Reading by the light of a shady candle. Photo: Deema Dalloul

I cannot remember a time when electricity was stable in Gaza. We have progressed year by year, starting with flashlights and moving to generators to charge our devices.

Generators require fuel which over time becomes expensive. Ultimately we used batteries as a more conservative means of consumption. Ideally, batteries need to be replaced periodically to maintain the highest level of energy. My family is not a fan of idealism; it is more than enough to buy a new battery when someone in the house is inconvenienced by our second-class lighting system, which shines like diamonds for the first 30 minutes of a charge, then dies out like a moon covered by fog.

Metaphors are not enough to survive the war; you need more than an optimistic attitude. You need something physical to cling to, and in our case, shifting between the darkness of days covered in ashes and nights shrouded with fear, we needed the entire sun to rise from our house to feel that light.

A dimly lit existence

On the day before my first finals exam, my father bought a battery for my desk. Until then, he appeared to have ignored the fact that I studied uncomplainingly, using the old lighting system for an entire semester. However, without a word spoken between us, as is often the way with fathers and daughters, I knew that his conscience would not be relieved until he had bought me a battery.

His habit of last-minute changes was an effort to rescue us from sinking further into our feeble lifestyle.

Soon enough, we found ourselves in a dimly lit existence, and the only source of power left were shady candles. We had a full set of beautiful, expensive candles, and yet they failed to brighten our small room.

During power cuts, many homes in Gaza had burnt down because of a single candle. My father considered candles to be a fire hazard, rather than of practical use. From an early age we were prohibited by the laws of parenting from bringing any candles into the house, whether for a birthday cake or in order to meditate. When we were given candles by friends, we would accept the gift and then bury it in a drawer forever.

And yet, two months into the genocide, my father went out to buy candles despite his concern. Costly colorful candles were all he could find in a tiny market. Even though my mother had taught us to be grateful for everything, so that the world can feel our gratitude one day and reward us for our manners, we were not happy about having candles in the house. The war had forced us to share everything—shampoos, tissues, and loaves of bread—but we each hoarded our portion of candles.

My window seat

When winter arrived in Gaza it brought with it short days that ended by three o’clock in the afternoon. Only then did we overcome our anxiety and put the candles to use.

Our windowless hallway was my mother’s safe zone. Not a single sunbeam touched the walls. She lived in the shadows all day and throughout the night. I couldn’t settle there, with my impatience and the piles of books I wanted to finish reading. Instead, every day, I’d sit by a window to read a few pages before another bone-chilling night let itself into our house.

Who could believe that sitting by the window would be something I should fear because fragments of shrapnel might find a way in without knocking? Every day, I argued with my mother, insisting that I needed to read or else I would lose my mind. I already felt useless, neither able to escape nor able to bring an end the genocide.

Regardless of the fear I felt and the arguments I had with my mother, I continued to sit by the window. Whenever a bomb exploded nearby, I would jump like a little kangaroo and run to my mother in the hallway. Minutes later, I would sneak back to my risky spot by the window, seeking the light again.

My mother panicked more than any of us in the family. She learned several prayers and during tough times, she would recite them aloud so everyone within earshot would be included and protected by her words and her faith.

I claimed that I ran to the hallway because I wanted to comfort my mother but the truth is that she is my main source of comfort: making sure that she is assured is the key to my composure. The time for role-shifting in a mother-and-daughter relationship begins here. She saw me as her little angel growing up; now she has become my angel who I guard in order to stay safe myself.

Fading light

In the evenings, my father had to turn a blind eye when we lit his shady candles. They smelled good as they burned and their different colors matched the cover of any book we might pick. But the candles would start to melt no sooner than we had lit them. We had three minutes of light before the layers of wax melted like excessive wrinkles on an old lady’s sagging skin.

For days we experimented with the candles. We would light them in different rooms, shut doors, and add more candles. But the result was always the same: Three minutes of light is all we had.

After a week, the smell and the colors of the candles were no longer a novelty; they didn’t matter anymore. The light faded just as we hoped it might last for another minute. I collected all the fancy candles my father had bought, tied them together, threw them back in the drawer, and quit reading until summer returned.

Only then did I realize that it was impossible to revive my reading habit after all these months of abandonment. Maybe it was not the right season for me to try; maybe my appetite for books has died like my father’s shady candles. Maybe the sun rising from our house was never enough.