Physically I was fine but mentally I was a mess. Photo: Sara Awad

I was 19 years old when the genocide began. In an instance my life stopped. Everything I knew, everything I understood, was shattered as my life, and my family’s life, became one of survival. The constant rockets were louder than my own voice. They drowned out any chance to talk of dreams or hopes or a future, or even of fear.

I had been so happy to get a place to study English literature at the Islamic University of Gaza. I had been full of dreams, hopes, and aspirations but all this ended in October 2023.

I can still remember the hours of horror that I witnessed. It was noon. Israeli soldiers entered our neighborhood, Al- Sheikh Radwan Street. We were surrounded by tanks and armed soldiers. We took shelter in the basement for safety, with some of our friends and neighbors, and with our children and elderly relatives. We believed that this was just a temporary period. But we were wrong, so wrong.

Eventually, as the water supply was cut off and we had no food left, my father decided we needed to seek safety and shelter, and to escape the siege.

We left our home and walked to Al-Shifa Hospital with heavy hearts. It was hard even to recognize that this building was once a hospital. None of medical equipment was working. Every day, doctors and nurses were being arrested by Israeli soldiers.

The hospital was packed with people displaced like us. We camped out in one of the aisles for 40 days. We slept on the floor, without blankets or any other covering to protect us from the freezing weather. Food was scarce; we managed on one daily meal of plain rice.

The invisible wound

It was a difficult time. I struggled to sleep, to block the images and the thoughts that invaded my head. I feared losing my entire family. I was terrified of being the only survivor. Physically I was fine but mentally I was a mess. I didn’t understand then that I was a victim of the invisible wound of war: trauma.

I can still picture 10-year-old Yazan Daloul, who was in a coma for three months. A bombing raid had blown him three kilometers away while he was sleeping. His parents found him covered in blood in another building. Despite the terrible conditions and shortage of medical supplies, he miraculously survived and is now undergoing physiotherapy. But his family’s happiness was cut short when his father was martyred. I can’t shake off these things.

Worry and anxiety is always with me. I try to understand how such destruction cruelty can be inflicted on us. I struggle to forgive the perpetrators. I have witnessed so much wanton brutality, devastation, and death.

And yet I was one of the lucky ones. Our family was safe. I had no physical injuries. But I suffered mental health issues and my trauma was very real. I had nightmares and the sound of bombing was constantly in my head. I was overwhelmed with anxiety and uncertain about how we would get through the day. I was no longer me. I lost my spark and sunk into a deep depression. I felt so bad about my life. I cried all the time and was so scared.

Living with trauma was so much worse than living with a lack of food or trying to keep warm. The mental trauma overtook me. I felt utterly useless. I was not a good example to my younger siblings who were being so brave.

Feeling optimistic

Hope came with the announcement of the ceasefire earlier this year, on January 19. We had survived.

There are no words that can adequately express my feelings at that time. Even though I had lost myself in this war, I felt optimistic that I could become Sara again. I hugged my parents, hopeful that we were now safe.

Enjoying the taste of bananas after one year without them. Photo: Sara Awad

A week after the ceasefire, I was excited that my mother and I were going on a shopping trip together. I felt that life was returning to normal.

Then, suddenly, I heard my mother screaming. She had fallen off the balcony that had been damaged by the Israeli rockets. I rushed to her, crying and yelling for an ambulance. I felt incapable, completely overwhelmed. My mom was everything to me and the thought of losing her terrified me.

Overnight I had to look after my younger siblings at home and become my mother’s caretaker while she was in Al-Wafaa Hospital.

The view from Al-Wafaa hospital, where my mother was taken. Photo: Sara Awad

Every day I witnessed pain and tragedy. I saw children with amputated arms and legs. I watched doctors and nurses running out of medical supplies. I could hear screams of pain even when no one was shouting. I knew I was far better off than so many others but, still, my depression and trauma came creeping back in.

A new chapter

Then, I met Sabreen, and her story touched my soul. A week before her wedding, her house was bombed. Her leg was amputated. Her life was shattered. All the preparations for her big day were buried under the rubble. And yet she was remarkable! I was astonished at her courage and her support for me when she needed support herself. Sabreen and I spent hours talking about our mental health issues and how to overcome them. From her I learned how to be strong, confident, and determined to make everything possible even if everything goes horribly.

I am different from the person I used to be, but I am beginning to accept the new version of me. My own experience was a double-edged sword. It made me stronger, happier, and more productive in every aspect of life. It is not easy for me to talk about my personal trauma openly, but this new chapter of my life has taught me to be conscious about what I have to do. Now I feel free to talk about my weaknesses.

The displacement, fears, and anxiety, the cold, hunger, and overthinking—all have affected me badly. However, I am optimistic about my future self. I have overcome trauma once. This has been the first and hardest phase of my inner life, and yet—in the end—I have survived it.