Words Instead of Wounds: Writing as Survival in Gaza

When survival consumes every hour and silence serves the oppressor, putting words on the page becomes both a duty and a form of defiance.

Palestinian fishermen collect their nets on the Gaza shore. (Photo: UN/Shareef Sarhan)

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.

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.

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.