From Teenager to Survivor in Gaza

A young life reshaped by war, where survival replaced dreams and fear became normal.

Photograph: Anas-Mohammed / Shutterstock.com

War kills everything.
War kills everything.
War kills everything.

I remember walking home from the gym one night. I felt calm, awake, and full of quiet energy. The moon was bright, the stars were clear, and the sky felt endless. In that moment, I wondered how anyone could feel depressed. Life felt full of reasons to keep going.

I was sixteen.

Just days later, life lost its meaning.

October 7—the day everything changed.

That morning, I woke up and got ready for school like any other day. Then the silence shattered. The sound of rockets filled the sky. I stood frozen, staring out the window, unable to understand what I was seeing.

Minutes later, the news began to speak about Gaza and Israel.

That was the moment I knew: nothing would ever be the same.

Shattered Life

A few weeks into the war, I saw my father sitting on the ground in the dark, the radio playing softly beside him. I asked, “What are you thinking about? When will it be over?”

He said nothing.

Slowly, the shock turned into understanding. I sat on my bed, listening to explosions around us. I felt helpless and angry. I wanted my old life back—school, friends, the beach, the gym.

I was only sixteen.
Why did I have to go through this?

But as the months passed, my priorities changed.

As the only son, survival became my responsibility. If I didn’t chase the water truck that came once a week, my family would go thirsty. If I didn’t carry heavy containers up four floors, we would have nothing to use. I chopped wood, filled gas cylinders, and searched daily for basic necessities.

Everything I once cared about became meaningless.

Survival replaced dreams.

Survival Mode

After a year and a half, I began to adapt. But evacuation came again and again. Nothing is more terrifying than being forced to leave your home. Each time, the fear grew deeper.

After two years, fear became normal. Safety became a distant memory. What mattered was no longer how I felt—but what I did.

Then came starvation.

Food stopped entering Gaza. Our supplies ran out faster than expected. Soon, the only option left was going to so-called “humanitarian aid centres”—places that felt anything but humane.

I thought I was prepared for anything. I had seen bodies in the air. I had slept through explosions. I had lost people I loved. I had already given up every dream.

But I had never truly felt hunger.

Worse than hunger was seeing my family hungry.

Lost Humanity

Snipers. Tanks. Burning sun. Dust in the air. Thousands of people waiting.

That was my first image of the aid centre.

When the gates opened, everyone ran.

I ran too.

What happened next is mostly gone from my memory. I wasn’t injured, but only fragments remain: a man falling, gunshots, frozen faces, wide eyes, heavy breathing.

For a moment, everything went silent. It felt like I was watching myself from far away. A quiet voice guided me forward until I found myself holding two kilos of rice and one kilo of sugar.

I didn’t even remember taking them.

I felt ashamed of what we had become—but also amazed at what the human mind can do. It can shut down emotion, shut down thought, and turn a person into a tool for survival.

Nothing is more brutal than that moment.

It raises a question:

What makes us human?
The mind?
The heart?
The spirit?

In those moments, none of it mattered.

Not human

For a brief time, we were not human.
We were driven only by instinct.

After that day, something changed inside me. A war machine replaced the boy I used to be. A part of my humanity disappeared.

The truth of Gaza is this: people don’t just die quickly—they die slowly too. War reduces human lives to numbers.

Now I am nineteen.

After three years, the war has ended.

But at what cost?

I lost ambition.
I lost dreams.
I lost meaning.
I lost parts of myself.

And now the cage is open,
but the bird no longer knows how to fly.

***

Mohammed Abu Qamar is a Palestinian writer based in Gaza, documenting life under siege through stories of resilience, loss, and survival.