Hope in Resistance

A refugee camp in Gaza (source: Walaa Reada).

Part four of the Jasmine Flower of Gaza series

The Weight of Helplessness

Today, someone fainted in front of me from hunger. I rushed to help — it’s instinct, it’s who I am. But I had nothing to give. No food, no sugar, not even water.

I felt powerless in a way I never have before.

As a nurse, I was trained to act, to save lives. But here, survival depends on miracles. Not medicine.

I spent hours today just trying to keep my mind busy — washing a blanket with gray water, fixing the tent’s corner, sweeping away sand. Small acts to feel some control.

But nothing feels normal anymore.

– Walaa from Gaza

Letter to the West

Tell me, how are things in your country?

[In Gaza] I woke up an hour ago to the sound of bombing and planes.

The weather is humid.

We suffer from occupation, death, hunger and traders.

We want nothing but to live with some dignity. We have no affiliation with anyone.

We are the ones who die, are bombed, are killed, and our lives are stolen in cold blood.

It's painful that our only concern is food, our minds have become dull.

The jungle we live in is where the strong rule the weak.

Fear has become our constant companion.

I am afraid to go out into the street, to gangs, killing and kidnapping.

I really miss security...

At least [in the West] you don't live in war.

You don't know the meaning of death.

Remember you're safe and not in conflict.

You do not feel hungry and homeless.

I hope you don't taste the pain of loss.

Because I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

May you always be faithful to what I miss.

[Editor's note: Despite everything that has happened, Palestinians do not have hate in their hearts for the West. Like all liberation struggles, the Palestinian drive for self-determination is powered by humanitarian concerns and a desire to better the lives of their people. By contrast, genocide, dispossession, and imperialist war are propped up by a distain for other cultures. Much of the violent caricatures attributed to the Arab peoples are merely a projection of a pervasive settler-colonial mindset in the West. Peace can be made easier once the Western nations confront this harsh reality.]

Assigned a Number

A day like any other, full of news of loss, death, and the anguish of separation. Full of tears, nothing new except the pain, each time becoming more difficult. As for me, I have begun to think about how my end will be, when, and where. Will I die without having eaten my favorite meal? Will I die with my stomach empty? Will I leave this life without having enjoyed even a bit of comfort inside a house with walls and a roof? What is all this injustice and cruelty? Humans are so cheap here in Gaza, cheaper than a bag of flour and cheaper than a kilo of sugar.

Oh my God, can a person with his life, dreams, and future be much cheaper than a liter of oil? I am almost going crazy. I am not just a number. I am a human being with rights, duties, dreams, and ambitions. I breathe, think, speak, and see those around me. Is it conceivable that I am just a number in this miserable part of the world when I see people competing to obtain some crumbs of aid that are equivalent to a soul here, and bodies are scattered everywhere, and people transcend all of that and walk on the remains as if they are nothing in order to obtain some flour.  And some rice to feed their children. Here my mind stops thinking and I become paralyzed.

A state of misery and lack of desire for anything. What did we do to deserve all this pain and live as numbers at a bar?

I forgot myself and forgot that I had dreams and that I aspired to obtain a doctorate.

I content myself with writing because I've despaired and all of that has become pointless.

Since childhood I have had a tendency to help people. I loved this [nursing] profession and looked at nurses as doves of peace. I studied and worked hard until I got what I wanted. I had hoped that my family and my mother would see me as hardworking, persistent and strong-willed. You helped many and were a caring hand to many. Because we are a bereaved people and always in conflict, the sector needs nursing.

[Editor's note: Medical personnel regarded highly in Palestine. You can tell a lot about a society by which professions they admire. As a point of comparison, the jingoistic cultures of the US and Israel worship military servicemen and are more neglectful of medical services. The devaluation of life is often forced upon occupied peoples of the Global South in order to break their spirit. Fighting against this form of psychological warfare is key to national survival.]

The Beautiful Soul of Gaza

Everything is expensive. I think air would be sold if it could.

I see that neither money nor people have any value here.

I went out this morning to sit on the beach crowded with betrayal, hoping to find some comfort.

Unfortunately, no one even looks at us as human beings.

I have the right to live freely.

I suffer from anemia because I do not eat good food.

Disease is tearing us apart.

Even displacement is different. We walk long distances on foot in the scorching sun without water, food, or any necessities.

I believe that the injustice we are going through has not happened to anyone, but what makes us patient in this life is that it will end.

This ordeal taught me patience, strength and confrontation.

Gaza is beautiful but they destroyed it.

Every night I go to my pictures and pictures of my home and my life before the war and I choke on tears because nothing will come back.

The faces and places are different.

This is the hope space for me in my past life.

Although it was simple, it meant life to me.

We are sons of glory despite everything we go through.

We were burdened with worries at a young age. We started burning wood and carrying water from long distances on foot.

Our life was beautiful and now we are without anything. We lack nature, flowers and rain.

Now there are no houses, no trees, no flowers, no signs of life, only bombing and destruction.

Now the sun is eating away at our bodies.

But I remember it in my mind and heart. I have not forgotten the comfort I enjoyed.

The Heart of Danger

I live in the heart of danger, but I did not give up. I have an inner feeling that one day I will have that security. I think I am better than others I think I'm better than others, at least I find alternatives to stay alive. Don't be fooled by this stability, but we are mentally ill. The feeling of apathy has become very apparent on us.

Maybe this is a result of the shock.

The news of death no longer tempts me or moves anything inside me. It is a very normal thing. Scenes of destruction and everything became normal. We have been living in these conditions for two years. When the news of death was something big and left an impact on me and made me learn, now nothing is moving inside me. I am in a state of paralysis. When the sound of the bombing made me scream loudly, and sometimes I would have convulsions, especially when a place near the school where I was displaced was targeted, and there were shrapnel and injuries everywhere.

Then I remember I almost lost my mind.

I was forced to get up and provide first aid to the children and the injured. I have never forgotten that big black cloud and the stones and shrapnel and blood everywhere. I will never forget. When a shrapnel would have harmed my life if it weren't for God's mercy. I have never forgotten the cup of coffee that was in my hand when the bombing happened and how it flew a long distance. We did not forget, but we adapted. The events became more bloody, more destructive, and more tragic.

When Hope Becomes Resistance

I saw a flower growing through the rubble today. A single, small flower — yellow and bright, in the middle of all this destruction.

It reminded me that even here, life still pushes forward.

We haven’t received aid in over a week. My phone battery is dying. My body is tired. But somehow, I still wake up each day and try again.

Sometimes, just staying alive here feels like an act of resistance.

And I will resist. Not with weapons, but with my voice, my care, and my hope.

Message from the Author and Editor

I love writing very much and I have always dreamed of writing a book.

I was always first in writing during my studies, reciting poetry and writing short stories.

These were my writings, and they came from the heart of the suffering in light of the power outage, the internet outage, and all means. Writing always saved me and entertained me.

– Walaa from Gaza