On the first day of January, around 6 p.m., I sat in the ruins of my home, surrounded by the remnants of walls that rose around me like shattered bones. The air was filled with the smell of dust and charred wood. The sky above was veiled in smoke. But in my lap, I held something precious. My fingers traced the cracked cover of an old, tattered copy of “One Thousand and One Nights.” I had found it beneath the rubble, an unexpected discovery as I searched for anything salvageable among the ruins.

The war came like a nightmare — sudden and merciless. It took everything. It took my grandmother. She was killed when our neighbor’s house was bombed. The force of the explosion destroyed the upper part of our home, where my grandmother was living. My father was silenced by shock, rarely speaking. My mother prayed to God to protect our family. Even in her grief, she tried to take care of what was left of our shattered lives. At night, my younger brothers and I slept in her arms as if she were our only refuge.

Deir al-Balah was a city of broken buildings and broken hearts. Yet in my hands, I held on to a reminder of strength — a power rooted in stories. I had always loved stories and tales. I once had a small desk where I stacked my many books. My grandmother used to tell me stories before bedtime when I was a child, often recounting the legends from this very book. It had been years since I last heard these stories, and now, holding the fragile pages in my hands, it felt as though I had found a piece of her once again.

On that cold January night, I retreated to the small room in the basement. This was where I lived — the only part of the house that remained intact after the destruction. By the faint light of a candle, I began to read. I turned the pages carefully, my eyes scanning the familiar, flowing words of Scheherazade, the queen who spun stories to stave off death. As the tales of jinn, sultans, and distant lands unfolded, I was transported from the rubble of Gaza to a world of wonder and magic. The streets outside echoed with the distant sounds of airstrikes, but in my mind I walked through enchanted palaces, crossed deserts with caravans and met characters from a thousand stories.

The following evening my young cousins and other children from the neighborhood gathered in our basement to escape the violence outside. They had nowhere else to go; their homes were destroyed, and their families torn apart. They sought refuge with us.

“Do you want to hear a story?” I asked softly, despite the fear pulsing inside me. The children nodded eagerly, their wide eyes reflecting the weak glow of the candle. They had nothing else to hold onto — no schools, no toys, no certainty that tomorrow would be better than today.

I opened the book and began reading aloud.

“It is said, O fortunate king, of wise opinion….”

The pages were yellowed and worn, their corners frayed, but they were a lifeline for me. I told them about Scheherazade, the clever and brave queen who saved her life by telling stories night after night. As I read, the children were captivated, their faces lit up by the soft candlelight. The basement, with its cracked walls and crumbling floor, became our stage. The air, heavy with fear, lightened as the children were carried on the wings of my words. They traveled together through the tales of Aladdin and his magical lamp, Sinbad the Sailor and his incredible adventures. Stories of daring escapes, enchanted lands and the triumph of wit over cruelty resonated with something in their hearts.

Every night, I would gather the children and read stories by candlelight. A hush would fall over the room, and the sound of war outside would fade away. Together we traveled through worlds where peace still existed. For a brief moment, we felt we were no longer in Gaza. It was a fleeting sense of escape, the comfort of getting lost in a story.

For me, reading “One Thousand and One Nights” was more than a distraction. In a world where everything had been taken from us, the stories were a gift, a temporary escape from the harsh reality surrounding us. This book became a way to offer the children something more than mere survival. Scheherazade told stories to save her life; I was reading the same stories to connect with my past and save my soul. I was reading them to offer the children a glimmer of hope and to challenge the darkness that had settled over their lives.

A few years ago, I used to go to Al-Khidr Library in Deir al-Balah. It belonged to the NAWA Association for Culture and Arts. Part of its recreational activities included storytelling sessions. The staff would tell us tales in the “Story Room.” We would be engrossed, feeling as though we had entered another world. Here I was, trying to do the same in my home, trying to defy the shelling.

Day after day, gathered together in the basement, the children would wait for me to open the book and transport them to another world. On some nights, the sounds of war were so loud, so close. It took all my strength to keep reading, to keep my voice steady as the ground shook beneath me. Each night was another battle for survival, not just against the missiles and bombs, but against the despair that threatened to consume us all.

And every night, I clung to the words on the pages, just as Scheherazade had clung to her stories. It was as if, by reading, I was warding off the death that loomed over me, just as the queen had delayed her execution with each tale.

One evening, after I finished the story “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves,” I closed the book and looked around at the children. Their eyes were wide with wonder, their expressions soft despite the hardship they had endured.

One of the little ones, a 12-year-old boy named Youssef Siam, reached out to gently touch the book’s cover, as if it were something sacred.

“Will we hear more tomorrow?” he asked, his voice quiet but filled with hope.

I smiled and promised, “Yes, we’ll continue tomorrow.” I had no idea what tomorrow would bring. In Gaza, every day was a gamble between life and death. The war outside was growing worse. The tanks were drawing closer, and the threat of death was ever-present. Yet I clung to my promise of another story. As long as I had this book, as long as I could read, I could offer them something beyond destruction, something no bomb could take away.

The night was quiet for a moment, the sky a black, torn canvas, and as the children went to sleep in another basement room, I sat alone. Tomorrow, I will read again. I will keep reading until the day I can tell stories in peace.

Stories in Gaza are not just an escape; they are a form of resistance, a way to keep our humanity alive in the face of overwhelming hardship. In Gaza we have all become like Scheherazade, fighting to survive, to stay alive, using storytelling to hold onto the pieces of ourselves.

This story is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.