I carry the stories of my lost loved ones in my heart, and strive to share them with continuing love and strength. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi

Many people in Gaza are gripped by a psychological state known as exulansis—the condition in which the urge to speak about their own experiences, especially those shaped by war, has completely faded. They no longer feel the need to share, convinced that no one will ever truly understand.

No words can truly describe loss. It is more than absence—it is a weight that lingers in the soul, an emptiness that nothing can fill. It is waking in the morning and feeling the world has changed in a terrible way. It is searching through crowds for faces that are no longer there, waiting for a message that will never come, a call that will never happen, a voice that will never be heard again.

We don’t just lose people; we lose parts of ourselves with them.

Loss isn’t a single moment in time—it’s an ongoing state. It follows you through every detail of your life, hiding in the places you once shared, in the words they used to say, in the laughter that once filled the air. It is walking down familiar streets that now feel foreign because the people who gave them meaning are gone.

When life is cruel, people react differently. Some develop ways to cope. They can pretend to be strong, distracting themselves with studies, learning new skills such as writing and speaking English. They can find comfort in faith, as I do. Others drown in memories, losing themselves in endless questions. But in the end we all carry this weight, a grief that never leaves us.

No one in Gaza is untouched by grief.

Everyone carries a story; everyone is mourning someone who is gone.

Loss here is not just an individual experience—it’s the story of an entire city, an entire country.

Children lose their parents, mothers lose their sons and daughters, siblings and friends vanish in an instant. There is no time to process, to cry, to grieve in the way their loss deserves.

We have no choice but to keep going, even though each day brings a new tragedy; death does not pause to take a breath. We find ourselves trapped in an endless cycle of losses, barely able to comprehend one before another follows, then another, then another.

We are no longer the people we used to be. The ones who looked forward to the future with excitement. We have changed in a terrible way, that we feel in every aspect of our lives. Our souls are heavy with invisible scars, reminders of every farewell that never happened, every night spent trying to grasp the enormity of what we’ve lost.

In the end, we’ve become echoes of our former selves. I look in the mirror and struggle to recognize who I am. Is this my face, reshaped by war? Are these my eyes, now carrying a thousand images that can never be erased?

I am a survivor—but what does that mean?

I am numb to pain. I no longer feel shock when I hear of another loss.

I remember my first real experience of loss. I was 16 when I lost my grandfather, my father’s father, on Feb. 8, 2022. He had always been there, his presence warm, his words full of wisdom. I believed the elders in our lives would never leave. But suddenly, he was gone, and if not for the strength God placed in my heart, I would not have been able to bear the pain.

In the early days, I expected to see him at any moment, to hear his voice calling my name like he always did. I searched for him everywhere—in his recorded voice, in the scent of his clothes, in the little things he left behind (his wristwatch, an old key, his glasses, his favorite hat).

That loss was a cruel lesson. I learned that life offers no guarantees, that the people I love can disappear in the blink of an eye. I didn’t know this was only the beginning.

I have lived through every war in Gaza, starting in 2008 when I was two years old. I remember the hardest moments vividly, even those that happened when I was very young. But 2023 was different. This wasn’t just another war—it was a fire that consumed every living thing. Every morning, I have woken up wondering who will be next?

On Oct. 15, I lost my friend Shimaa Saidam.

On Oct. 16, My close friend Raghad al-Nuami.

On Nov. 1, I lost my aunt Asmaa, my uncle’s wife, and their daughter, my cousin Fatima.

On Dec. 30, my uncle Abd al-Salam, my cousin Huthaifa, and his daughter Hala.

I lost friends like Lina Al-Hoor and Mayar Jouda, my teachers Aziza Rayyan and Kholod Abo Abd.

People who filled my life, who made my days brighter, and, in an instant, were gone.

The hardest part was I never got to say goodbye.  To see them one last time, to hold their hands, hug them, tell them how much they meant to me. Loss wasn’t just painful; it was cruel, stealing both my loved ones and my right to mourn.

In Gaza, we live to tell the stories of our loved ones lost. We speak their names, we write about them, we tell others about the dreams they never got to fulfill, the laughter they brought into our lives. Death does not erase memories—it makes them more vivid.

After everything, I realize that loss is not something you forget or heal from. It is something you learn to carry, to live with, to weave into your identity without letting it destroy you.

There is no map for this. No one tells you how to fill the empty spaces left behind, how to get through days that feel unbearable.

At first, everything feels meaningless—conversations seem empty, laughter distant, and days blend into each other. Slowly, memories begin to take on different shapes. We remember those we have lost not just with sorrow, but with love. We talk about them warmly, remembering their smiles, hearing their voices in our minds.

The hardest question for me remains: How do I live without them? Will my pain ever heal? Maybe. Maybe not. But what I do know for certain is that I’ll never be the same. We are people who carry stories that are not easily told, who understand loss, but also survival.

In Gaza, surviving after so much loss is an act of defiance. To keep going despite the pain, to build a new life among the ruins, to smile despite the wounds. We do not forget, but we try to carry the memories of those who are gone with dignity, to continue the paths they could not finish.

And we are not alone. God sees our suffering, hears our cries, and knows our burden. Though separated now, we will reunite in eternal peace, where pain and sorrow do not exist. In Paradise, only joy and tranquility remain, and our reunion will be more beautiful than we can imagine.