By Sumaya Yasser Saleh
4 August 2025 – A tent
I write these words from a tent in the al-Nasr neighbourhood of Gaza City. Me and my family – my husband, our two sons, and two daughters – came here after being displaced in mid-May from Jabalia – it was the fifth time.
Israel has now all but erased Jabalia – a refugee camp in the far north of Gaza – from the map. Nothing remains of home – just ghosts of what used to be.
Now, we live with nylon walls that breathe dust and cold, and a ceiling that trembles with every drone that hovers overhead. There is no safety in Gaza. Just waiting for the next strike.
There is no water. No food. No electricity. Yesterday, we couldn’t find a single kilo of flour.
Two days ago, Muhammad, my husband’s nephew, was killed while searching for food. He was only 15. A child with a plastic bag in his hand and an empty stomach. He only wanted to feed his family. He said he’d be right back. But he didn’t return.
We used to see him often. Now, his absence fills the tent more than his presence ever did.
Sometimes I sit in silence and ask myself: What are we surviving for? Is this still life – or just an extended ending? I survived missiles and tanks and grief. But who am I now? I keep breathing, but I don’t feel alive. Is that still called survival?
Every night, I stare into the darkness – not to dream, but to endure. I no longer pray for miracles. I only ask for a morning where no one dies.
I think of all the pieces I lost. Places. Moments. People. Parts of myself. And I wonder – will I ever get them back? And if not, will what’s left of me be enough to build something new?
7 October 2023 – The flight that never was
I was meant to be leaving soon for a flight. I had received a scholarship to pursue a master’s degree in architecture in either the United States or Canada. An interview that day would determine the final details.
The future. A plan. Years of hidden struggle balancing university studies, family responsibilities, and the difficulties of life in Gaza under Israeli blockade had led to this moment.
Dreaming out loud in Gaza always felt dangerous because people have been forced to get used to loss and limitations, not ambition. So, I carried my hope of leaving Gaza as a secret, as if protecting it to keep it alive.
I sat there, listening to the silence after she hung up. My suitcase sat in the corner of my room, like a neglected witness. I never opened it again. And perhaps I never will.
I wanted to pursue a life where I could grow freely and one day give my children a peaceful future. But war came first. Unexpected, unapologetic, and loud. Missiles. Sirens.
My dream ended with a phone call from the coordinator of the scholarship who told me everything had been suspended indefinitely. I sat there, listening to the silence after she hung up. My suitcase sat in the corner of my room, like a neglected witness. I never opened it again. And perhaps I never will.
Why did I ever think I was allowed to leave? Why does this place clip every wing before it flies? Did I dream too big, or in the wrong language?
December 2023 – The tank
We had already been displaced once from our home in Jabalia. Now, a tank stood outside our relative’s house in the al-Sinaa neighbourhood of Gaza City, where we had taken refuge. The tank was not moving or communicating. Its silence seemed louder than conflict.
We held our breath more than once. My father said quietly, “We’ll escape from the back.” I yelled, “They will kill us!” But we fled.
I recall the air slicing my throat when I breathed too quickly. Bullets flew. We survived. My body did. My soul did not. I have not met her since.
I am not brave. I am broken in silence. No one sees the version of me I left in that alley. What if survival means forgetting how to feel safe?
May 2024 – Unfinished stories
We returned to Jabalia after fleeing al-Sinaa. I purchased books to cope emotionally. A man laid them out on the pavement for sale. They were weathered, sun-faded, and piled besides old shoes and broken toys. To me, they were the only untouched stories in a place where everything else had been torn.
I started reading The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. I was the girl in the story, stealing pages to remain human. But I never completed it.
We were compelled to flee again. The bombing got closer. Our neighbour’s house was hit. Shrapnel fell into the streets nearby. We heard people screaming outside. Then the windows shattered. We didn’t wait for the second strike. We ran.
I left the book on the table, incomplete. Like everything in my life. I sometimes think that someone will find it and complete it for me.
Some stories are not meant to end. Some hearts close mid-sentence. I wonder if anyone ever found my bookmark and wondered who I was.
24 October 2024 – My 40th birthday
It used to be a day of happiness. Laughter, candies, and cousins filled the home. But this time, it was October. A month that started with conflict and didn’t end. Everyone was gone, dispersed across tents, shelters, and ruins. We were back in al-Nasr after being displaced from Jabalia for the third time.
How do you celebrate your birth in a month full of death?
I didn’t even inform anyone it was my birthday. What was the point? I lit a single candle. No cake. No songs. Only breath and silence. I said to myself, “Happy survival.” Then I blew it out before the flame could burn too long.
How do you celebrate your birth in a month full of death? There are no balloons inside shelters. Only quiet grief and stale air.
January 2025 – Returning home
The temporary ceasefire allowed us to go back. However, there was no home. Only rubble, ash, and echoes. I stood in my former chamber and muttered, “This is mine. It was safe.”
I grieved because I thought the house would wait for me. That it cared. It did not. We set up a tent in front of its ruins and stayed there until mid-May, when we were forced to flee again.
Jabalia was dead. Once, it held voices, warmth, and memory. But now it holds only silence and ash. Walls forget. Dust does not mourn. But I do.
They informed me that home is a place. I discovered that it is a memory, and memories don’t shield you from wind or bullets.
A memory – The rooftop
Before the war, the rooftop of our home in Jabalia was my sky. My father made it cozy. I was still in my 20s, and he believed I needed kindness in a world that had forgotten what tenderness entailed.
Every night, I looked up at the stars and asked the cosmos if I mattered. I had questions and wishes. Small and stupid ones: Will I have a child soon? Will I ever move from this house to a better one? Will I get to visit new places in my life? Will I accomplish something that matters?
They felt important back before. But then the sky vanished beneath the smoke. And so did I. I have not glanced up since.
What remains of a girl when even her silence is taken? What becomes of her when the stars no longer answer?
June 2025 – Eid al-Adha
There were no sheep, no prayers, no perfume for this holiday. Only blood on the grass. Human blood. Its hue remains in the air. Children used to wear white. Now they were watching smoke form circles above them.
Some of them did not even question what Eid was. As if it were simply another day of loss.
When blood replaces tradition, you start questioning God’s silence. I still believe, but I no longer expect miracles.
Hamadeh – Lost words
Hamadeh, my friend. Our final message was about hope. Always hope. He stated: “After the war, we’ll start a bookstore.”
Then a bullet entered his gut. His voice shifted. His words shrank. That was December last year.
I still check our old messages. Sometimes I can’t finish them. Sometimes I simply open the chat and gaze.
Some texts are graves. You read them to remember. Then you bury them again. I scroll up to find laughs. I scroll down to find quiet.
What do you say to someone who is no longer responding?
Some texts are graves. You read them to remember. Then you bury them again. I scroll up to find laughs. I scroll down to find quiet.
Final thoughts – Survival
Nobody labelled me a martyr. Nobody labelled me a victim. But I have lost items on a daily basis. Places. Moments. Pieces of me. They do not appear in reports. Their absence, however, lives inside me.
Each sentence I write is heavy. I carry them with guilt, affection, and something incomprehensible. Perhaps healing is not about forgetting. Perhaps it is about carrying the weight with greater elegance.
I am surviving. But I am not whole – and maybe that’s the true shape of survival. You keep walking, even if you no longer know who you are.
Edited by Eric Reidy.
–––––
The New Humanitarian puts quality, independent journalism at the service of the millions of people affected by humanitarian crises around the world. Find out more at www.thenewhumanitarian.org.
