12:30 p.m. “That’s when I started preparing lunch, checking what the house needed, and helping my children with their lessons and homework,” she said. “In the afternoon, I would spend time with them, listen to what they did during the day, then they would go out to the garden to play with their friends. At sunset, they would sit with their father, Abdul Rahman Abu Zena, who always brought home delicious snacks.”

Mera’s daughters in their apartment building playground before the war. Photo: Mera Abu Zena

Mera had dreams for her family. She planned to build a larger house than the one they had, even though it had everything she wanted. “I wanted a bigger home because my children are growing,” she said. She also cared deeply about her children’s education and personal growth.

“I wanted them to learn English because I believed it was very important and would help them in the future. I tried to pay attention to their hobbies, to develop them. I bought my daughters plenty of drawing and coloring supplies, and for my sons, balls, toy cars, and many other toys.”

After

“When we were ordered to evacuate our house, all of us were terrified,” Mera said. “My children were crying, and I couldn’t control my fear and anxiety. I didn’t know how to calm them down. I had to suppress my fear just so I could hold them, comfort them, and tell them that everything would be fine.”

Mera’s house after the destruction. Photo: Abdul Rahman Abu Zena

Now they are displaced to the Nuseirat camp, and Mera and her family live in a single room. “The room is everything,” she says. “It’s our kitchen, our living space, and our bedroom. It’s where we eat, sleep, and try to remember how to live.”

The single room that Mera’s family lives in. Photo: Mera Abu Zena

Abdul Rahman Abu Zena describes the struggle from his perspective as a father. “I have struggled so much just to make my children feel human,” he said. “We’ve reached a stage below dignity itself—below even humanity. Food is dropped from the sky like they do for wild animals. I had to deal with people I never imagined I would, just to bring food home.”

He adds, “My biggest challenge is not letting my kids take food from the Tikyaa [community kitchens]. I don’t want them to grow up without dignity. Even now, in this one small room, we teach them how to sit properly, how to eat respectfully, how to clean, to help their mom, to respect each other’s space and privacy.”

Mera says that her experience of motherhood changed entirely during the war. “I became responsible for everything,” she said. “My responsibilities doubled. I had to be everything for my children—their school, their guide, their care center, their source of entertainment. I had to fill the gaps of all the institutions that disappeared.” Before the destruction, parenting in Gaza was a shared responsibility between mothers, families, schools, mosques, and community centers. Mothers focused on nurturing and protecting their children. Teachers, mentors, and religious guides played a vital role in shaping young minds and building their character. “Childhood was a collective effort, but that balance is gone,” Mera said.

She also had to manage food distribution during the famine. “It was my job to make sure we had something to eat and to divide it fairly among us.”

She noticed her children’s personalities changing under the pressure. “I tried to make things easier for them and not to ask too much from them,” she said. “I didn’t want my son to stand in line for the Tikyaa because it was already enough that he had to stand in line for water, or go outside to charge my phone, or help me light the fire.”

Mera describes how her children’s lives have shrunk. “They don’t dream of playing outside, sitting with friends, or going to school anymore. They only think about fetching water, thinking about food, and staying safe from the next strike.”

She pauses before adding, “I faced a big challenge as a Palestinian mother because I couldn’t escape with my children and husband outside the country. I wanted them to grow up in a healthy, good environment, but I couldn’t give them that. All I can do now is try to teach them how to be strong.”

When I asked Mera about what she lost as a mother during the war, her voice trembled. “I lost my kingdom—my home, which was my haven, the warm place where I lived my motherhood with my children and where we felt comfortable and at peace.”

She reflected on how life feels now that the bombing has stopped. “Yes, the war stopped, and death and shelling stopped,” Mera said, “but the war is still inside us. Every day, I think about how to compensate my children for everything they lost—for their home, for the two school years they missed, for their innocence, their childhood, and even their way of thinking.”

Mera and her children still live together in a single small room in Nuseirat camp. As a primary school teacher, she tries to make up for the lost years by teaching her children herself. Every day, no matter how tired she feels, she sits with them for at least half an hour — just to make sure they don’t forget what learning means. Even while cooking over a firewood stove, with her daughter Jouri and son Jalal sitting beside her, she tries to distract their minds from the harsh reality by turning the moment into a lesson. “How much does five plus nine equal?” she asks, or, “What does dove mean in Arabic?”

When she finds an open bookstore, she brings them coloring books and wooden pencils, even if they’re of poor quality. What matters is to hold on to the smallest fragments of their childhood.

“I just want a future better than this reality. I want my children to feel safe again, to live a stable life, and to dream of a tomorrow without fear.”