Art: Nadera Mushtha

Since the beginning of the war, we thought it would end after a few days. After those few days passed, we told ourselves it would end in a few weeks, but the killing continued. Then, we said it might end in the following month, in November, but the war dragged on. No deal, no ceasefire.

During the humanitarian ceasefire of November 2023, we thought that the war’s countdown had finally reached zero. Over 14,800 martyrs had left this world after 48 bloody days of war and death.

Something returned to our souls during the ceasefire. Finally, we tasted the mornings we had lived before the war, we returned to our homes after a long, relentless longing. We gathered and visited our kin.

Seven days later, the war resumed.

We shattered, we scattered, we dissolved into countless fragments.

The darkness of the war engulfed the whole city. Our wounds reopened. Our blood ran in the streets again. Souls flew away from here, and homes crumbled over there. The city trembled, shook, quaked, and roared.

Again, we evacuated. We stayed alone, feeling that we were in the forest. The internet blackout created a huge wall between us and the rest of the world, made us feel like we were trapped in a forgotten, decaying box far from reality, and feeling as if we were no longer living on earth, no one knew what was happening with us and no one of us knew what was happening outside our dark small corner.

The war intensified and swelled, spreading its weight heavier upon us. The killings happened constantly, everywhere. Hour after hour, there was a new massacre, thousands of Gazan families were killed and remained under the rubble of their homes.

A boy lost his leg here, and a girl lost her hair there. A woman cried and a man died. Every day, hundreds of shrouds were stained with blood along every street.

We were alone, and still.

The same headlines every day, the number of martyrs kept increasing minute after minute. And what? They showed us on the news as mere numbers. Each one of us had dreams and hopes like anyone in the world.

The news reports didn’t mention how we used to wake up in the morning— mornings that once truly felt like the beginning of a new day, how we used to go to the sea and share our breakfast by the shore, how our homes were warm, how we found peace and joy in moments of our lives before the war.

Every night, while the rooms glowed with a faint light from telephone screens, families sat side by side, waiting anxiously for any scrap of good news from the radio — a sign of resumed negotiations, or any glimpse of an end to the war.

When bombs fell nearby, especially at night, we began to guess where they were by the direction of the sound. But when one of our kin or a friend was killed, sometimes we didn’t hear  about their martyrdom until a few days later.

Take this for example: I didn’t know about the assassination of Dr. Refaat Alareer, who was my professor at the university, until weeks later. The same happened with one of my friends, she was killed in December 2023. I only learned about her martyrdom in June 2024.

When the negotiations resumed again after long months, we returned to the same loop: It will finish soon, just wait a few days. But unfortunately, there was no ceasefire and no end to the killing.

Month after month, year after year, and hope after hope, we find ourselves struggling even to keep track of our age. The war came when I was 19. Now, I’m about to turn 22 in November. In Gaza, if you look at any adult, you might think they’re elderly— not because of the years they have lived, but because of the weight they carry.

These past two years were supposed to be the happiest of our youth, when we would sit at our desks and study. With our laptops in front of us, we would work and learn, building for our future step by step with our souls full of life.

This year was supposed to be my graduation from university, something I have been waiting for since I was young. This dream has vanished with my city and its memories, but all I hope for now is survival. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave Gaza. I want to shine like the stars.

And now that they have stolen our youth and taken years out of our lives with this genocide, with their bombs and tanks, with their threats and evacuation orders, they have decided to occupy all of Gaza. And the world does what? The world is still silent.

And this is my message for you:

I’m Nadera, I’m a Gazan, everyone here is tired, we are very tired. These moments may be our last in our beloved and ruined city. Please, do something. Save our last breath, we are tired, we want to live, to discover the world. We need to find ourselves, please, end the war.

And now the question is: What comes next? When will the killing stop? When will we be allowed to truly live?