“I’ll buy it from you for $30. I swear, I’m only making two dollars on it.” That was my 21-year-old brother Anas making his pitch to someone leaving an aid distribution centre. Around him, hundreds of exhausted people stood under the relentless sun, sweat streaming down their foreheads as they waited for their turn. Anas paced along the line, scanning faces and asking the same question over and over: “Are you selling? Anyone want to sell?”

Three years ago, at 18, Anas began the programme he had dreamed of joining for years: Journalism and Media. It was the spark that changed everything for him. A boy who had never cared much for his studies suddenly became driven, passionate, and eager to learn, determined to graduate as an exceptional reporter.

He used to picture himself stepping out of a television studio after a long day at the news desk. Above the study table in his bedroom, he had hung a sign that read: Journalist Anas Abu AlShaikh. Back then, there was no sign that this dream would be shattered, that life as he knew it would collapse, or that sunburn and dust would become the defining marks of his daily work.

The war that followed 7 October 2023 forever altered the meaning of dreams for the people of Gaza. Homes were destroyed, families were displaced, and nothing was left but memories. Universities were flattened, education ground to a halt, and the rubble of campus buildings became makeshift shelters for displaced families.

With each passing day, the war levelled more buildings and buried the ambitions of countless students. As the oldest son, Anas fled with our family from Gaza City to the south, and then to central Gaza, carrying the heaviest burden of our survival. Instead of attending journalism lectures, he spent his days standing in endless lines to fill a jerrycan with clean drinking water. Instead of walking into an exam hall, he gathered the family’s phones and walked miles to find a solar charging station.

Fragments Remain

Eventually, local universities tried to recover a fraction of their capacity, launching online portals so students would not lose years of their lives for nothing. Despite having no electricity, no home, no reliable internet, and barely any food, Anas decided to try. He resolved to chase whatever scattered fragments of his dream remained.

He began making the long trek to a private co-working space with internet access, sitting through lectures and slowly feeling that familiar spark of passion return. One night, he stayed up until dawn studying for his first midterm exam in “Introduction to Journalism”. The next morning, he woke up filled with enthusiasm. Life was devoid of colour, yet for a fleeting moment, it felt as though it was returning. But just an hour after leaving for his exam, he walked back through the door, his face pale and drained, as if the entire world had suddenly shrunk around him.

His phone - the only tool he had to continue his university education - had been stolen on his way to take the test.

With that loss, Anas gave up on his studies. He set out to find any work that could cover his basic daily expenses. But without a completed degree or vocational training, finding a job was almost impossible.

“Instead of sitting around doing nothing, come with me to the aid distribution centre. We can make a bit of money,” a friend told him one day. The idea weighed heavy on Anas’s heart and was agonising to even contemplate. How could someone whose dream was to report the news suddenly find himself buying and reselling aid packages? But there was only one real question: What was the alternative?

Survival Trade

He went to the site with his friend. Outside, crowds of people stood waiting for their turn in the blazing sun. Dozens of young men, their faces weathered, their exhaustion visible, pleaded with people to sell them their supplies. On his first day, Anas was overcome with embarrassment. He stood quietly, waiting for someone to approach him first, and went home at the end of the day without earning a single cent.

The next day, he forced himself to endure it. He began walking through the crowd, approaching people one by one, asking whether they wanted to sell, and bargaining over prices. He now buys these packages and resells them to merchants at a slightly higher price. Although the aid packages were valuable, families have more complex needs; children needed fresh food and medicine, not just another bag of flour or sugar. Parents therefore sold their aid packages to buy other essentials for their children.

“Five dollars in profit today. Alhamdulillah, it’s good—better than nothing.” That phrase came to define Anas’s days. From 7am to 3pm, he stands in the middle of the street alongside dozens of young men just like him, all for five dollars or less.

Anas often says that as he stands in those crowds, he looks at the young men around him and imagines that every single one of them once had a dream. Many of them, he knows, were probably training to be journalists too, preparing to report the news, instead of being forced to become it.

The war did not just shatter existing dreams; it destroyed the very capacity to dream at all, forcing young people into a relentless search for anything that simply keeps them alive. It stripped away their ability to plan for a future, leaving them trapped in a reality where tomorrow is entirely unknown, shaped only by fear of what comes next.

And tomorrow at 7am, Anas will be standing at the gates of the distribution centre once again, not with a reporter’s notebook, but striving for five dollars, without any idea left of what it means to dream.

For anyone who says sport and politics should never mix, I have a simple question: where have you been?

For us in Gaza, politics has never stayed outside the stadium gates. It follows us into our homes, onto our phones, and even into the matches we watch. Football has always been about more than tactics, trophies, or ninety minutes. It is about identity, memory, dignity, and sometimes, solidarity.

This World Cup reminded me of that all over again. Growing up in Gaza, we rarely chose teams based solely on their style of play. Of course we admired beautiful football, but we also looked at what teams, players, and countries represented beyond the pitch. We carried our own reality into every tournament because we never had the luxury of separating politics from life.

That is why many of us cheered for Egypt whenever they played. Palestinians felt a deep affection for Egypt. Egypt is our neighbour, our Arab sister nation, and for many Palestinians, especially in Gaza, supporting Egypt felt natural. Their victories felt familiar. Their defeats hurt. We saw ourselves reflected in their struggle to carry the hopes of millions.

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We felt immense joy when we saw Egyptian players such as Mohamed Salah and Emam Ashour celebrating by dancing to Egyptian songs in North America. All Arabs, including us in Gaza, sang the famous line from an Egyptian song: “And the question on my mind is: how do you manage to do it, Egypt? How do you manage to do it?” It reminded us that football can still create moments of collective happiness even in the darkest times.

When Egypt’s journey ended, there was genuine heartbreak across Gaza. For generations, Egypt has never been just another national team. We celebrate their victories as our own. Their players carry the hopes of an entire region, and for a few precious weeks their football united millions beyond borders.

After the Egyptian coach Hossam Hassan spoke out in support of the Palestinian cause, a journalist asked him, following Egypt’s loss, whether he thought Egypt was being penalised by the referees because of what he had said before their last match.

He replied: “We were talking about human issues. Do you feel anything? Do you feel anything? Football, the players, the media, and sports are supposed to stand with a humanitarian cause.” This shows that football can deliver a human message that goes beyond the game itself.

Spanish Solidarity

When Egypt exited the tournament, many of us searched for another team to believe in. Many hearts turned towards Spain. Not because of tiki-taka. Not because of trophies. But because, in recent years, Spain has become home to some of the strongest expressions of solidarity with Palestine in Europe. From football stadiums filled with Palestinian flags to players and public figures speaking out, from demonstrations in Madrid and Barcelona to local governments taking symbolic positions, many Spaniards have shown that they refuse to remain silent while Gaza burns.

Spanish streets filled with marches for Gaza. Palestinian flags appeared in stadiums across the country. Municipalities, activists, artists, and ordinary supporters refused to look away from our suffering. Among those voices was Lamine Yamal, who waved a Palestinian flag during Barcelona’s La Liga title parade, reminding us that the game could still carry a moral conscience. Those gestures travelled all the way to Gaza. Some of us found ourselves raising Spanish flags alongside Palestinian ones—not because we had abandoned our own identity, but because gratitude naturally follows solidarity.

Governments are not people, and people are not governments. Yet solidarity matters. When your existence is constantly denied, every voice raised in support carries weight. As a Gazan, I cannot pretend that those moments mean nothing. When Spanish fans waved Palestinian flags, we noticed. When Spanish streets filled with people demanding justice for Gaza, we noticed. When prominent Spanish voices challenged the silence that dominates much of Europe, we noticed. Football supporters often say that loyalty cannot be bought. The same is true of solidarity.

Beyond Football

This is why Spain won more than the World Cup. They won our hearts. Some will dismiss this as bringing politics into sport. But politics entered football long before Palestinians ever spoke about it. Nations use sporting victories to project power. Governments celebrate athletes as symbols of national prestige. Major tournaments are wrapped in flags, anthems, diplomacy, and image-building.

To ask Palestinians alone to leave politics outside the stadium is to ask us to ignore the reality that shapes every part of our lives. We cannot. When the final whistle blew, many of us felt we were witnessing something larger than football. Spain—the country that recognised the State of Palestine in 2024, offering Palestinians a rare moment of hope that the world was finally beginning to acknowledge our existence—stood at the summit of world football.

For many of us, Spain lifting the trophy meant more than sporting success. It felt like humanity, dignity, and justice had claimed a small victory of their own. Here was a team representing a country that had taken the principled political step of recognising Palestine, now receiving the biggest prize in world football on a stage watched by billions. For Palestinians, symbols matter because recognition matters. Every act that affirms our existence pushes back against decades of erasure.

There was a sense of poetic justice. Not because football can solve political injustice. But because, for one brief moment, humanity seemed louder than indifference. When you have lived through genocide, displacement, siege, and unimaginable loss, you begin to see football differently. You celebrate goals, but you also look for humanity. You admire skill, but you also remember who stood with you when the world looked away.

That does not mean every Spanish player shares the same politics. It does not mean every supporter agrees. It certainly does not mean any nation is beyond criticism. It simply means solidarity creates connections that statistics never can.

Shared Humanity

This World Cup reminded us that football remains one of the few languages understood across borders. A chant in one stadium can echo across continents. A flag held aloft in Europe can reach someone watching from Gaza. A gesture that lasts seconds can be remembered for years.

People often ask why Palestinians care so deeply about these symbols. Because symbols are sometimes all that survive. Because recognition is a form of resistance. Because when so much has been taken away, being seen still matters.

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Spain lifted the trophy. History will remember them as world champions. But many Palestinians will remember something else. We will remember a country whose people stood with Gaza when silence was easier. We will remember recognition when much of the world denied us. We will remember solidarity carried across football stadiums, city squares and television screens. We will remember Lamine Yamal’s solidarity when he held the Palestinian flag. That is why this World Cup will live differently in Palestinian memory.

Perhaps that is the greatest lesson this tournament leaves behind. The biggest trophies are not always lifted by those with the loudest politics or the greatest power. This World Cup reminded us that trophies are won with talent, but lasting respect is earned by those whose principles and actions remind the world that football, at its very best, can still reflect our shared humanity. Cups belong to champions. History belongs to those who choose humanity. For many of us watching from Gaza, Spain won both.

By Rida Thabet

For generations, Gaza’s schools were far more than just brick-and-mortar buildings with blackboards and desks. They were the vibrant heartbeat of the community. In these classrooms, education went hand-in-hand with character building. Schools were safe spaces where children learned not only how to read, write, and solve equations, but also how to share, collaborate, and belong. The daily routine of the school yard reinforced a rich social fabric—one rooted in Palestinian collective values. In these spaces, childhood was protected, and the spirit of community was passed down from one generation to the next.

Today, relentless war and repeated forced displacement have shattered those safe spaces. As families are uprooted from their homes and forced into overcrowded displacement camps, the physical and social structures of everyday life have collapsed. Under the crushing weight of severe scarcity, the deep-seated spirit of solidarity that once defined Gazan society is under immense strain.

When survival becomes the sole priority, social norms inevitably shift. In the camps, a neighbour is no longer seen as a partner in a shared life, but as a direct competitor for life’s most scarce resources: a jerrycan of clean water, a piece of bread, or a small patch of shade under a tent. The collaborative environment that classrooms spent decades cultivating has been replaced by an unforgiving landscape driven by survivalist individualism, where young children are forced to shoulder adult burdens to keep their families alive.

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The tragic depth of this shift is visible in every corner of the shelters. Not long ago, I saw a young girl sitting in the dust, her fingers skilfully rolling cigarettes to sell for a few coins. Just two years prior, I had watched that same girl shine on stage during a spelling competition for fifth graders.

In Nuseirat, I met a boy who recognised me from his former school in western Gaza, where he used to study. Today, he wanders barefoot through the camp, his hair bleached and burned to a copper tint from months living under the harsh coastal sun in a tent by the sea. Skinny and exhausted, he earns pennies by pulling a partially destroyed wheelchair to transport heavy groceries for shoppers.

Traumatised Children

A displaced mother described to me her children’s contrasting traumas. “My son who watched his father killed by shelling laughs all the time,” she said. “My other son, who didn’t witness anything, started wetting himself.”

These are not isolated stories; they represent a fundamental erosion of childhood. Without functioning schools, primary-grade children—particularly those in grades 1 through 5—are suffering massive learning losses. Thousands of young students have missed fundamental milestones in basic literacy and numeracy, putting an entire generation at risk of dropping out of education permanently.

Yet, the damage extends far beyond missed academic lessons. Schools provided a critical framework for psychological stability and temporal continuity. Deprived of a structured school environment, children are trapped in a closed temporal circle of immediate danger and uncertainty. The future no longer feels like a space for dreams or ambition. During a drawing activity in a shelter, when asked to draw himself five years in the future, one young boy simply drew a grave with his own name, softly explaining: “I’ll definitely die before I grow up.”

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To adapt to constant threats, children’s nervous systems undergo a profound shift. Emotional numbing becomes a necessary defence mechanism, a way to suppress unbearable sadness and fear just to keep functioning day after day. One child said: “I don’t cry because, if I did, I wouldn’t be able stop.” Many of the people I know keep saying: “No time for grieving; we will do that later.”

Over time, this chronic overload erodes a child’s ability to express empathy, build secure friendships, and process complex emotions. When survival forces a child to shut down their emotional life, the capacity to trust others and work together begins to fade.

On top of all this, medical screenings for six-year-olds, which is a requirement for registering in virtual schools, now routinely include tests for abdominal and groin hernias—a direct consequence of young children lifting heavy water jerricans day after day.

Healing this profound rift requires an approach that goes far beyond simply handing out textbooks or administering standardised tests. It requires restoring the protective, humanising heart of the community within learning spaces.

Rida Thabet is an education specialist working for the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA) in Gaza, Palestine.

Living in Gaza, surrounded by genocide, hunger, relentless bombing, unreliable internet, and the scarcity of even basic necessities, including access to phone charging, many might think that pursuing education under such conditions is impossible. Yet, despite these overwhelming challenges, I refused to give in to the occupation and managed to participate in many incredible international courses—courses that became my sanctuary, a window into a better world, and a source of hope.

Instructed English Language Learning (IELL) – Islamic University of Gaza & Northumbria University, UK

The first course was taught by the brilliant Prof. Nazmi Al-Masri from the Islamic University of Gaza and Dr. Bill Guariento from Northumbria University in Newcastle. Every Friday for ten weeks, I eagerly awaited every session despite the unstable internet. Sometimes, my phone battery was critically low, and I had to balance charging it with joining the session, but the thirst for knowledge always outweighed these difficulties.

We learned how to learn a new language, focusing especially on motivation, meaningful interaction, and consistent practice. These lessons changed the way I approach language learning; instead of worrying about making mistakes, I became more confident in communicating and practising regularly.

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In the last session, we had the honour of hosting Professor Rod Ellis in a joint session involving students from the Islamic University of Gaza and the students from Northumbria University. It was a unique opportunity to engage directly with an expert in language learning. I was the first student to ask him a question, encouraged by Dr. Bill, who said, “Be the one to get the ball rolling…” This moment allowed us to connect across borders through academic dialogue.

Despite my desire to contribute more, the genocide and poor connectivity limited my ability to engage fully. Still, the atmosphere Dr. Nazmi and Dr. Bill created made even partial participation feel meaningful.

English Speaking Practice – Mr. Anas Mansour, alongside students from Saudi Arabia and Jordan

This course was taught solely by Mr. Anas Mansour, with Esraa as an amazing assistant trainer. Our group was small, consisting of only five students from different countries, including Saudi Arabia and Jordan. An intimate environment made it easier for us to communicate confidently. We discussed everything from simple daily conversations to cultural and global issues. Speaking freely in this supportive setting allowed me to improve my fluency and confidence.

Every day at exactly 6.45pm, I looked forward to the session. It felt like stepping into a new world, one full of hope, life, and dreams, far away from the destruction and despair surrounding me. Mr. Anas was patient and encouraging, gently correcting my pronunciation and grammar mistakes, guiding me to improve bit by bit. His careful attention boosted my self-confidence.

I sadly missed the final session due to bombings and internet outages. Nevertheless, this course showed me that even in hardship, learning can flourish. I am proud to say that my English is nearly fluent, and I will work even harder to reach the level of excellence I believe I’m capable of.

Critical Pedagogy and Curriculum – University of Malta/IUG

Organised by the University of Malta, LINEs4Palestine2 was more than a series of Zoom lectures; it was a living connection—a window to the outside world, even while we remained caught in a cycle of stillness and waiting.

Guided by distinguished scholars—Prof. Carmel Borg, Dr. Joseph Gravina, Dr. Maria Brown, and Dr. Maria Cutajar—we explored Critical Pedagogy and Community and Intergenerational Learning, examining how education can promote justice, strengthen communities, and continue even in times of disruption. These ideas resonated deeply with me because I have seen how learning can persist beyond classrooms during periods of crisis. The course helped me view education not only as a system, but as a source of connection, empowerment, and hope.

I experienced first-hand how education and ideas can cross physical barriers, even when people cannot.

Sci-Fi Filmmaking Workshops – University of Porto & University of Glasgow/IUG

This course was part of the inspiring “LINES for Palestine” project—a sci-fi film-making workshop connecting students in Gaza with students in Porto, Portugal.

Each workshop was packed with fascinating content: storytelling, character creation, production, filming, editing, and finally screening our films. The teamwork across countries was breathtaking. Communicating with students and lecturers from Portugal was a reminder that life continues beyond Gaza’s borders.

Each of the seven groups created unique sci-fi films, and our team’s film was considered the soul of the project, creatively blending all ideas into one narrative.

Dr. Damian Ross, Dr. Nazmi Al-Masri, Sahar Alshobaki, Giovanna Fassetta, and Maria Grazia Imperiale were central to fostering encouragement, confidence, and belonging, with their dedication standing at the heart of the project. David Gerow strengthened my writing through valuable feedback, while Ali Makki made film-making engaging by linking theory with practice.

The Portuguese students impressed me with their kindness. Through our collaboration, what began as a university project became a meaningful cross-border connection built on shared hopes, mutual support, and genuine human understanding.

Education in Genocide and Displacement – Örebro University, Sweden

Created through a collaboration between pro-Palestinian activists and European universities, this volunteer-based project had two goals: first, to help break our isolation here in Gaza by connecting us with the outside world, and second, to explore how international universities might be able to support us—now or in the future.

The format was simple: each student from Gaza was paired with a student from abroad, and I was paired with a wonderful girl named Charlie Elvander. From the start, she was clear: “This is not about grades or formal requirements. We are just supposed to talk, connect, and once I report back to my university, you will have completed this course.” That felt liberating—what mattered wasn’t academic credit, but human connection.

Our conversations went far beyond sharing experiences—they became deep, solution-oriented dialogues. Together, we reflected on how international universities could move from sympathy to tangible action in supporting Palestinian students.

We spoke about how exchange opportunities could offer Palestinian students a chance to study abroad, to learn in stable environments, and to bring back knowledge that could rebuild what has been lost.

We also discussed how access to international research databases and digital libraries could transform our educational reality, allowing us to participate in the global academic community and respond to how our struggles are studied. While students in universities like Örebro can instantly reach thousands of academic resources, students in Gaza are cut off from these essential tools.

In the absence of physical libraries destroyed by bombardment, online access is not a luxury—it is survival.

Digital Storytelling – Resilient Voices Project, British Council

The Resilient Voices programme—a project supported by the British Council under the SARD (Stories of Adversity, Resilience, and Determination)—gave Palestinian students in Gaza a platform to tell our stories and to break through our isolation.

Using English as a bridge, we transformed our lived experiences and pain into narratives that resonate beyond Gaza’s borders. Through visual, audio, and written forms, we learned to tell stories that reveal not only what we endure, but also how we continue to dream, resist, and create. It was a space where language became connection, storytelling became survival, and our voices found their way to the world.

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The course was guided by four inspiring mentors: Martin in storytelling, Gerhard in clarity and precision, Ahmed in English communication, and Auxi in psychosocial support. Through these sessions, we learned to share our own perspectives as well as draw inspiration from others, fostering a sense of connection and solidarity across borders.

I saw how storytelling goes beyond documenting the past; it builds bridges of communication and hope, affirming Palestinian students’ right to participate in global academic and human conversations despite genocide and destruction.

In the end, these workshops reminded me that even in Gaza, even amid darkness, something beautiful can still grow. These courses were not just lessons, but lifelines amidst genocide. Each opportunity reminded me that education can open new paths, connect us beyond borders, and give us the tools to shape a future we believe in.

It’s 7am in Al-Nuseirat Camp. The weather is cold and dry beneath a cloudy sky. I woke up exhausted after gathering firewood the day before. I got dressed and prepared to head to Al-Azhar University. It was already 7.30am, and my first lecture started at 10am. However, I was already worried about the struggle of finding transport.

I walked to the nearest parking area, in front of Al-Farouq Mosque. To my surprise, dozens of students were also waiting for any available transportation. By 8.30am, I could not wait any longer. I grabbed my backpack and walked another half-kilometre to the second parking area on Salah al-Din Road, beside the entrance to Al-Bureij Camp.

Just as I arrived, a driver was shouting, “Gaza! Al-Saraya!”

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Without hesitation, I climbed onto the bonnet of the car. It was risky, but it was the only available spot, and I could not afford to wait any longer. The car’s old engine began rumbling. I held tightly onto the slippery hood and looked back, focusing on people’s faces as my vision slowly zoomed out while the car moved forward. I always do that, though I have never had a clear reason why.

“I hope we arrive safely. Last time, gangs detained my cousins,” one of the passengers said.

As we drove farther, our stress only grew. Among the passengers were a father and his son. The boy looked about six years old. He never stopped asking questions, as is natural for any child his age. Yet somehow, every question seemed to carry a much deeper meaning.

Dangerous Journey

The child, Omar, as I recall, pointed at the yellow concrete blocks and asked his father, “Baba, what are these blocks?” “Oh, Omar,” his father replied, “they are barriers that mark the areas we can and cannot access.” “But what happens if we go beyond them?” Omar asked. “It wouldn’t be good, son. Those areas are under the control of the Israeli army.”

Omar’s expression changed instantly. Then he almost shouted, “Do you mean we will die?” Suddenly, all the passengers responded in a tone of denial. “No, no. God forbid. Don’t worry, little boy. We won’t.” It was as though Omar had voiced the question that all of us were secretly trying to avoid. The question we had been hiding from had finally found its way into the open. The car carried around twenty-five passengers, along with the weight of all their dreams. Every one of them could have vanished in a matter of seconds. That idea alone was frightening.

When we finally arrived, I walked to Al-Rimal, a district that used to be one of Gaza’s most vibrant areas. I stepped out of the car as though shackles had been removed from my legs. Still dizzy from the ride, I walked slowly through the streets. I looked around. Tents were everywhere. Smoke and ashes drifted through the air from makeshift street-food vendors. Buildings stood shattered and hollow. Miserable expressions covered people’s faces. Still, the cloudy sky had not yet brought any rain, making the already gloomy atmosphere feel unbearable.

I finally reached my university half an hour late and rushed to my first lecture, only to be disappointed when I found the door closed. What upset me most was not missing the lecture, but having to spend another half-hour alone with my thoughts. I gathered myself, took a seat and waited. This is what the beginning of a regular day in my life looks like, nine months into the ceasefire.

As I contemplated the university’s destroyed buildings, I thought about my life since the beginning of the ceasefire. I think I had raised the ceiling of my expectations too high. I thought I would return to a repaired university, one that was better than it had been before, or that I might be able to study abroad. But the harsh fact that I would still have to gather wood and fill water containers the second I returned home pulled me back to reality. It was time for the second lecture. The walls of the hall had been repaired with tarpaulins. There were not even enough seats for all the students. The microphone crackled and repeatedly cut out, yet I did my best to understand.

Broken Expectations

It’s 5pm, and I am sitting in a cart hitched to the back of a car on Al-Bahar Street, heading home. I look at the sea and take deep breaths. It feels as though I have finally rested after a thousand years. The cart bumps violently over every pothole, each impact feeling as though it might break your ribs. Finally, I arrive home. Completely exhausted, I go straight to filling the water containers. I fill two containers and carry nearly 40 kilograms of water for 200 metres. Then I climb to the third floor and pour the water into the small tank inside our house.

Now it is time to chop wood. I grab a large piece of wood and try to break it into smaller pieces. I keep hammering until my hands are torn. Eventually, I stop out of exhaustion, unable even to lift the hammer. My neighbour passes by. “May God give you strength,” he says. “God willing, gas will come back to the country.” He speaks with solidarity, with the shared weight of suffering behind every word. He makes me feel less frustrated. I gather whatever wood I have managed to chop, light a fire and cook breakfast, lunch and dinner as a single meal.

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After resting for a while, my friend calls. “Mohammed, come down. I’m outside your house. Let’s go to the beach.” I do not hesitate. I grab my jacket, and we are soon on our way. We do not stop telling jokes and laughing throughout the journey. But the moment we arrive and see the sea, a sombre silence fills the space, as though the sea is the keeper of our sorrows. To us, it is the last sanctuary we have left, the final place where we can restore our hope and recover the will to continue beyond the unbearable.

As I contemplate the sunset and think about my day, I realise that nothing in it is worth singling out as a particular sorrow. It is the repetition of all those small, frustrating events. It is the continuous pressure. It is a life built on alternatives rather than solutions. All we ask for in Gaza, nine months into the ceasefire and after lowering our standards, is a dignified life with the minimum basic necessities: to open the tap and find running water, and to light the gas and find a cooking flame.

Yet we continue moving from one makeshift alternative to the next, doing whatever we can to adapt and survive. But for how long? Each one takes another piece of our identity with it.

In the courtyard of Al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza, the scene in December 2025 was almost unimaginable. The smell of death still hung over a place marked by destruction, yet so too did an extraordinary determination to survive. Two hundred and fifty doctors stood together dressed in graduation robes. They called themselves the “Phoenix Batch”, a name chosen to represent their rise from the ashes and despair.

These young doctors had studied medicine amid explosions and volunteered in operating theatres before they had even graduated. By completing their studies, they were fulfilling their own dreams while also paying tribute to the professors and colleagues who had been martyred. It was as though the place itself refused to forget. This was the same ground where the Israeli war machine had destroyed stone and tree alike. Yet from among the ruins and charred buildings, the Phoenix Batch emerged.

Despite the joy of the graduation ceremony, Dr Adnan Al-Bursh’s seat remained empty. He should have been there among his students on their graduation day, but his body is still being withheld. His absence left their happiness incomplete. The sense of loss could not disappear while his martyred body has still not been returned home.

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Dr Adnan Al-Bursh stood out as an exceptional medical figure. He served as a senior consultant orthopaedic surgeon and head of the Orthopaedic Department at Al-Shifa Medical Complex. He was also a lecturer at the Faculty of Medicine at the Islamic University.

According to his wife, Yasmin Hamada, Dr Adnan possessed advanced and rare medical qualifications that were unmatched in the Gaza Strip. They made him one of Gaza’s irreplaceable medical and academic pillars. His cousin, Dr Munir Al-Bursh, the director general of the Ministry of Health, also confirmed the exceptional importance of his expertise.

Beyond Medicine

Dr Adnan’s ambitions extended far beyond his daily work. He carried within him a much greater dream for Gaza and its people. His wife remembers the vision that remained with him throughout his life: “He dreamed of building a private, independent orthopaedic hospital—the first of its kind in the Gaza Strip. He wanted it to bring together the most skilled surgeons and be equipped with the latest medical technologies.”

He did not simply want to construct another building. He imagined a fully equipped medical centre staffed by a highly capable team, one that would spare patients in Gaza the hardship of travelling abroad to receive treatment. He hoped that this medical institution would elevate the standard of medicine throughout Palestine. But the hands of betrayal moved faster than the realisation of his dream.

Dr Adnan’s generosity extended far beyond the operating theatre. It was also reflected in his love of sport. He served as head of the Medical Department of the Football Association in the Gaza Strip.

Adnan was a lover of life. He regarded the sea as his “first friend” and visited it every morning. On the football pitch, he chased the ball with the spirit of a child and the passion of a devoted player.

At home, he was a tender father who could never say no to his children’s requests. His wife described the affection he showered upon them: “If one of our children asked for a toy they already had, he would buy it again just to see their joy. If his daughter wanted a birthday cake at any time of the year, he would bring it immediately. He lived just to make his family happy.”

His wife also recalled Dr Adnan’s gentle artistic side. He loved playing the piano and played it beautifully. It was a talent that revealed another dimension of his warm and caring personality.

Final Duty

Dr Adnan never abandoned his duty. After the Indonesian Hospital was bombed, he moved to Al-Awda Hospital in northern Gaza, determined to remain beside the wounded. On 19 December 2023, he was arrested from inside the hospital. Dr Munir Al-Bursh recalled the dramatic events surrounding his detention: “The phone rang. It was Adnan. He said, ‘Hello, Dr Munir. The occupation has just released us.’”

The joy lasted only a few minutes. The quadcopter drones soon returned and began calling out his name: “Adnan… come down, or we will demolish the hospital over everyone’s heads.” Dr Munir continued: “I screamed at him, ‘Don’t go down! Escape to the roof!’”

But Adnan would not allow the hospital to be destroyed over the heads of its patients. In an act of ultimate self-sacrifice, he surrendered himself in order to protect those who remained inside.

His wife recalled the final conversation she had with him: “He called and asked me, ‘Should I go down to them?’ I said, ‘Yes, put your trust in God.’ I was confident there were no charges against him. He had spent his life between books and operating rooms. He handed his papers, identity card and passport to another doctor and said, ‘Give these to my wife if I do not return within 24 hours, because the situation will be dangerous then.’”

Convinced of his innocence, his wife immediately arranged for a lawyer from within the occupied territories. The news she received was grim. Dr Adnan had been placed under administrative detention for 45 days, accompanied by a cruel order prohibiting him from receiving visits from a lawyer for 90 days. She spent those nights counting the hours and praying that his detention would not be extended, unaware of the trap that awaited him.

The targeting of Dr Adnan was not a coincidence. It was part of a systematic strategy to strike at the pillars of Gazan society. As his wife explained: “Adnan was not an ordinary surgeon. He was a symbol of steadfastness. He refused to leave the hospitals in the north, even under fire. His presence gave hope and life to the wounded. When the occupation sought to destroy every sign of life in the north, it arrested its source: Dr Adnan.”

Prison Defiance

Inside the darkness of the prison cells, Dr Adnan transformed his cell into a place of culture and solidarity. He recited Arabic poetry and encouraged his fellow prisoners to exercise in order to raise their morale.

His wife recounted vivid testimony given by one of his fellow captives: “Adnan disappeared into the interrogation rooms for six hours. When the door finally opened, he returned with a noble, mocking smile. We asked him, ‘What did they do to you?’ He replied with the calm confidence of a master: ‘They were asking me about a complex medical case they had failed to treat, so I sat down and lectured them on how to cure it.’”

For a moment, the captors appeared to forget that they were executioners. They became students sitting before a brilliant medical mind. They attempted to reward him for his consultations by offering him cake and fish. But he refused to accept anything for himself alone. “Bring nothing for me alone,” he told them. “Bring something for everyone in the section.” In doing so, he transformed the prison cell into a day of Eid for all those detained alongside him. Even inside captivity, he achieved a moral victory over his torturers.

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Adnan did not die a natural death. He was martyred under torture. His wife, quoting one of his colleagues who witnessed the events that led to his death, described the deception that preceded his transfer to Ofer Prison: “After three months in Al-Jalamah Prison, the interrogators tried to break his spirit using a trick. The interrogator asked him, ‘What do you wish for? Take the phone and call your family.’”

Adnan, intelligent and cautious, feared that the telephone call might be used to track his family or place them in danger. He therefore refused. Instead, he made a simple humanitarian request. He asked to be transferred so that he could stay with his lifelong friend and colleague, Dr Mohammed Abu Salmiya, the director of Al-Shifa Medical Complex, who was being held in another prison.

Fatal Deception

The interrogator pretended to agree. But the promise was nothing more than a cruel deception. Rather than reuniting Dr Adnan with his friend, the authorities transferred him to Ofer Prison. There, guards were waiting to subject him to a brutal reception. It marked the beginning of his final moments.

His wife continued with the horrific details: “They placed him in a narrow iron cage and then took him into a corridor 350 metres long. His hands were tied, and his neck was chained to his legs, forcing him to remain bent over. They beat him severely on the head and back.”

She continued: “A guard called over a colleague who was described as huge and broad and said, ‘This is Adnan.’ The guard then pulled his chains with such force that Adnan fell and his head struck the ground. The other prisoners heard the impact so clearly that they were certain he had died.”

The guard then summoned two prisoners and instructed them: “Take him to the fourth floor, and do not call a nurse unless you are certain that he is dead.” Less than an hour later, Dr Adnan was martyred as a result of internal bleeding, following four months of heroic endurance inside the occupation’s prisons.

Dr Adnan was martyred on 19 April 2024. His family did not learn of his death until early May. He left behind a legacy of resilience and humanity, while his body remains withheld at the Abu Kabir Forensic Institute and kept within the so-called “cemeteries of numbers”.

During the darkness of captivity, Adnan began imagining a novel titled The Valley Stones. It would tell the story of the courage and resilience of Gaza’s doctors. He did not know that he himself would become its hero.

His wife made a vow: “I have decided to collect everything his companions narrated and publish the book in his name. I will complete the story as a tribute to his spirit.”

She concluded with a message addressed to their six children: “Adnan hoped that one of his children would succeed him and inherit the secrets of the orthopaedic craft. Today, I say to him: your children will continue the journey. They will grow up to say, ‘We are the children of the Healer, the continuation of the hand that never stopped giving.’”

Body Withheld

Dr Adnan’s wife repeatedly stood outside the offices of the International Committee of the Red Cross, taking every available opportunity to demand the return of her husband’s body so that she might see him one final time. She did not ask for compensation. She asked only for a shroud.

The withholding of his body is a form of continuing torture inflicted upon the living. She cried out: “We are living in the 21st century, and a doctor is still being denied the right to a funeral and a grave.” She searched for his face among the unidentified bodies that were returned, while the occupation continued to fear him even in death.

She told me that she would be present everywhere: outside every institution and in every place where her voice might be heard. She declared clearly: “I am not only the wife of a martyr. I am now a revolutionary woman.”

The Phoenix Batch of doctors stands as the pinnacle of defiance. Adnan Al-Bursh left behind 250 “Adnans”, carrying forward his scalpel and his message. His body remains a prisoner, and his novel has not yet been committed to paper. But its story is lived every day in every hospital and every tent across Gaza. Dr Adnan did not die. He became a “Valley Stone”: solid, eternal and deeply rooted in the land he died trying to heal.

Today, the tragedy is being repeated through the imprisonment of his colleague, Dr Hussam Abu Safiya, the director of Kamal Adwan Hospital, who is currently being held in occupation prisons. The fear for Dr Hussam’s life mirrors the pain and dread that we once felt for Dr Adnan. Both men carried the burden of northern Gaza. Both refused to abandon the wounded. Both remained at their hospitals until the moment they were arrested.

With reports that Dr Hussam’s health is deteriorating inside prison, the world must act. We cannot allow the events at Ofer Prison to happen again. We cannot lose another hero to torture as we did Dr Adnan.

According to UNESCO, 164 cultural sites across Gaza have been damaged by Israeli strikes since 7 October 2023. Each site tells part of a larger story. Together, they tell the story of a people whose presence on this land stretches back millennia.

That is why the destruction of these places feels so devastating. It is not simply that Gaza is losing ancient churches, mosques or markets. It is that Palestinians are being forced to watch the physical evidence of their history disappear before their eyes.

The first time I visited Gaza City’s old quarter after months of displacement, I found myself searching for landmarks that had guided me my entire life. The Great Omari Mosque. Saint Porphyrius Church. Al-Zawiya Market. The gold market. For generations, these places were more than buildings. They were points of reference in our daily lives, repositories of memory and reminders that Gaza’s story stretches far beyond the wars that have come to define it in international headlines. What I found instead were ruins.

Since October 2023, the world has witnessed Israel’s destruction of homes, hospitals, schools and universities across Gaza. Less attention has been paid to another target of this genocide: the cultural and historical landmarks that connect Palestinians to their past. This destruction is often discussed as collateral damage. It is not.

Cultural Erasure

What has happened to Gaza’s churches, mosques, markets and archaeological sites is part of a broader assault on Palestinian existence itself. A people can be displaced. They can be starved. They can be killed. But they can also be erased by severing their connection to history, memory and place.

The Orthodox Church of Saint Porphyrius, believed to be the third-oldest church in the world, stood for centuries in Gaza City’s al-Zaytoon neighbourhood. It survived empires, invasions and wars. There are approximately twenty Christian homes standing around this church.

At Saint Porphyrius Church, more than 400 people crowded into the ancient stone halls, hoping the walls that had stood for so many years would hold. Just a few hundred metres down the street, the Latin convent next to the Catholic Holy Family Church offered refuge to another 500. Two communities, two churches, the same desperate search for safety.

That safety did not last. The church was targeted by an Israeli strike on 19 October 2023, killing 17 Palestinian Christians who were sheltering there. It was the first time in history that this church had been targeted.

On 16 December 2023, gunfire cracked through the courtyard of the Holy Family compound. An Israeli sniper shot and killed two Christian women as they moved inside the church grounds where they were sheltering.

The violence returned 19 months later. On 18 July 2025, an Israeli artillery shell hit the Holy Family Church directly. Three Christians sheltering there were killed in the strike: Saad Salama, 60, who had worked for years as the parish janitor; Fumya Ayaad, 84, an elderly woman who was receiving psychosocial support in a Caritas tent on the grounds; and Najwa Abu Dawood, 71. What began as sanctuaries for Gaza’s small Christian community turned into places marked by loss, twice over.

Sacred Ruins

For many outside Gaza, churches and mosques represent separate communities. In Gaza, they often represent something else: coexistence. Saint Porphyrius was not merely a Christian landmark. During previous wars, it opened its doors to displaced Muslim families. It was a symbol of a city whose social fabric was woven from shared suffering and shared survival. When such a place is destroyed, the loss cannot be measured only in stones and walls.

Just a short distance away stood the Great Omari Mosque, Gaza’s most important mosque and one of the oldest in Palestine. For centuries, its minaret dominated the skyline of the old city. Generations learned to pray there. Children played in its courtyards. Families arranged their lives around it.

The Great Mosque of Gaza — al-Omari Mosque, a 1,400-year-old landmark named after Caliph Umar bin al-Khattab — was struck twice in late 2023. It sustained partial damage to its minaret on 19 November, then was left in a near-ruinous state after further bombardment on 8 December.

Nearly two years later, on 6 November 2025, crews began clearing rubble from the site in Gaza City. Salvaged stones were set aside for future restoration, and the courtyard was reopened for worship. For Palestinians, places like the Great Omari Mosque are not tourist attractions. They are living institutions that carry the memories of countless lives. To destroy them is to attack the continuity between past and present.

Living Markets

The same is true of Gaza’s historic markets. Without the Omari Mosque, the market loses its spirit. Long before Gaza became synonymous with siege and war, al-Zawiya Market was the beating heart of the city. Its narrow alleys connected traders, craftsmen and families across generations. Since October 2023, al-Zawiya Market has been hit again and again. Israeli airstrikes and artillery pounded the market until entire rows of buildings and shops collapsed into rubble. Today, about 75 percent of it is gone.

This was not just any market. Al-Zawiya used to hold everything. It was a cluster of smaller markets inside one: grain stalls, spice souqs, apothecary shops. It was where people bought their daily bread, their medicine, amid the smell of cumin that told you that you were home. It was where Gaza shopped, traded, and lived its daily life. What’s left now is a skeleton of what it was.

Tucked into one corner of al-Zawiya Market sits Gaza’s gold market. It contains 120 jewellery shops beneath arches that look as though they were carved to last forever. It is an architectural masterpiece and the only one of its kind in the Strip. It’s called Qaysariyya, a name borrowed from the Roman era for industrial and commercial arcades. Local history says it was built in 1476.

But like so much in Gaza, it has lived many lives. After the Nakba in 1948, when Zionist militias and later the Israeli state expelled most Palestinians from their land, the gold market was emptied. It sat quietly. By the 1950s it had been turned into a shoemakers’ market. That lasted until 1968, when Gaza’s economy started breathing again and gold slowly found its way back.

The real shift came in 1970. Palestinians from Gaza were allowed to work inside occupied Palestine. Wages came home. But there were no banks, no stable currency to trust. So people did what people have done for centuries: they saved in gold. That’s what turned Qaysariyya around. By the early 1980s it was Gaza’s central hub for jewellery. There was nowhere else like it. No gold market in the north, centre, or south. Just this one. More craftsmen came. Renovations were made. By the 2000s the market gleamed again. Then the genocide began in October 2023.

Against Oblivion

The gold market was hit repeatedly. The worst came on 4 July 2024, when an Israeli strike bombed the arcade. The blast tore through the shops and even damaged the nearby Great Mosque of Gaza. Today, around 30 jewellery shops have been completely destroyed or burned out. The rest are being patched up by the traders themselves, with their own hands, under the same arches that have stood for more than 500 years.

These places remind Gazans of their fathers and grandfathers, and of their childhoods spent among the market’s alleys. They reminds us how we lost part of ourselves after so many of these places were destroyed. That is because heritage is not separate from human life.

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Too often, discussions of cultural destruction create a false choice between people and buildings, as though concern for one diminishes concern for the other. But the destruction of heritage matters precisely because it affects people. Buildings become meaningful because generations fill them with stories, traditions and memories.

Yet even amid the rubble, people continue to pray at the Great Omari Mosque. Merchants continue to reopen damaged shops. Christians continue to gather at Saint Porphyrius. These acts may appear small, but they carry enormous significance. They are declarations that Gaza’s history cannot be erased as easily as its buildings can be demolished.

Israel may destroy stone, wood and marble. It may reduce centuries-old landmarks to rubble. But memory survives through the people who carry it. And as long as Palestinians continue to remember these places, tell their stories and rebuild what has been destroyed, Gaza’s history remains alive.

Palestinian embroidery, known as tatreez, is not a souvenir, nor a folkloric performance staged for cultural consumption. Tatreez was never meant to be enshrined behind glass nor reduced to an aesthetic object estranged from lived experience. It was created to be worn, to move with the body, to absorb sweat, dust, and time. To be washed, repaired, and passed from generation to generation.

Because tatreez lives on the body—particularly on the bodies of Palestinian women—it has survived what archives and written histories have often failed to protect. Embroidery stitches threads into patterns, in the way a poem stitches words into meaning, weaving memory, identity, and resistance onto cloth. Tatreez and Palestinian poetry share a common purpose: to preserve what colonialist history has tried to erase.

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Long before Palestine was reduced to a political problem or an international dispute, it existed as a space of community and continuity. Generations lived and died on the same land. History did not arrive as a single narrative but as accumulated layers—Canaanite, Roman, Arab, Ottoman—each leaving traces without erasing what preceded it.

Tatreez developed within this layered time. Its motifs did not record rulers or dates but documented presence. Embroidered dresses, shawls, blouses, belts, and other household accessories and objects were made using different patterns from village to village, documenting an intimate, sustained relationship with the land. To study the various styles and stitches illuminates geographies of belonging and remembrance. Today, tatreez continues to parallel the Palestinian voice: each stitch is a part of a larger narrative, each motif a verse in an ongoing poem of survival. This echoes the craft of poets like Mahmoud Darwish and Fadwa Tuqan, whose words are enshrined in memory.

Living Maps

For Palestinian women, embroidery accompanied domestic labour, seasonal rhythms, and social structures. Women embroidered inside homes, between agricultural tasks, during gatherings, and across generations. Tatreez embodied knowledge passed from hand to hand through repetition and observation. Each region developed its own combinations of stitches, reflecting a different relationship to land, labour, and environment. Coastal cities produced patterns shaped by trade and openness; mountainous villages favoured dense, symmetrical designs reflecting settled agricultural life; desert regions allowed freer lines shaped by mobility and harsh conditions.

A Palestinian dress was an emblem of social knowledge: region, marital status, wealth, and community were all readable by the knowledgeable at a glance. Geography was carried on women’s bodies, turning them into living maps. Colour, density, placement, and motif all carried meaning. Unmarried women wore vivid colours; married women softened the palette while increasing the complexity and precision of the stitches; widows wore muted colours to express mourning and restraint. Red signified strength and vitality, black conveyed dignity and gravity, green conveyed land and fertility, and blue served as an amulet of protection. Each stitch had a purpose.

This tradition takes on new weight given the systematic disruption of Palestinian history. Empires ruled and fell, but the most violent rupture arrived with modern colonialism. Land became property; presence required proof. Under the British Mandate, systems of ownership selectively recognised presence. What could not be bureaucratised was erased. Women’s labour, oral knowledge, and domestic practices were rendered invisible within official records.

Then came 1948.

With the Nakba, Palestinians were expelled from their homes. Their history and connection to the land were called into question. Entire villages were destroyed, names erased from maps, archives burned or rewritten. A population with continuous presence on the land was described as temporary or invented. History was not only interrupted but overwritten.

Tatreez responded the only way it could: with quiet persistence.

Stitched Exile

Palestinian women embroidered images of the villages they could no longer return to. Dresses transformed into peripatetic archives. Symbols of the living world became symbols of what was lost. The cypress spoke of endurance in the face of drought. Grapes recalled abundance, generosity, and ancient cultivation. Horses evoked dignity and resistance. The placement of these motifs—whether on the chest, sleeves, or hem—reflected their importance within women’s lives and imaginations.

In refugee camps, embroidery shifted from an embellishment on everyday clothing to an act of intentional preservation. Tatreez became a method of holding onto place when the place itself was inaccessible. Palestinian women learned that erasure occurs through violence and through language—through reframing and denial. What is stolen is labelled as “disputed.” Colonisation is “conflict.” Lives are reduced to “numbers.”

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Today the erasure of Palestine is algorithmic. Palestinian grief is flagged as “graphic” or “inflammatory,” while the violent structures producing that grief remain obscured. The story is rarely denied outright. It is atomised and exhausted into silence. Palestinian women especially find that their voices are unheard as they continue to carry memory and care under siege.

Tatreez stands in direct opposition to this logic.

It does not ask to be believed nor require institutional permission. It carries its truth through its patterns. When a stitch is removed, the fabric retains its trace. Knowledge here is not declarative—it is practised.

Threaded Resistance

In contemporary contexts, tatreez continues to evolve. Artists integrate tatreez into metal, sound, installation, and digital forms. These practices do not detach embroidery from its roots. They extend its vocabulary and its reach, reaffirming it as a tool of resistance and continuity. In this way, contemporary artists reimagine embroidery as a living language rather than a static artefact.

However, tatreez is not immune to appropriation. Palestinian patterns are frequently extracted from their context and marketed as “Middle Eastern,” “Mediterranean,” or simply “ethnic.” Aesthetics are preserved but people are removed. This too is erasure.

Yet, the thread resists. Those who carry the knowledge recognise the patterns. Memory circulates outside official recognition, passed from mothers to daughters, from communities to diaspora, beyond the reach of institutional denial. Much like poetry—especially in its oral traditions—these stories are carried in voices as much as in hands, recited, remembered, and reshaped across generations. What cannot be archived in institutions continues to live in rhythm, repetition, and breath.

Tatreez teaches a fundamental truth: history does not survive only in documents. It survives in practice, repetition, and care—the refusal to abandon form when its function is under attack. Tatreez does not offer closure, but continuity. In Fadwa Tuqan’s iconic poem, Enough for Me, she expresses the desire to “melt and vanish into her soil / then sprout forth as a flower.” Her words preserve memory by transforming the physical bond with the land into a cycle of eternal return and rebirth, ensuring that the connection to Palestine is perpetually renewed.

As long as Palestinian women stitch poetry onto cloth and into memory, the story will continue. In a world committed to our obliteration, their hands, continuing to work, make tatreez a beautiful form of resistance. Like poetry, tatreez creates where erasure seeks to undo; both transform absence into presence and silence into something that endures. As Refaat Alareer wrote, “If I must die, you must live to tell my story”—a reminder that survival itself becomes an act of narration and that carrying the story forward is a continuation of both poetry and resistance.

By Ahmed Dremly

For the past two weeks, 18-year-old Mohammed Alaa has been walking for more than three hours each day to reach a café with a reliable internet connection so he can sit his final high school exams online.

Mohammed lives with his family of six in their partially destroyed home in the Al Sahaba neighbourhood in eastern Gaza City. Like most families in Gaza, they have had no electricity or stable internet connection since the Israeli military campaign in Gaza began in 2023.

“I always thought the final year of high school would be the most important year of my life because it would help me achieve my dream of studying business administration at university,” Mohammed said. “But with the ongoing Israeli war on Gaza, studying has become another kind of suffering.”

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His father, Alaa, who used to help him study every day, was killed in an Israeli airstrike in December 2024.

“My biggest supporter was my father. He even used to teach me. Losing him made everything much harder.”

Besides losing his father, Mohammed has lost more than 25 relatives during the war, including his grandfather, cousins and three close friends.

He was also injured in an Israeli airstrike while fetching water during the first days of the war, although his injuries were minor.

Against Everything

Despite everything, he has continued studying, carrying his textbooks with him through repeated displacement while constantly searching for somewhere quiet enough to prepare for his exams.

His family’s 80-square-metre apartment has become home to three families after two of his uncles lost their houses earlier in the war. The overcrowded conditions make it almost impossible for Mohammed to find a quiet place to study.

“Most of my studying happened after midnight, when everyone else in the house was asleep,” he said. “I studied by the light of my phone’s flashlight or a candle. During the day, I was always exhausted because I couldn’t sleep properly with the constant noise and the buzzing sound of the drones overhead.”

Although his family tried to make studying his priority, Mohammed insisted on helping them with daily survival.

“My family always wanted me to rest and eat well because I was studying, but I still fetched water and collected firewood. I have one brother, and my three sisters are younger than me.

“Sometimes I was studying while hiding my tears because I was hungry, stressed, missing my father, or thinking about our financial situation. Sometimes I needed to buy books or paper, but they were too expensive. Still, I knew I had to continue because my whole family had placed their hopes in me.”

Mohammed used to go to a café or visit friends whose homes have solar panels to download his online lessons or study for a few hours.

“Every time I walk through the streets, I’m afraid I could be killed in an airstrike before I even reach the café. But I have no other choice.”

Alongside his studies, Mohammed works part-time in his cousin’s accessories shop to help support his family. The income also allows him to pay for private tutoring, educational centres and internet access in cafés or temporary learning spaces powered by generators or solar energy, where students can connect to online classes and exams.

Online Exams

The Ministry of Education in Gaza announced that this year’s final high school examinations would begin on 20 June. This marked the first time since October 2023 that students in Gaza were able to sit the exams alongside their peers in the occupied West Bank.

Because most schools in Gaza have been destroyed or damaged by Israeli attacks, students completed their examinations through the online platform Wise School.

For the third consecutive year, the examination process is taking place under the shadow of war. Thousands of students have faced displacement, electricity cuts, unreliable internet access and constant security risks while trying to complete their exams.

Mohammed is one of more than 37,000 students in Gaza sitting this year’s examinations. According to the Ministry of Education and Higher Education, another 1,941 Gaza students are currently abroad, while 51,499 students are taking the exams in the occupied West Bank.

Not everyone managed to finish.

“Some of my friends were unable to complete their exams because the internet disconnected while they were taking them,” Mohammed said. “I walked for miles and hours to sit in a café with a better connection, but even there the internet sometimes failed. I also kept my mother’s phone with me on standby in case mine ran out of battery.”

“I was taking my exams while worrying about the questions, worrying about my family, and wondering whether I would even make it back home alive. The bombing never stopped.”

Raghad’s Dream

Those fears became even more real after Mohammed learned that 17-year-old Raghad Ashour had been killed in an Israeli airstrike while walking to study at an educational institution along a route similar to the one he regularly takes.

Raghad was on her way to study at an educational centre near her family’s makeshift tent in central Gaza City on Monday, 22 June, when an Israeli airstrike killed her.

Displaced from Beit Hanoun in northern Gaza, Raghad had always been an outstanding student. Shortly before her death, she had earned first place in a competitive scholarship programme in artificial intelligence.

“Her education was always her highest priority, despite the fear, displacement and constant airstrikes,” said her uncle, Jamal. “She dreamed of going to university and finding a job so she could help support her family financially.”

Raghad grew up without her father, who was killed in an Israeli attack in 2011 when she was nearly two years old.

Jamal visited the family’s tent at least once a week. The day before the strike, he had spent the afternoon with them.

“She made us mint tea, and we sat together talking about ordinary things,” he recalled. “Now I visit her mother and four brothers every day. We talk about our memories of her because we still cannot believe she is gone. We miss her deeply.

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“Raghad was the princess of our family, like a daughter to me. She was kind-hearted and sensitive. She was always helping her family and was not only a loving daughter but also one of her mother’s closest friends.”

According to the Palestinian Ministry of Education, Raghad is among at least 19,100 school students and 1,379 university students who have been killed in Israeli military attacks since October 2023.

Jamal said the family hopes the international community will act to end the war.

“We want the world to put pressure on Israel’s far-right government and Netanyahu to stop this genocidal war. The people being killed in Gaza are innocent civilians. We don’t want to live through any more war; we want to live in peace.

“We want to return home in peace and rebuild Gaza, Beit Hanoun, Rafah, Al Shujaya and every part of Gaza.”

At least 1,052 Palestinians have been killed and 3,406 wounded in ongoing Israeli military attacks on Gaza since the ceasefire agreement on 11 October 2025.

Narrow Escape

Alongside Raghad, other people were also on the same street when four Israeli airstrikes hit the area, including eight-year-old Reta Ajour and her five-year-old cousin, Naya, who were standing just a few metres from one of the cars that was hit.

The girls, who are displaced and living on Al Wihda Street, about a kilometre away, walk every day to a nearby school in the Al Rimal neighbourhood with one of their relatives. On that day, Reta’s 10-year-old sister, Lolo, had come to walk them home.

“A parked car happened to be between the girls and the vehicle that was struck, shielding them from most of the shrapnel. If it hadn’t been there, they would almost certainly have been killed,” said Sami Ajour, 35, Reta’s father. “Lolo was injured by shrapnel in her leg, while Naya suffered shrapnel wounds to her head.”

Sami was at work as an accountant for a company in the southern Gaza Strip when his wife called to tell him what had happened. He paid a tuk-tuk driver three times the usual fare to take him back to Gaza City so he could reach his daughters.

“When I arrived and saw the site of the strike, I couldn’t believe they had survived something so close,” he said. “At the same time, I kept thinking about the girl who was killed. She could have been any one of our children.

“They are still living in fear after everything they experienced. Every loud sound, a passing car, gunfire or the constant buzzing of drones, terrifies them. They refused to leave their mother’s or my side, and they refused to return to school for several days.”

Sami’s wife now spends the entire school day with them.

“My wife stays with them at school until the end of the day because it helps them feel a little safer. We encouraged them to go back because the war has already caused enormous disruption to their education. There is no real difference in safety between school and home; danger is everywhere.

“What have our children done to deserve this? They deserve to live safely, to play, to learn, and not to be killed.”

Teaching Hope

For Arabic language teacher, Saja Hijazi, 28, who has worked at an educational institution for the past seven years, both the education system and the role of teachers have changed dramatically since the war began.

“Before the war, we helped students understand the curriculum alongside what they learned at school and supported them in their daily lives. Now, for many students, we have become their only source of education because most of them have no mobile phones or reliable internet access to study online.

“We also have to support our students psychologically and encourage them to keep learning and hold on to hope despite the constant loss, fear, hunger and displacement that we, as teachers, are also living through.”

Saja teaches more than 200 students. She says many are struggling with serious disruptions to their education and difficulty concentrating, particularly those who have lost family members or been injured in Israeli attacks. Despite these challenges, she says most students and their families remain determined to continue learning.

“My house was bombed; I have been displaced several times, and I have lost many relatives, just like so many other families in Gaza; so I understand what my students are going through. I try to be patient with them, give them the space to express themselves, and remind them that they deserve a better future.

“Each student in Gaza has a story of loss and hardship, but they still want to learn.”

Saja believes that continuing to teach despite the ongoing Israeli war is itself an act of resilience. She says her students, family and colleagues give her hope that education can help build a better future.

“Education is the foundation of every society. Entire generations of children and young people in Gaza are being deprived of their right to education and to live in safety because of the ongoing war.”

Ahmed Dremly is a journalist from Gaza whose writings have appeared in Middle East Eye, Mondoweiss, The Electronic Intifada, Palestine Deep Dive, The Intercept, Al-Monitor and others. He is currently studying in Italy after leaving Gaza in May 2026.

In Gaza, illness has become inseparable from waiting. Cancer patients and those suffering from life-threatening diseases are trapped between a collapsing healthcare system and an increasingly difficult path to treatment abroad. For many, obtaining permission to leave Gaza for urgent medical care can take weeks or months—or may never happen at all—turning treatment into a race against time and, sometimes, an unreachable dream.

For my uncle’s wife, Ruba, that dream never came true.

In early 2025, Ruba started experiencing persistent pain under her left arm. At first, she assumed it was fatigue caused by daily stress and the harsh conditions of life in Gaza.

The pain gradually intensified, spreading to her chest and shoulder. She visited several doctors and hospitals, yet diagnostic resources were extremely limited. Doctors initially suspected inflammation or a nerve condition and prescribed painkillers and antibiotics.

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As the months passed, her condition continued to deteriorate.

Meanwhile, Gaza’s healthcare system was struggling with severe shortages of medical staff, equipment, and diagnostic resources. In December 2025, after further examinations and a biopsy, Ruba was diagnosed with advanced cancer. Doctors explained that her condition was severe and that she required treatment outside Gaza, where specialised cancer care was available. However, obtaining permission to travel remained difficult and complicated.

In Gaza, she received five chemotherapy sessions, but the tumour continued to grow. She lost a significant amount of weight, and the cancer spread rapidly, leaving her unable to eat or breathe properly. Doctors then stopped her chemotherapy and explained that the treatment she needed was unavailable in Gaza. Her only remaining option was medical evacuation and access to specialised care abroad.

Waiting for Evacuation

Ruba and her family spent six months waiting for permission to travel outside Gaza. She had obtained every medical referral, completed every required form, and taken every bureaucratic step needed for a transfer to a specialised cancer hospital. She continued to speak about treatment abroad as though it remained possible. In her imagination, the King Hussein Cancer Center in Amman, Jordan, became more than a hospital; it became a destination tied to survival itself. When the crossings briefly reopened, hope returned. Ruba believed her turn might finally come. But it never did.

On 9 May 2026, Ruba, aged 22, died after a painful battle with cancer, leaving behind her daughter, Tuhfa, and a family still struggling to comprehend her loss. For six months, Ruba had waited for the chance to leave Gaza and receive the treatment she believed might save her life.

Ruba’s daughter, Tuhfa, is only three years old. At this age, her understanding is still forming through fragments of words and gestures.

When her family tried to explain that her mother had gone to heaven, she smiled and said, “You are lying. My mum is in the hospital, and she will come back.” At other times, when Ruba’s name is mentioned in front of her, she becomes quiet for a moment and then goes back to playing, as if trying, in her own way, to understand absence.

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Ruba’s story is not an isolated tragedy. It reflects a broader crisis facing thousands of Palestinians in Gaza whose conditions require treatment that cannot be provided there. Patients suffering from cancer, heart disease, kidney failure, and severe injuries find themselves trapped in a healthcare system devastated by war and repeated destruction.

For cancer patients in particular, the crisis is especially cruel. Gaza has long lacked adequate oncology services, forcing patients to seek chemotherapy, radiotherapy, specialised surgery, or advanced diagnostic care outside the territory. After months of war and the collapse of much of Gaza’s healthcare infrastructure, however, access to even basic treatment has become uncertain.

Hospitals have been damaged, medical supply chains have been disrupted, and many essential medicines have become scarce or unavailable. For patients whose conditions depend on continuity of care, an interruption can lead to the progression of disease, increased suffering, or death.

The Wider Crisis

According to Abdel Hakim Al-Batta, administrative director of the Gaza Cancer Center, around 11,000 cancer patients live in Gaza, including 4,000 who hold medical referrals and are in urgent need of medical evacuation but have been unable to travel for treatment. In an interview with Al Jazeera, he added that cancer-related deaths have risen sharply, from roughly one death per day in the past to nearly three deaths per day, largely because of the lack of medicines and radiotherapy services.

In Gaza today, illness carries another burden: waiting. Waiting for approval. Waiting for crossings to open. Waiting for referral coordination. Waiting for names to appear on travel lists. Waiting while pain worsens, medicines run out, and bodies weaken. For some, waiting becomes permanent.

The language often used to discuss Gaza’s healthcare crisis tends to rely on figures: the number of hospitals destroyed, the shortages of medicine, and the number of patients awaiting evacuation. But behind every number is someone like Ruba: someone who filled out forms, followed procedures, gathered medical reports, and believed survival might still be possible. Someone who made plans for treatment abroad. Someone who packed hope into conversations with family. Someone who imagined returning healthier to a child and a family waiting at home.

Tuhfa will grow up with stories about her mother’s determination, her suffering, and the months she spent hoping for permission to seek treatment that never came. Like many children in Gaza, her life has already been shaped by a harsh reality.

Ruba’s death raises painful questions that extend beyond one family’s grief. What happens when access to healthcare depends on freedom of movement that patients cannot control? What does survival mean in a place where medical treatment exists elsewhere but remains unreachable?

For Gaza’s patients, the struggle against illness is no longer purely medical. It is logistical, political, and deeply unequal. Recovery depends not only on diagnosis and medicine, but also on permits, border access, functioning crossings, and circumstances entirely outside a patient’s control.

For as long as I can remember, football has been more than a sport in Gaza. Families gathered around television screens to watch the World Cup, children spent hours playing in neighbourhood streets and on local pitches, and aspiring players dreamed of representing Palestinian clubs and the national team. Since the beginning of the genocide, however, those routines have been profoundly disrupted. Football pitches have been destroyed, players have been displaced, and even watching a match has become difficult amid the daily struggle for survival.

Mohammed Hatem Taher Aliwa, 24, is the founder of Gaza Al-Irada, Gaza’s amputee football team, and is part of a ten-member family. Before his injury, Aliwa was a football player living in the Shejaiya neighbourhood in eastern Gaza City.

“Football has been part of my life since I was a child; it was my life and soul,” Aliwa recalled. “On 9 September 2018, I participated in the Great March of Return protests and was shot in my right leg by Israeli occupation forces.”

“When I was shot, I entered a coma for a few days, and when I woke up, I didn’t find my leg,” Aliwa continued. “My whole life changed, and it took me more than four months to get used to the crutches and walk again.”

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Despite losing his leg, Aliwa refused to leave football behind. He continued playing for several clubs and represented the Palestinian amputee national team in international tournaments.

“I proved to myself that losing my leg would not stop me from playing football,” Aliwa said. “I even played in the Turkish amputee football league when I was able to travel. However, since the beginning of the genocide, I have not been able to travel and continue my career.”

When the genocide began, Aliwa was displaced more than twelve times. After fleeing his home in Shejaiya, he moved between different areas across Gaza. “My family could not bear the life of tents, so we risked our lives to live in the Al-Daraj neighbourhood near the yellow line,” Aliwa added. “During the genocide, we could not practise and everything stopped.”

Playing On

When a ceasefire was announced in January 2025, Aliwa decided to establish Gaza Al-Irada, a football team for amputee players. “Because the Israeli occupation violated the ceasefire, I couldn’t continue establishing the team,” Aliwa said. Despite this setback, the team was officially founded on 1 January 2026 with 20 amputee players. “I established the team because there are many amputees in Gaza, and we have the right to play football like everyone else,” Aliwa added.

For Aliwa and the other amputee players in Gaza, access to medical supplies remains one of their greatest challenges. “We need prosthetic limbs and crutches,” Aliwa said. “I have been waiting for more than two years to undergo another surgery on my leg, but I still have not been able to receive it.” He continued: “People around the world should not look at us with sympathy because we are amputees, but rather like any other football team. We are professional players who need support to continue playing.”

Aliwa’s story is one of several that illustrate how football in Gaza has been reshaped by displacement, destruction, injury, and loss.

Mohammed Abu Al-Mezha, 24, is an accountant from the Al-Nasser neighbourhood in Gaza City. During the genocide, he was displaced several times across the Strip. “I evacuated to Al-Jalaa Street, the Sheikh Radwan neighbourhood, the Al-Suweidi area, and Deir Al-Balah,” he told me. “Since I was five years old, I have been playing football in my neighbourhood, school, and clubs.”

“At first, football was just a hobby, but I always hoped to become a professional player,” Abu Al-Mezha added. “In 2015, I played for Al-Jazeera Club for a few weeks, and later I played for a week for Palestine Club … I participated in school tournaments and local championships organised by the Ibn Baz Association.”

His ambitions were interrupted when he broke his leg. “When my leg was broken, I had to stop playing for months and abandon my hopes of playing competitively,” Abu Al-Mezha continued. “After my injury, I only played with my friends, and we used to rent football pitches two or three times a week just to enjoy ourselves.”

“I was always afraid of injuring my leg again, so I never pushed myself too far,” Abu Al-Mezha said.

Priced Out

Although his injury changed the way he played football, the sport remained central to his life. Abu Al-Mezha had never missed a match in the previous World Cups. “Since 2014, I have watched almost every international match in the World Cup,” he said. “Football was never something you watched alone.”

“During the Qatar World Cup, people waited for the matches and celebrated together,” Abu Al-Mezha added. “I would gather with friends at cafés or watch them with my family at home.”

Since the genocide began, Abu Al-Mezha’s relationship with football has been disrupted, just like every other aspect of daily life. “I stopped playing from October 2023 until the ceasefire was announced in January 2025,” Abu Al-Mezha explained. “During the genocide, I had no time for football as I was busy searching for water, going to the market, collecting firewood, working, and evacuating.”

For Abu Al-Mezha, remaining in northern Gaza also meant losing access to many of the places where he had once played. “Around 90 percent of the football pitches in northern Gaza were completely destroyed,” he explained. “The first match I played was during Ramadan 2025, when my friends and I rented a pitch for around $80 just to gather and play for an hour.”

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Abu Al-Mezha believes that, these days, football has become a luxury in Gaza. “Booking a football pitch costs around $70, while buying football boots and a shirt would cost more than $100,” he explained. “A new football pitch recently opened near Al-Shifa Tower in the Al-Nasser neighbourhood, but renting it costs more than $90 per hour.”

“I consider myself lucky as I have recently returned to playing football once a week,” Abu Al-Mezha said. “Football was an escape for people in Gaza and that escape has been taken away from us.”

“When I see people around the world celebrating the World Cup while we cannot even watch a match in Gaza, it hurts,” he continued. “Life is not fair.”

For others in Gaza, even following football from a distance has become increasingly difficult.

Watching Afar

Abdulrahman Ayman Shallah, 21, completed his high school exams during the genocide after the Israeli occupation targeted his home and killed his mother. He is currently working at a supermarket in the Al-Shama area in eastern Gaza City, near the yellow line.

“I have been displaced since I lost my home in December 2023,” Abdulrahman said. “My family now lives in a tent in the Zawayda area while I remain working in Gaza City to support my family.”

Before the genocide, football was a constant part of Abdulrahman’s life. “I had never missed a match for Real Madrid,” Abdulrahman said. “I had watched the entire 2022 World Cup in cafés with my friends or at home with my family.”

“For the 2022 World Cup final, I watched the match at home with my family and my uncle’s family,” he continued. “My brothers, cousins, and the whole family gathered to watch the match.”

Abdulrahman was so passionate about football that he would even stay awake until dawn just to watch a match. “In the 2021 Copa América final, I stayed awake until 3:00 a.m. to watch the match,” Abdulrahman added.

Like thousands of people in Gaza, Abdulrahman has lost much of what once made football special. “I lost several friends whom I used to watch matches with during the genocide,” Abdulrahman continued.

For Abdulrahman, following football has also become increasingly difficult. “During this World Cup, I have only been checking the final scores,” he explained. “I work until late in the evening, so by the time I finish, I am exhausted.”

“Even if I had time, I don’t have access to electricity or internet, which makes watching football impossible,” Abdulrahman said. “If I want to watch a match now, I have to watch it on my phone, and to get an internet connection, I have to sit outside in the street.”

For Abdulrahman, watching people around the world celebrate football while Gaza remains under bombardment leaves him with mixed emotions. “It hurts to see everyone enjoying the World Cup while we cannot watch it or live like other people,” he said. “I hope that one day the Palestinian national team will qualify for the World Cup so we can be like every other country in the world.”

Despite years of displacement, destruction, and interrupted lives, football continues to represent something worth holding on to for many people in Gaza. Some still search for a place to play, while others follow matches by checking final scores on their phones. At the same time, amputee players continue training despite the lack of prosthetic limbs and medical care.

Their stories show that football is not only about competition. It is also about community, belonging, and the determination to preserve ordinary moments of life under extraordinary circumstances.

By Rida Thabet

Welcome to the Gaza Strip, summer 2026. In other corners of the Mediterranean, June is a season of sun-drenched beaches, iced coffees and family picnics. Here, under the suffocating ceiling of a nylon tarp, summer is an entirely different kind of beast. It is the third summer of a war that has levelled entire lives to the earth, leaving behind over 61 million tonnes of toxic rubble—a vast, grey landscape of crushed concrete under which thousands of missing, decomposing bodies still rest.

For the displaced, returning home is a dream. Following years of shifting yellow blocks, over 60 per cent of Gaza’s land now falls within the restricted “Death Zone” or its newly expanding military buffer zones. The human overflow has been squeezed into tightly packed tent encampments. These shelters, cobbled together from cheap plastic sheets, offer no protection. As the morning sun hits the tarp, the tent transforms into an absolute greenhouse. By 8am, the air is thick enough to bake bread. “No matter what I tell you, I can’t describe what life is like in tents,” says a displaced mother living in the al-Mawasi zone. “In the winter, we drowned in rain; now, we are baked alive.”

To survive the indoor furnace, men have abandoned the tents entirely at night, opting to sleep in the open air. It has become a perfectly ordinary part of the morning routine: if you walk down the road early enough, you will see groups of men stretched out on thin mattresses by the roadside, twisted into various, accidentally hilarious, yoga-like positions just trying to catch a stray breeze.

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But sleeping outside requires negotiating with Gaza’s new rulers. Since the infrastructure is completely shattered, wastewater runs freely between the tents, and mountains of solid waste sit right next to where children play. In the old days, municipalities sprayed the swamps to kill the larvae before the heat hit. Now? The insects operate like elite military units working in perfectly coordinated shifts.

The morning shift belongs to the flies. They don’t just buzz; they engage in psychological warfare, aggressively kissing people’s faces until they are forced to stand up. In some camps, they are joined by heavy artillery: scorpions and snakes.

At night, the air belongs to the mosquitoes, which attack in dark, heavy clouds, biting aggressively until they are bloated with the blood of tired, malnourished Palestinians.

Pest Siege

Then come the fleas. Unlike the mosquitoes, fleas are the cowards of the insect world: they hide deep in the seams of your clothes, completely invisible. They bite around the clock, working all shifts simultaneously, leaving children’s bodies covered in angry red welts that take weeks to heal.

If the bugs are the infantry, the rodents are the commanders. A year ago, these families endured a brutal, manufactured starvation campaign. Naturally, anyone who manages to buy or receive aid now guards a small food reserve like gold. But mice have evolved. They can bypass thick plastic, iron wires and wooden stilts.

“They walk on our faces while we sleep,” a displaced father said. “The rats eat the tents from underneath.”

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They have lost all fear of humans. A 68-year-old diabetic grandmother woke up to find her bed soaked in blood after a giant rat gnawed at her toes. “Rats live with us in these tents,” she said. “They eat what we eat, sleep where we sleep.” When people try to chase them, the rodents simply execute a flawless disappearing act, slipping back into the endless concrete ruins that surround the camps.

Beyond the heat and the pests, the ultimate casualty of the plastic city is human dignity. In a camp where thousands of tents touch one another, privacy has become an unattainable luxury.

Every family’s story is accidentally shared because plastic sheets do not block sound. To change clothes or take a makeshift bath, a family must coordinate a complex tactical exit, with everyone waiting outside in the blazing sun so one person can clean themselves in the tent.

It is a life stripped down to its barest, rawest elements, wrapped in a dark, absurd comedy of survival. These are the forgotten people of Gaza, trying to survive a torturous summer in which even a whisper is public property and a good night’s sleep is a battle won against a rat.

Rida Thabet is an education specialist working for the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA) in Gaza, Palestine.

Before we talk about writing as resistance, we need to remember a voice that refused to be silenced, even after defeat and invasion changed her world. After the 1967 Naksa, when Palestine was still in shock, Fadwa Tuqan turned to language not to escape but to survive.

She wrote: “Our freedom begins with the word. I will keep engraving its name as I fight—on the earth, on the walls, on the doors, and on the doorsteps of our homes…”

For Palestinians, expressing ourselves through words is an act of resistance, a vital link to the outside world, and a fierce shout against oppression.

Not long ago, before October 2023, before the genocide, I used to write my stories—my little masterpieces—from the comfort of my fancy desk, with the breeze brushing through the grapevines that draped themselves outside my window. When the desk or the walls of my room felt too heavy, I would escape into the garden and let the fresh air lighten my thoughts. Now, however, I write my bleak and gloomy stories out on the street.

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I cannot write inside my fragile shelter because it is overcrowded, noisy, and unbearably hot, making it almost impossible to think. Sometimes, when the sun sets and the weather cools, I sneak onto the landlord’s rooftop to finish my stories. Writing demands calm, a touch of nature, and a quiet space where thoughts can flow freely onto the keyboard.

The street and the rooftop of the building where I have taken refuge are dull places, but they are the only havens where I can continue to put my thoughts into words. As I write in either place, I feel a lump rise in my throat. I pause for a long moment, gather myself, and then carry on, overwhelmed by the stark contrast between the life I had and the one into which I have been thrown.

Creative Siege

Every time I sit down, pull myself together, focus on my homework, and try to write something powerful and meaningful, I feel I fall short.

The truth is that I am too distracted. There is too much on my mind—too many responsibilities, errands, and urgent tasks demanding my attention. My days are packed from start to finish. I wish I had time for myself, but I always end up putting my family’s needs first.

Writing well these days feels nearly impossible. Weaving ideas together and creating something that makes people stop and see what is happening to the people of Gaza often feels beyond me. Overthinking, grief, and the weight of countless burdens have worn me down for so long that finding meaningful words feels like climbing a mountain.

My mind is always full, always occupied, and often too exhausted to find the right words for the world. It takes so much effort, time, and energy to write and send these stories while the weight and harshness of life keep pressing down on us.

Throughout this unforgiving genocide, our creativity has been assassinated and our productivity has been stifled. We are left thinking only about how to survive another bleak and monotonous day. It feels like being forced to read page after page of a book you hate: you keep turning them, but none of the words reach you.

Despite these genocidal conditions, there is no way we are giving up. These hardships could easily break our spirits and silence us forever, forcing us to internalise our pain and stop speaking out. But I refuse to let that happen.

Every day, we endure immense struggles: fetching gallons of water, standing in long queues for a small bag of bread, and fighting for our share of the meagre communal meal known as tikya, which barely fills our stomachs.

Inner Resistance

I carry so many battles inside me—endless internal wars. Some days are rough, but I still write because my stories matter. Because the world needs to know that we are still here. Still suffering. Even with a pounding headache, I write. Even when I am hungry, I want to tell the world that my cause means everything to me, no matter what may come.

That is how we fight: either we win, or we win big. There is no other choice.

Defeat is not in our vocabulary. We persist, striving to reach the world, tell our stories, and carve into history the fact that we were the generation that persevered, doing our best even in the darkest moments of our youth.

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Writing is the only thing I can still do to resist, survive, and fight back—not only against the occupation, but against the overwhelming waves of anxiety and anguish burning inside me. It is my sole refuge from the stress, fear, horror, and poverty surrounding me.

Writing helps me confront the aching questions that never leave my mind: Will I survive these bombings? Will I, and the loved ones I have left, ever live to experience peace and happiness like people elsewhere in the world? For now, that is our deepest wish.

In Gaza, especially when you are out on the street, death can come at any moment. The streets, once places of refuge and ordinary life for Gazans, have themselves become sources of grave danger.

I once wrote from the comfort of a soft bed, a desk, and a breathtaking garden. Now, I find myself writing on the street like a beggar—holding words instead of coins. Even when I write, fear often holds me back. It tries to diminish the power of my story. But if I stop writing, the occupiers win, and the world remains blind to the reality in Gaza.

So I continue to write, because silence is another form of occupation—a form I refuse to accept.

I had not stepped outside my home since 18 March 2025. The day before – 17 March, the final day of the ceasefire – I went on a drive with my father, my sister, and my brother. We drove across Gaza, stopping at every relative’s home, knocking on doors, visiting tents, seeing everyone we could squeeze into a single day. The streets were alive then—the smell of fresh falafel frying in corner shops, the sweetness of knafeh being pulled hot from the oven, the sounds of children kicking a half-flat football down the dusty alleys, girls skipping rope and counting in loud cheerful voices, and the chatter of neighbours passing teacups across their balconies.

I remember the voices of street vendors selling chips, instant noodles, and snacks, their calls echoing through the neighbourhood. We laughed with our cousins, exchanged old family stories, and snapped photos on our phones. That day, the world seemed ordinary, almost safe. By the time we pulled up in the driveway of our home, night had already covered the streets. We were exhausted, but our hearts were light. I never imagined that only a few hours later the massacre would resume, tearing apart the city, our families, and the rhythm of our days. From that moment, I did not leave home for six months.

During all these months, I had no energy to talk to anyone, to listen, to walk. My only remaining strength was barely enough for my university courses. I study English literature at the Islamic University, which now exists only online, its buildings having been destroyed. Any leftover fragments of energy went to my writing, which is my private therapy. Writing is how I survive. It is where I speak when my voice cannot leave my lips, where I release the grief that the walls of my home absorb silently.

Then, in August, my teeth forced me to leave our home.

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I had hidden the pain for a week, refusing to admit it, but for three days, I could not close my eyes. The pain was unbearable, a constant pressure that throbbed in rhythm with my heartbeat. On top of this, I was suffering from a severe flu with bone-deep aches, which made everything worse. My immunity was almost zero. Anyone who knows me knows how I struggle with illness, how it takes forever for my body to recover. Every night was a battle between my aching body and my restless mind.

Finally, after enduring days and nights of pain, I surrendered. I agreed to go to the dentist.

Outside Again

That morning, I had no energy even to dress. I forced myself to shower, to put on my black abaya and hijab. My mother disapproved of wearing black on black, but my hands chose it automatically. It felt right, as if my mood, heavy with grief, demanded it. My mother and I stepped outside, and I was immediately met with the first shock: there were no vehicles on the street. Not a single car. The city felt like a graveyard, silent except for distant echoes of destruction.

Every step was heavy. Every street told a story of destruction. Homes I had known, streets I had walked a thousand times, were now shattered and unrecognisable. Dust and rubble clung to my shoes, the heat of the sun pressing down on my shoulders, and every corner whispered of death. I asked my mother, again and again, “When did this happen?”

On the way, I passed the house of my dearest friend Shimaa Saidam, the girl who accompanied me in studying and memorising the Quran. Her house was destroyed. I stopped, frozen. I took a photo only to convince my mind that this was real. I wondered: did she survive, or is this a memory I will never touch again? I remembered her gentle family, our last visit just a week before the genocide, one of the happiest moments of my life. My feet did not want to move, and my heart weighed me down. My mother turned to me, silently urging me to keep walking.

We came to the cemetery, the resting place of my grandparents, my aunt, my uncle’s wife, his children, and my close friends. I stopped. I wanted to cry, but the tears would not come. The wind whispered among the graves, carrying dust into my eyes. All I could do was pray for them, my quiet words ascending to the sky, as I kept walking.

Graveyard Streets

Further along, on the right, I saw my uncle’s house, bombed by Israeli forces on 29 November 2023. I remembered my aunt Asmaa, my uncle’s wife Neeven, and their baby daughter Fatima, only two months old when the genocide stole them. I prayed silently and took another heavy step forward. My legs felt as though they would give up, refusing to carry me further.

Then came the hardest sight of all: my grandfather’s house. Four floors filled with memories, the home that embraced me from birth until the age of fourteen. It had been completely destroyed by multiple missiles from the Israeli occupation on 30 December 2023. Rubble and twisted metal filled the space where walls, floors, and my family once stood. Dust hung thick in the air, and the once-spacious garden was reduced to shattered trees, broken branches, and upturned soil, the trees my grandfather used to water with his own hands now charred and lifeless.

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My uncle Abd al-Salam, my cousin Huthaifa, and his daughter Hala were killed there by Israeli missiles. As I stared at the ruins, memories flashed before my eyes like a relentless, painful film. I remembered the sound of laughter, footsteps across the wooden floors, the smell of maqluba cooking in the kitchen, the warmth of family hugs. My chest felt crushed, and the weight of everything made my steps slow and heavy.

We walked for an hour and a half, making our way through the streets of Gaza, until we reached Abu Amra — a small shop that sold almost everything. It was located on a busy main street; people used to stand at its entrance, hoping to catch rides with passing cars. We were desperately searching for any form of transport that could take us further. Finally, we found something: a small car towing a wooden cart covered by a makeshift roof. I did not know what to call it, but I knew it was an invention born from necessity. After we climbed into the cart, I held onto my mother’s abaya tightly. I had never ridden in anything like this before.

Market Road

The cart dropped us off at the edge of the market. We walked three more streets to the dentist. He was late, so we waited for about an hour and a half. I was in the middle of my midterm exams, so I opened my Translation II course on my phone. The pain was too intense to focus properly. I had hoped to use studying as an escape, a way to distract my mind from the painful scenes we had passed on our journey, but I couldn’t concentrate and my thoughts kept returning to what I had witnessed and what we had lost.

Finally, the dentist arrived. He was in his late forties, and ever since I was a child, we had always gone to his clinic — he was our family’s dentist, the one we all trusted for our dental care. The clinic looked the same as it had before the genocide, except for the glass door, which had been broken and was now patched up. His demeanour, although serious, was kind and gentle—he knew I was afraid of dental work and treated me with calm care. He examined my teeth and told me that I had infections caused by my wisdom teeth, which were pushing and carving a space for themselves in my gums, and that was the reason for all the pain I had endured for days.

We left, walking again until we found another cart. I had no energy to protest. I collapsed onto the wooden seat, completely drained by the sun, the walk, the memories. The market was full of faces etched with fatigue, grief, and loss. There were vendors calling out their wares, small stalls filled with goods, and children playing in the streets. The children’s faces haunted me the most — tired before their time, worn down by the weight of a world they should not have inherited.

As the cart moved, my mind did not stop. Everywhere I looked, I saw the people I had lost, the houses I had known, the mosques turned into rubble. Even Al-Farouq Mosque, once so beautiful, was now only a pile of stones. I wanted nothing more than to return home, to lie down, to try to forget what I had seen. I had gone out to fix my teeth, not to carry the burden of an entire city of memories.

My best friend stopped calling or texting me and went completely incommunicado. It turned out they had been taken away by counter-terrorism police. The next time I saw Amu, they were behind glass at Westminster Magistrates’ Court. At that point, I didn’t even know what “remand” meant.

It was July 2025, sweltering—the kind of heat that turns the Victoria line into a sauna. Jayne, Amu’s friend from Scotland, had been messaging me all week. Amu had vanished. We agreed that I should go to their family home in Finsbury Park, knock on the door, and try to find out what had happened.

I remember sitting at the dining table waiting for Amu’s father to come home. When he walked through the door, he told me the police had called that morning. Arrested. At first, that was all he said.

Someone I had known since I was sixteen was about to disappear into a world I didn’t yet understand. Over the following weeks, the rest unfolded at brutal speed: Westminster Magistrates’ Court, accusations of breaking into RAF Brize Norton and painting two refuelling aircraft red, bail denied, and then remand to prison.

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This was my first exposure to the British government’s new war on direct action, something which would now be a significant part of my life. Eleven months later, I’m at HMP Bronzefield, near Ashford in Surrey. This time, it’s not Amu I’m visiting, but another person accused of direct action: Fatema Zainab Rajwani, one of the Filton 25 activists accused of disrupting a factory belonging to Elbit, Israel’s largest weapons company, in August 2024.

At the gate, I take a deep breath and tuck my keffiyeh into my bag. Solidarity with Palestine has become suspect everywhere. From politicians calling for keffiyehs to be banned in public institutions to prison officers trained to see a patterned scarf as provocation, the message is clear. Never mind the Union Jack flying outside the prison gates; olive branches and fishnet weaves stitched into fabric can become grounds for a denied visit.

I step forward, am searched, and eventually let in.

Hope

Inside, I find Fatema Zainab’s sister and head straight for the café queue. We need coffee before the line swells. Prisoners work in the prison, including in this café, for just 70p an hour. I call out a table number, collect our drinks, and sit down. After one sip of coffee, Fatema Zainab leans across the table. “I might be getting an internship with Jim Loach.” For a moment, everything changes. We all light up. I picture the films they might make. We look at one another and allow ourselves something that has become increasingly rare: hope.

The week before, I had visited Lottie—Charlotte Head—another Filton prisoner. After spending eighteen months in prison and emerging from the first trial without a single conviction, she had been accepted onto a Politics and Arabic degree during a brief window of freedom between the first trial and the retrial, at which she was convicted of criminal damage.

When she told us, we all exchanged glances and tried not to cry. Lottie barely touched the iced Americano we bought her. We spent most of the visit trying to persuade her to eat something. The injustice of it was overwhelming: a young woman accepted into university while facing the prospect of returning to prison for opposing genocide. Outside, the country baked in another heatwave. Inside, people were spending twenty-three hours a day locked in cells.

I visited them both just two weeks before their sentencing hearing. Fatema Zainab preferred to keep things light that day. The injustice of it is almost too large to hold in a one-hour visit. She had taken direct action for the first time, expected bail, and instead became part of the most high-profile test case for recasting direct action as terrorism. How do you begin to shape this into a one-hour visit?

With Lottie, I had wanted to talk through what we could still do before sentencing, but the heatwave had made being locked almost unbearable, and I could not bring myself to impose those conversations on her. Once sentenced, they would go from daily visits to one visit a week.

In June, Fatema Zainab was given five years and eight months behind bars, while Lottie was sentenced to six years.

Lottie and Fatema Zainab are remarkable poets. To see how much care, compassion, and imagination they bring into the lives of others while being subjected to such sustained attacks on their civil liberties feels almost unbearable. Two days before she was sentenced, Lottie wrote:

If the words die in our mouths, let us

Throw our bodies at the

machinations

Of destruction —

A year earlier, in June 2025, Fatema Zainab wrote these beautiful words:

I wish the love I dream of was enough.

I wish the love I dream of would hold your grief

the same way that our silence holds violence.

When there’s nothing else to write about, I write about love—

because there’s no life worth living,

no strength worth perception,

if not for love.

Damage

Fatema Zainab Rajwani, Lottie, and four others were arrested at an Elbit Systems research and manufacturing facility in Filton, near Bristol, in August 2024. That night, the six drove an old prison van into the compound and, in under twenty minutes, dismantled Israeli weapons components, including parts used in Israeli-made unmanned aerial systems. At sentencing, these were confirmed to include components for Elbit’s Magni-X and THOR drones, models deployed by the Israeli military in Gaza.

These were not merely surveillance devices. Human rights investigators, including medical witnesses such as Professor Nizam Mamode, have described Israeli drones striking wounded children who had already survived previous bombings. The prosecution alleged the action caused £1.2 million worth of damage to Israel’s largest arms company.

The resulting prosecution was widely regarded by legal observers as politically charged and procedurally irregular. At the first trial, the six faced charges of aggravated burglary, violent disorder, and criminal damage. Aggravated burglary carried a potential life sentence. After ten weeks of proceedings, the jury acquitted them of aggravated burglary and violent disorder. On the remaining charges, jurors were unable to reach verdicts. They left the courtroom unconvicted.

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After nearly eighteen months in prison without having been found guilty of any offence, many expected the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) to end the case. Instead, it announced a retrial.

Their retrial felt even more disturbing. Once again, Judge Jeremy Johnson barred references to Gaza and prevented any conscience-based defence from being presented to the jury. Jurors were instructed to disregard the broader context of the action and to treat it as irrelevant “emotion”. The consequence was clear: the defendants could be judged for damaging weapons infrastructure, but were not permitted to explain why they had done so.

The restrictions extended beyond the defendants themselves. During the first trial, Rajiv Menon KC faced contempt proceedings after citing Bushel’s Case (1670), the landmark ruling that established the independence of juries and affirmed their right to deliver verdicts according to their convictions. The Bar Council described the prosecution as “troubling”.

Later, during the retrial, Judge Johnson apologised for aspects of how the contempt proceedings had been handled. Yet he declined to recuse himself, despite a letter signed by more than 5,000 legal professionals criticising what they described as bias and discriminatory conduct throughout the Filton cases.

The Tap

Throughout both trials, Fatema Zainab and their co-defendants were denied the opportunity to explain why they targeted Elbit. They could not describe the role of British-made components in Israeli military operations. They could not explain what they believed those weapon components, including quadcopter drones, would eventually be used for. And they could not share the simple analogy from Frank Sherman, accused over an action at Moog Aircraft Group’s Wolverhampton facility: “When a room is flooding and no one will turn off the tap, direct action is turning it off yourself.”

After being convicted of criminal damage, Lottie, Ellie, and Fatema Zainab were remanded to HMP Bronzefield while awaiting sentencing. The prosecution had not requested their remand. Judge Johnson ordered it anyway.

Sam Corner, who had remained in prison throughout the proceedings, was returned to HMP Belmarsh. Others, including Joey Hinchcliffe and Jordan Devlin, were acquitted on all charges after the CPS’s second attempt to prosecute them failed. Yet the broader message of the trials remains unmistakable: direct action would be met with the full force of the state.

Every time aid trucks enter Gaza, people run after them with one simple hope: to find something that helps them survive. No one here is searching for luxury. People are looking for what makes life possible: flour, cooking gas, fuel for generators, or even a piece of plastic to protect them from the rain.

But the painful irony, repeated again and again, is that many of these trucks carry products like Nutella, chocolate, biscuits, and soft drinks, while fuel remains heavily restricted. Hospitals continue to report shortages, and families live in tents without electricity or proper ways to cook food.

No one in Gaza hates chocolate. But the question people keep asking is: what does Nutella mean in a place where hospitals cannot run neonatal incubators and families cannot cook properly?

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I am an engaged woman from Gaza. At this stage of my life, I was supposed to be busy thinking about ordinary wedding details: a dress, a home, furniture, and maybe a small wedding hall. But the war changed the meaning of all these things. Instead of searching for decoration ideas, we now ask ourselves a different question: will we even find a place to live?

Because of the massive destruction and housing crisis, living in a tent has become a real possibility for us. The irony is that even tents themselves have become expensive and difficult to find. Everything here has turned into a crisis: tents, mattresses, bathrooms, kitchen supplies, and even small water pipes.

Tent Life

When we started thinking about life inside a tent, we realised it is not simply about finding a place to sleep. It is about trying to build an entire life from nothing. How will we cook? Where will we wash dishes? How will we use a bathroom? How will we access water? And how can a couple begin their married life in a place without privacy or stability?

One day after my engagement, we had to buy cooking gas just to make coffee quickly for guests who came to visit us. Using firewood would have taken too much time because there were many people. It may sound like a small detail, but for me, it showed how much life has changed. Even making coffee for guests now depends on whether fuel is available and affordable.

At the same time, aid trucks continue entering Gaza carrying products that do not solve any of these real problems. A family may receive chocolate, but they still cannot operate a stove. A child may eat biscuits while living in a tent without clean water or electricity.

The issue is not that food aid is being rejected. The issue is the painful feeling that the priorities have been completely turned upside down.

In Gaza today, fuel has become something people struggle for every single day just to stay alive. Hospitals depend on it to run their medical equipment and keep patients alive. Bakeries rely on it to bake bread for families. People also need it for basic things like cooking food and transportation.

Fuel First

When fuel is not available, it is not just about living in darkness. It means that many parts of normal life completely stop. Daily routines, basic services, and even the simplest needs become very difficult or impossible to continue.

This contradiction creates deep frustration among people here. It feels as though Palestinians are expected to survive just enough to stay alive, but not enough to live normally or with dignity.

Even marriage itself has become emotionally and financially exhausting. Wedding halls have become too expensive because of the economic crisis, and many families can barely afford basic necessities. Some families no longer think about celebration at all; they think only about finding a safe place to live.

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This, in itself, feels like another form of war. The war has not ended for us; it continues in different shapes and details of everyday life. It is present in the shortages, in the constant uncertainty, and in the struggle to secure the most basic needs. We feel it in every small decision we make, in every absence, and in every restriction. It is a heavy burden that we carry every day, not only because of what has happened, but because of what is still happening now. Life itself feels weighed down by this ongoing reality, where survival has become a constant effort rather than a natural state.

Sometimes I feel the war has not only stolen homes and lives, but also stolen the shape of normal life itself. What should have been a joyful engagement has become connected to questions about displacement, tents, rising prices, and uncertainty.

Dignity Denied

Still, people continue trying to hold onto small pieces of normal life. Families still make coffee for guests. They still try to buy new clothes for Eid if they can. They still try to create small moments of happiness in the middle of overwhelming destruction.

But these efforts become even more painful when people feel the world responds to their suffering in shallow or symbolic ways. Chocolate cannot replace fuel. Nutella cannot replace electricity, treatment, or housing.

Gaza does not need aid that only creates temporary images of relief or moments that look good from a distance. What people here truly need are the basic conditions for life to continue in a real and dignified way: fuel to keep hospitals running, electricity to sustain essential services, clean water to drink, and medical care that saves lives instead of delaying death.

Without these basics, daily life becomes an ongoing struggle, where even the simplest tasks turn into heavy burdens. Chocolate may seem like a small detail in a place that is facing hunger, fear, and loss every day. But here, it has come to represent something much deeper. It reflects a painful contradiction, a reality where things that bring momentary comfort arrive while the essentials that keep life going remain missing or limited.

In a place like Gaza, how can we speak about normal life when even the most basic needs are still not guaranteed?

As Europe swelters under another record-breaking summer, Western headlines are dominated by a familiar genre of climate anxiety. Media outlets fill their pages with practical advice: how to transition to remote work during peak hours, how to stay hydrated, and which air conditioning units offer the best energy efficiency.

For millions living in the north of the globe, where every comfort of modern infrastructure is readily available, extreme heat is an environmental crisis managed by functional safety nets.

It is a seasonal hardship met with resources. But as Westerners seek shade, fill their glasses with clean, cold water, and plug in affordable fans, a chilling question must be asked: Has anyone stopped to think about the people of Gaza who are enduring this same Mediterranean heat without a single basic means to survive it?

​Just a short distance across the Mediterranean, in the ruined landscape of the Gaza Strip, heat is not a mere weather forecast. It does not invite lifestyle adjustments. After more than 1,000 days of a cruel, systematised genocidal war, the scorching summer heat has been weaponised. It has transformed into a silent, suffocating mechanism of confinement, compounding a man-made catastrophe where even a breath of cool air is a rationed, blocked commodity.

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This is our third consecutive summer under the assault. For the vast majority of Gaza’s population, it is a summer spent trapped inside the exact same worn-out, torn plastic and canvas tents that have served as makeshift shelters for years. Over time, under the relentless sun, these materials have degraded, yet they remain the only barrier between displaced families and the sky.

According to recent reports documented on the ground by local journalists in Gaza, these plastic structures function as literal greenhouses. They trap the ambient heat, multiplying the external temperature until the air inside becomes thick, stagnant, and unbearably hot during the day.

Air Denied

​With the electricity grid completely demolished, survivors are left with no conventional means to cool themselves. In any normal corner of the world, a simple, battery-powered desk fan is a cheap, mundane appliance, costing no more than $20. In Gaza today, because of strict Israeli restrictions on the entry of basic electrical goods and batteries, that same $20 fan has been artificially driven into a state of extreme scarcity. Its price has skyrocketed to over $500, while a functional battery to operate it can cost upwards of $1,000. A fundamental tool for human survival has been rendered an unattainable luxury, leaving millions to bake in the dark.

In the vocabulary of this war, I am considered one of the lucky ones. When the heavy bombardment began, my family and I lost our home in the initial waves of destruction, in February 2024. After months of uncertainty, we eventually managed to secure a rented, damaged house in al-Rimal neighbourhood in Gaza City—which, despite being damaged, at least gives us solid walls and a roof over our heads. Yet, for over a month now, sleep has become an impossibility for me.

​Every night follows the exact same agonising rhythm. Fifteen minutes after I lay my head down on my worn cushion, the heat catches up with me. My skin begins to prickle, and within moments, I am drenched in sweat. The moisture quickly soaks through my clothes and saturates the thin floor mattress beneath me, rendering it hot and damp. Sleep cannot exist in these conditions. I am forced to get up from the floor and walk over to the living room window, pressing my face near the opening, desperately searching for a stray, moving breeze from the sea. Most of the time, the air outside remains flat, heavy, and warm.

​So, I sit by the window for hours, staring out into the pitch-black silence of al-Rimal, waiting for the night to end. But I am never alone in this vigil. Looking down into the dark streets, I can see the silhouettes of men and young people emerging from what remains of the surrounding buildings and nearby tent clusters. Driven out by the suffocating, oven-like heat of their indoor shelters, and unable to bear the restless cries of their sweltering wives and infants, they retreat to the edges of the dirt roads. They sit on the pavements in the dead of night, staring into nothingness. It is a profound, communal silence—a gathering of fathers and brothers bound together by the crushing weight of total helplessness, unable to provide even a gust of cool air to the people they love.

​We wait together for the Adhan, the call to dawn prayer. When the voice finally echoes through the ruins, people stream out toward al-Kinz Mosque, a makeshift, open-air mosque that has been set up among the debris. This dawn hour is the only fragment of the day when the temperature drops slightly, and the air feels remotely breathable.

Dawn Vigil

The moment the prayer concludes, the spiritual quiet dissolves into the heavy prose of survival. The conversation among neighbours never varies; everyone recounts, with exhausting detail, how they managed to endure the furnace of the previous night. My heart aches the most during these morning gatherings when I look at the elderly. Their frail bodies, already weakened by years of malnutrition, psychological trauma, and lack of medical care, can barely withstand the physical stress of this seasonal torment.

By 6am, the brief reprieve of the dawn is gone, and the sun begins its rapid ascent. This is when I usually run into the local children, including 13-year-old Kareem al-Shorafa. Kareem is bright, but his eyes carry the permanent shadows of chronic exhaustion. Every single morning, without fail, he greets me with the same update.

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He never tires of describing how he couldn’t sleep a single wink the night before. He tells me how the air inside his family’s tent felt like heavy steam, and how the mosquitoes and flies—unleashed in millions by the completely destroyed sewage networks and accumulated waste—swarmed their small living space. He shows me the angry, red welts left on his skin and tells me about the infants in the camp who cry continuously through the night, their small bodies covered in heat rashes and insect bites.

The desperate struggle to mitigate this heat dictates every hour of our daytime existence. Water, like air, has been weaponised. Whenever a freshwater filling truck manages to enter the district, the scene is immediate and frantic. Dozens of exhausted residents line up under the blinding sun, holding plastic jerrycans, waiting to secure just a few precious litres of drinking water.

Stolen Relief

But the children do not just wait for water to drink. They crowd around the sides of the truck, looking up at the driver with flushed faces and sticky hair, begging him to splash a few drops of water directly over their heads. When the truck finally drives away, you can see the children lingering, laughing, and playing in the tiny mud puddles left behind on the scorched ground. It is a heartbreaking sight—watching children try to extract a fleeting moment of childhood and cooling relief from a patch of wet dirt.

​When Western academics and policymakers discuss “climate injustice” or “environmental racism,” they often speak in abstract, future-oriented terms. They look at carbon footprints, rising sea levels projected for the next half-century, and international treaties. But if you want to understand the true, raw definition of climate injustice, you must look at Gaza.

The global climate crisis is real, and it is driving temperatures up across the Mediterranean basin. But in Gaza, this environmental reality is filtered through a brutal, man-made matrix of siege and destruction. The population of Gaza did not cause global warming; we do not have heavy carbon industries or sprawling factories. Yet, we are paying the highest price for a changing climate because a foreign military power has systematically stripped us of our infrastructure, our power grid, our roofs, and our civilian tools for adaptation.

When extreme heat hits London, Paris, or Berlin, it is a severe meteorological event that triggers state-funded cooling centres, public health interventions, and systemic adjustments. When that same heat hits the Gaza Strip, it serves as an amplifier of an ongoing genocide. It turns tents into kilns, deprives the vulnerable of sleep, accelerates the spread of disease through stagnant waste, and turns the simple act of breathing into a daily battle for survival. The world must realise that the siege does not only stop food, medicine, and building materials from entering Gaza; it stops the air itself.

2 July 2026 marks the first anniversary of the martyrdom of Dr. Marwan Al-Sultan, one of Gaza’s most respected medical and academic figures. He was the Director of the Indonesian Hospital, but he was far more than his title. He was one of northern Gaza’s most respected cardiologists, a university lecturer, a mentor to generations, and a man whose life was devoted to serving his community.

Dr. Al-Sultan was assassinated when an Israeli missile was fired into the apartment in Gaza City where he and his extended family were staying after being displaced from northern Gaza. His wife, his sister, his daughter Lamis, and his son-in-law Mohammed were also killed in the attack.

His family says the Israeli airstrike “precisely” hit the apartment block where Dr. Al-Sultan and his relatives were staying. They believe he was deliberately targeted in the Israeli airstrike that killed him. His surviving daughter, Lubna, said the strike specifically targeted the room her father was in. “All the rooms were fine except for his; the missile hit it precisely,” she said.

During Israel’s war on Gaza, Dr. Al-Sultan became one of the leading voices documenting the collapse of Gaza’s healthcare system. As Director of the Indonesian Hospital in northern Gaza, he continued working despite repeated Israeli attacks on hospitals, severe shortages of medicine and fuel, and the overwhelming number of wounded patients arriving every day. While many medical workers were forced to flee or work under impossible conditions, he remained committed to caring for patients and speaking publicly about the humanitarian catastrophe unfolding around him. He worked tirelessly under unimaginable conditions, saving the injured without a single moment of rest.

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Dr. Al-Sultan’s son, Ahmed, who is studying medicine to continue his father’s path, said: “For the first few months of the war, we did not see him except for a few hours of the day because he was always at the hospital.” He added: “Until the last minute of his life, he did not leave his job. He paid for this dedication with his life.” Ahmed also said: “My father had been besieged at the Indonesian Hospital and also at Kamal Adwan Hospital many times, but he did not leave.”

Dr. Munir Al-Bursh, Director General of Gaza’s Ministry of Health, explained that losing Dr. Al-Sultan created a gap that cannot easily be filled. Gaza did not lose only an experienced cardiologist. It lost a mentor, a hospital leader, and one of the medical community’s most trusted reference points.

Beyond the Hospital

Dr. Al-Bursh recalled that despite the overwhelming responsibilities Dr. Al-Sultan carried, he always made time for others. No matter how difficult the circumstances were, he never allowed his workload to distance him from those who needed his guidance, support, or simply a conversation. Dr. Al-Bursh also remembered him as someone who built lasting relationships wherever he went. He was respected not only for his medical expertise, but also for his humility, kindness, and genuine concern for everyone around him.

Beyond the hospital, Dr. Al-Sultan was a devoted father who took great pride in his family. According to Dr. Al-Bursh, he often spoke proudly of his children and celebrated the values he had worked to instil in them.

He was my family’s neighbour in Jabalia and one of the people who helped shape my future. I still remember the day he visited our home after my twin sister, Amna, and I received our Tawjihi results. It was a Friday. I remember him smiling as he told me that he never really had free time, but that he always made time for moments like this because he felt it was his responsibility to share in our joy, encourage us, and help guide us toward the future.

For Dr. Al-Sultan, nurturing young people and helping them move toward their potential was inseparable from his sacred duty to his community. He came carrying gifts, congratulations, and, more importantly, reassurance. Like many students, I was overwhelmed by uncertainty about choosing a university major. He sat with us, smiling calmly, and told me: “We don’t look for titles; we look for purpose.”

Those words have stayed with me ever since.

Encouraging Others

He encouraged me to study English language and literature because he believed language could become a bridge between Gaza and the world. He believed it had the power to carry Gaza’s stories beyond its borders.

I also remember another conversation that revealed how deeply he loved Gaza. He shared with me that while he was abroad, he had been offered prestigious opportunities to teach and practise at world-renowned institutions such as Cambridge and Oxford. Yet he said “no” to the world and “yes” to Gaza. He chose to return to the besieged Gaza Strip, determined to help build our collective future instead of seeking personal glory abroad.

By choosing Gaza, he chose to share in every struggle. Every patient he treated, every academic lecture he delivered, and every life he saved was a brick laid in the foundation of his homeland. For him, building Gaza’s future mattered more than building an international career.

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Looking back today, I realise he was doing what he had always done: encouraging young people to believe they could make a difference through their own talents and passions. Today, as I stand on the verge of graduating with an excellent degree in English, I often find myself thinking back to that conversation in our living room years ago.

Dr. Marwan Al-Sultan encouraged me to choose this path because he believed language was more than a subject. It was a way to tell our stories, preserve our history, and carry Gaza’s voice beyond its borders. Writing about him now, one year after his assassination, is more than marking an anniversary. It is my way of honouring someone whose guidance helped shape my future.

His Legacy

The Israeli occupation ended Dr. Marwan Al-Sultan’s life, but it could not erase the impact he left behind. His students continue practising medicine, and his patients remember his compassion. They took his life, and they devastated our community, but they could never erase the profound sense of purpose he instilled in me. I carry his advice in every word I write. I do it to honour his memory, to give voice to his legacy, and to make him proud.

Dr. Al-Sultan’s death was not only a loss for his family, but for the whole of Gaza. He was one of only two remaining heart specialists in the territory, according to Healthcare Worker Watch, a Palestinian medical organisation.

The UN says that more than 1,400 healthcare workers have been killed in Gaza since the beginning of the war in October 2023. All of the directors of hospitals in northern Gaza have either been killed or detained by Israeli military forces. For example, the director of Kamal Adwan Hospital, Dr. Ahmed Al-Kahlout, and its acting director, Dr. Hussam Abu Safiya, are being held in an Israeli prison.

Dr. Marwan Al-Sultan’s life was taken, but his purpose remains. It remains in the hospitals he served, in the students he taught, in the patients he saved, in the family he raised, and in every person he encouraged to believe that their work could serve something greater than themselves. His assassination was meant to silence a doctor, a witness, and a leader. But one year later, his legacy continues to speak.

In the geography of catastrophe, Naser Abu-Taqia and Sireen Absi are more than just colleagues; they are a husband and wife who have turned their shared trauma into a sanctuary for others. Separated by borders—Naser still working on the frontlines in Gaza, and Sireen continuing her healing mission from Qatar—their bond is a testament to resilience.

When the bombs fell on their lives, they did not only lose their daughter, Aliyah; they lost the ground upon which their world was built. Yet, they chose to take their shattered pieces—Naser, the social worker, and Sireen, the psychologist—and build a lifeline for those left behind. This is the story of two healers who, across the miles of separation, found that the only way to survive the death of their world was to help others build a new one.

Their marriage, once defined by the quiet routines of domestic life in Gaza, has been redefined by the fire of war and the cruel reality of forced separation. To be married in a catastrophe is to be each other’s sole reality, yet Naser and Sireen now navigate this reality across continents. Despite the distance, they remain mirrors for one another’s pain. When Naser struggles with the city of memories in Gaza, it is Sireen’s clinical insight from Qatar that holds him back from the brink. When Sireen faces the agonising silence of a house without Aliyah, it is Naser’s voice from the field that provides the safety network she preaches to others.

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Their daughter, Aliyah, was more than just a daughter; she was Sireen’s world. Born in August 2021, the two-year-old girl with the thick glasses—which she wore like a second pair of eyes since she was ten months old—was the axis around which Sireen’s life revolved. “She was my leadership, my happiness, my safety,” Sireen recalls. When the war began, the terror wasn’t just for her own survival; it was the agony of hearing the bombs and wanting to shield her child inside her own body.

Aliyah’s Glasses

​While they were displaced in Rafah, the night of 3 February 2024 began with a whisper. Aliyah, tired and wanting to sleep, told her mother, “Mom, I want to sleep.” Sireen tucked her in, and just before she drifted off herself, she reached out to hold Aliyah’s small hand, whispering, “You are my safety, my love.” It was a final, haunting promise of protection in a world that had become a slaughterhouse.

​She woke up to the sound of Naser’s weeping. They had been bombed. Sireen’s first instinct, even through the haze of shrapnel wounds, a fractured skull, and a ruptured spleen, was not for her own survival, but for her daughter. When Naser brought Aliyah to her, Sireen saw the girl’s limbs hanging limp. She knew. Looking towards the sky, she whispered, “Oh God, accept her from me.”

​The following days were a blur of hospitals, surgeries, and a false hope that nearly broke her. For four days, family members tried to shield Sireen from the truth, telling her Aliyah was fine but resting. But a mother’s intuition is a powerful, dangerous thing. When she finally confronted the reality, Naser confirmed the impossible: the girl who had asked for sleep had simply never woken up.

​Amidst the ruins of their home, rescue workers spent ten days digging through the rubble, driven by a desperate mission: to find Aliyah’s glasses. They found them. Today, Sireen keeps those glasses close—the only physical tether left to the child who was her entire world. “It is agonising to look at them,” she says, “but I refuse to forget.”

Grief Unburied

​For Sireen, this grief is not a quiet, private martyrdom; it is a battle for sanity. Having seen the long-term physical toll that repressed grief takes on Palestinians—the mystery illnesses that plague those who choose to stay strong rather than weep—she refuses to suppress her pain. “I don’t want to bring back the dead,” she says. “But I refuse to live a lie. If I need to scream, I scream. If I need to weep, I weep. We have been taught to believe that patience means silence. That is a lie. True resilience is acknowledging that the pain is real, that it is burning coal in your chest, and choosing to walk through the fire anyway.”

​For both, the barrier between healer and patient vanished on 3 February 2024. The loss of their daughter forced a radical transformation in their work. Naser defines the lone survivor not just as one who escaped death in Gaza, but as one who carries an entire city of ghosts inside their mind.

“My job isn’t to fix them with pity,” Naser asserts from the field. “My job is to be the person who listens without judgement. I don’t believe in ‘at least you are better than others.’ My job is to walk with them through that city of pain.”

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​After being evacuated to Qatar for medical care, Sireen transformed her personal recovery into a professional mission. She currently works on the front lines of the displacement crisis, providing psychological support to the nearly 1,700 survivors who have been evacuated from Gaza to Qatar.

“When I meet these survivors, I don’t see cases or statistics,” Sireen says from Doha. “I see a mirror of my own journey. Many of them arrive in a state of total emotional anaesthesia. My role is to help them navigate this, to show them that we can weep for our children, our homes, and our city, and yet find the strength to breathe again.”

By helping those who, like her, have been forced to leave their lives behind, she is creating a community of recovery—a bridge between the Gaza that was lost and the future they are all trying to build in exile.

Surviving Together

​Living across different worlds, the couple observes a paradox: the lone survivor often fluctuates between isolation and a desperate need for connection. Whether in a shelter in Gaza or a community centre in Doha, they see survivors who become addicted to numbing agents just to escape the silence of their own minds. Yet, when Sireen reveals she is also a survivor, that she too lost her daughter, the barrier crumbles. She becomes a living model of recovery, proving to those she treats that it is possible to be broken and still be functional.

The work they do is poignant. Children in Gaza have been forced into adulthood prematurely. Naser focuses on creating safe spaces in the shelters, while Sireen provides the psychological frameworks to decode their pain. “They have been forced to take on responsibilities way beyond their years,” Naser reflects from Gaza. “When you sit with a child, you are not just looking at a patient; you are looking at a survivor who is trying to figure out why the world is so cruel.”

​Naser and Sireen emphasise that survivor’s guilt is the silent killer. “They ask, ‘Why was I spared?’” Naser explains. “Our job is to help them reframe this. We tell them: ‘You were spared not to live in guilt, but to carry the story of those who were lost.’” They argue that Palestinian society must stop sanctifying grief—stop making martyrs of those who can no longer function. True resilience, they argue, is using the pain as fuel for living.

​Naser and Sireen do not claim to be heroes; they claim to be survivors who have decided their suffering will not be their only identity. “We are not here to cry forever,” Sireen concludes from Doha. “We are here to acknowledge that we were broken, and that in the process of putting the pieces back together, we became something new.” As a husband and wife separated by borders, they are flourishing in the ruins, proving that love and purpose are the only true antidotes to the darkness of war.

After nearly two years of genocide, many people outside Gaza continue to ask the same question: How are Palestinians still standing?

How can a mother who has buried her children continue caring for those around her? How can a man who has lost his home, livelihood and family still speak about hope? How can a child who has survived air strikes, displacement and starvation still dream of becoming a doctor, a teacher or a journalist?

The answer lies in something Western psychology has never fully understood: faith.

Experts tell the world that Gaza is suffering from a mental health crisis. They measure trauma levels, calculate rates of depression and anxiety, and warn of the long-term psychological consequences of genocide. They produce graphs, surveys and diagnoses in an attempt to explain how Palestinians continue to live amid horrors that would shatter most human beings.

The dominant schools of psychology were largely developed in secular Western societies where religion has been pushed to the margins of public life. As a result, many psychologists view faith as merely one variable among many that can help individuals manage stress.

When Western psychologists look at Gaza, they often see a population drowning in trauma. They search for symptoms and disorders. They speak the language of pathology.

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But many Palestinians do not understand their suffering through the language of pathology. They understand it through the language of meaning.

A mother whose child has been killed does not necessarily ask, “How do I recover from this trauma?” She may ask, instead, “How do I remain patient? Ya Allah, please provide me with strength.”

A father who has lost his home may not ask, “How do I manage my anxiety?” He may ask, instead, “O Allah, grant me patience. How could everything I spent years building disappear in an instant?”

A child who has survived an air strike may not speak about post-traumatic stress disorder. He may speak about injustice. These are not semantic differences. They reveal entirely different understandings of human suffering.

Restoring ‘Normality’

Western psychology is built around the individual. Palestinian existence, by contrast, is deeply collective. Western psychology often assumes that healing means restoring an individual to a previous state of normality. But what is normality in Gaza? What previous state are people supposed to return to? There is no “before” for many Palestinians. Violence is not an interruption of ordinary life. For generations, it has been woven into ordinary life itself.

The frameworks designed to treat trauma after a car accident or a natural disaster struggle to make sense of a society living under permanent siege.

The diagnosis itself begins to fail. The concept of post-traumatic stress disorder assumes that trauma happened in the past. The word “post” matters. In Gaza, there is no post.

The bombing has not ended. The displacement has not ended. The stress has not ended.

Every new atrocity reopens every previous wound. Yet despite this reality, Palestinians continue to endure.

This endurance is frequently described by outsiders as resilience. But even resilience can be a misleading word. It suggests an individual psychological characteristic, something possessed by exceptional people.

What sustains Gaza is not merely resilience. It is conviction. The conviction that suffering is not meaningless. The conviction that injustice does not erase truth. The conviction that human dignity survives even when homes, schools and hospitals do not.

Faith gives suffering a moral context. It does not make suffering easier. It does not remove grief. It does not eliminate fear. But it gives people the strength to endure it.

Faith as Meaning

For Palestinians, faith is not the opposite of grief. It is what allows grief to coexist with purpose.

Perhaps this is what many outside Gaza struggle to understand. The Quran anticipated the human experience of fear, hunger, loss of wealth, loss of loved ones, and the destruction of all that people cultivate: “We will surely test you with something of fear and hunger and loss of wealth, lives, and fruits. But give glad tidings to the patient.”

For many Palestinians, this verse is not simply read—it is lived. It gives language to experiences that no clinical diagnosis can fully contain. When homes become rubble, when families disappear, when hunger becomes routine, many do not see themselves as abandoned by God. They see themselves enduring a trial that God Himself described, one that calls not for despair but for sabr—steadfast patience rooted in faith. Their tears are real, their grief is overwhelming, but so is their conviction that every loss is witnessed by the One who promised that suffering is never without meaning.

This is why, amid unimaginable devastation, Gazans so often respond with Alhamdulillah, Hasbunallahu wa ni’mal wakeel, or Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un. These are not expressions of indifference to pain. They are declarations that suffering has not severed their relationship with God, nor their conviction that justice ultimately belongs to Him.

Anyone who has lived through Gaza knows that faith does not stop people from crying, despairing or breaking down. But it prevents suffering from becoming meaningless.

The Missing Dimension

This is what many international observers miss. They encounter people who have lost entire families and are astonished to hear them speak of gratitude to God. They hear survivors quoting the Quran amid devastation and interpret it as denial. They see people praying beside the rubble of their homes and assume religion is merely helping them cope.

What they fail to understand is that faith is not a psychological escape from reality. For many Palestinians, it is reality. It shapes how Palestinians understand life, death, justice and responsibility.

Faith offers something that no therapeutic framework can provide: a moral explanation for endurance. It tells people that their suffering is seen, even when the world refuses to see it. It tells them that justice exists, even when earthly justice appears impossible. It tells them that death is a relief in Gaza when life seems like hell.

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For a people witnessing entire bloodlines disappear, these beliefs are not abstract theological concepts. They are sources of psychological survival.

This is not something that can be measured through surveys or quantified through mental health indicators. Yet it may be one of the most important factors explaining why Gaza has not broken.

The tragedy is that much of the international discussion about Palestinian mental health treats faith as a footnote. Experts analyse symptoms while ignoring meaning. They study despair while overlooking belief. They count trauma while failing to understand what enables people to live with it.

As a result, Palestinians are often portrayed as damaged people in need of treatment rather than human beings drawing strength from traditions, communities and beliefs that have sustained them through generations of dispossession.

The world looks at Gaza and asks how much suffering a human being can endure. Palestinians ask a different question: what is required of us despite that suffering?

The answer is often found not in psychology textbooks but in prayer, community, memory and faith. Until Western psychology learns to take those things seriously, it will continue to misunderstand Gaza. It will continue to catalogue our wounds while remaining blind to the source of our strength.