A land under siege
Gaza Is being starved, bombed, and forgotten.
Nearly two years of relentless war has shattered homes, families, and hope. Two million people – half of them children – are living in tents, under siege, without food, electricity, or medical care. I am one of them. This is my story.
A mother in the middle of war
I’m a 29-year-old woman from Gaza. Like so many others, I have been displaced time and time again. I’m now in western Gaza City. Israel’s army is advancing. The area has become dangerous. The bombardment has become non-stop.
I’m a mother of two young daughters. They are four and five years old. And I’m five months pregnant with my third child. But this pregnancy is nothing like the others.
There’s no joy.
No preparation.
No peace.
I carry this child in a body weakened by hunger, exhaustion, and fear. In a heart that is breaking. In a land that no longer feels alive. I am a mother. And I'm scared.
Two years of darkness
We haven’t seen light in two years.
We live in complete darkness – literally. There is no electricity. No flashlights. No batteries. To charge my cellphone, I pay a neighbour one shekel to use their solar power.
We fear the bombs.
We fear the stray dogs that roam near the tents.
We fear the night itself.
But the darkness is more than physical. It’s emotional. It’s spiritual. We live without light, without hope, and without safety.
Starving to death
This war is not only killing us with bombs. It is slowly starving us to death.
My husband waits in endless lines for hours hoping for food aid. Often, he returns empty-handed – or injured.
My daughters cry for things I can’t give them: An apple. A piece of bread. A drop of milk.
It has been months since we had a full meal. No flour. No vegetables. No meat. Sometimes five of us share one can of beans. Other days, we survive on murky water and stale bread.
Pregnant without care or hope
I am pregnant and displaced. I lived in Jabalia in northern Gaza. My house was bombed in the war and turned into rubble.
My body is tired. My spirit is crushed.
There are no prenatal checkups. No safe hospital. No medicine. No doctor.
I don’t know if I’ll survive childbirth. I don’t know if my baby will survive birth.
I don’t even know if I’ll survive tonight.
Washing clothes with bleeding hands
There’s no electricity. No washing machine. No steady water supply.
I wash everything by hand: clothes, blankets, reusable diapers.
The water is dirty. The soap is nearly gone. The stains stay no matter how hard I scrub.
Cooking is also dangerous. I cook with firewood because we have no gas or power. One day, my hand caught fire. I had only cold, dirty water to rinse it. No ointment. No bandage. The burn is still inflamed. But I keep using that hand – because I have no choice.
A prayer with every line of laundry
Despite the pain, I keep going – because my daughters need clean clothes. Because I refuse to let them live in filth.
Every time I hang up the laundry, I whisper a prayer: “Please, don’t bomb us again.”
Because I’m tired of washing away blood, ashes, and dirt.
This laundry has become a symbol of my life: exhausting, repetitive, and without end.
Cleanliness is a forgotten luxury
There’s no water to bathe. No sanitary pads. No hygiene products.
My daughters have skin rashes and open sores. I treat them with salt water and desperation.
My hands are cracked and bleeding. My fingers are swollen from pain.
My daughter’s hair still smells like smoke, and I can’t wash it the way she used to ask before the war.
We sleep not knowing if we’ll wake up
We sleep holding our daughters tight, whispering goodbyes with every breath.
The drones never leave.
The bombing never stops.
The fear never fades.
Sometimes, I wake up to my daughters’ screams.
My husband no longer smiles. I haven’t laughed in weeks.
We count the names of those who survived – and we cry for those who didn’t.
Hunger is the slowest, most silent death
Death is everywhere.
But hunger is the slowest, most painful death of all.
It kills us silently. Without sound. Without notice.
Hope itself has begun to fade.
I’m writing to be heard, not pitied
I’m not writing this for pity. I’m writing this to be heard.
I am a mother trying to survive.
I live in a tent.
I cook over firewood.
I wash with burned hands.
Every day, I carry the weight of infection, fear, hunger, pregnancy, and grief.
We are surrounded by danger, illness, and silence.
And yet, I’m still holding on.
Will I be there to welcome my baby?
I’m not sure how I’ll greet this baby.
I don’t know how I’ll feed it.
I’m not even sure I’ll be alive when it comes.
A final plea: Don’t let Gaza fall silent
In Gaza, I am just one voice among thousands of women.
Each has a story more painful than the next.
Stories that deserve to be told.
We are not asking for luxury.
We are not asking for comfort.
We are asking for life.
Please – keep our children safe.
Protect our dignity.
Save the souls still crying in the dark…
Before Gaza falls into utter silence.
Edited by Eric Reidy.
