Washington Report on Middle East Affairs, March/April 2025, pp. 24-25
Daily Life and Shattered Dreams in Gaza—Young Writers Share Their Stories
By Hend Salama Abo Helow
WITH EVERY SUNRISE, after a harrowing night echoing with unabating explosions, we renew our unyielding grip on life. We gather our shattered nerves, sweep up the shards of glass that missiles scattered over the night, and try to piece together an optimistic beginning to a day that feels as long as a year, a day we hope will be free of massacres, loss and cries for help. We dream of securing food, filling water tanks, and, above all, avoiding sudden evacuation orders. But reality continues to stun us.
Let me describe a pretty typical day. In the early morning, my brother Montser, who is in his 20s, ventures out in search of daily essentials in markets whose shelves are bare. My father works tirelessly, filling water tanks; his grandchildren are nearby, eager for a moment of play, no matter how brief. Inevitably, he will console neighbors who are mourning loved ones. My mother cleans flour infested with worms; we will eat the bread she bakes and pretend it is fine—a psychological trick, but what else can we do? My older sister Doaa, a wife and mother, desperately plans how to secure our meal for the day, while her children are busy planting onion, spinach and thyme seeds they found, convinced that by planting them, they could stave off the threat of starvation.
We are living a humanitarian crisis. Food supplies are dwindling, leaving the elderly to suffer from malnutrition and babies to starve as formula milk remains inaccessible. Patients with celiac disease, deprived of gluten-free diets, face hypotension, severe weight loss and other consequences. Similarly, the conditions of patients with chronic diseases are significantly deteriorating due to the lack of an adequate diet of fresh fruit and vegetables. Instead, we eat canned food, beans and peas full of preservatives, leading to a higher risk for cancer.
My 30-year-old brother Mahmoud prepares to bake bread, a task he has taken on during the war. But we’ve run out of firewood, forcing him to join endless queues at bakeries that now rely on firewood, too, instead of gas. Bakeries feed but also are death traps: people have been trampled to death in desperate crowds and bombed, too. When Mahmoud comes home with bread, its aroma bitterly pinched the hungry stomachs of our neighbors. So we share what little we have with them.
I was studying for my online cardiovascular system exam in medical school when an airstrike hit nearby. Everything around me shook violently, and the suffocating stench of gunpowder filled the air. I could barely hear my own voice calling out, “is everyone OK?” The cries of people drowned out even the deafening blasts.
The strike was a massacre. A bustling area in our neighborhood—a place where people sought necessities or exchanged fleeting smiles—was reduced to rubble. A group of youths in their early 20s, exhausted from 420 days of relentless struggle, had gathered to find solace in each other’s company. A heinous airstrike ended their lives in an instant, ripping through their bodies and scattering their remains.
Thirty martyrs. Dozens of injuries. Among them were two women returning home with loaves of bread for their children. Those loaves, soaked in blood and padded with flesh, told a story too cruel to bear. How could a child process such a tragic link between bread and death?
A little girl in a pink dress with long hair was found among the rubble. She was recognized only by her dress, torn and bloodied. I choose to remember her as she was in photographs, a little girl with a sweet smile, not the broken body we retrieved.
My brothers and neighbors rushed to help, but there is little they could do beyond collecting scattered remains from the streets. Stray cats and dogs gnaw at the flesh of those who had once cared for them.
Montser, who had been at the market minutes before the strike, returns home horrified, his face pale, his soul scarred forever. Though he survived physically, the memories will haunt him for life.
The shrapnel didn’t just pierce bodies—it tore through displaced families’ tents, causing fatal injuries, puncturing water tanks like those my father had spent his morning filling. In an instant, what little water we had is gone. This feels more like collateral damage compared to the carnage committed, yet the loss could be mortal since we will be deprived of water for weeks and maybe months.
In a day so full of anguish, my nephews and nieces fervently begin running, stumbling into each other when the candy floss peddler comes from afar, playing children’s songs. It is an evocative ritual, reminding us of the peace of mind we once enjoyed and which brought a beam of hope for a brighter tomorrow. The cotton candy seller was defying the gruesome reality in his own way, roaming our neighborhood alleys and bringing smiles to the faces of children who had been forced to grow beyond their years. Maybe it was Santa’s gift for the new year, but my only wish is a permanent ceasefire.
Later I juggle my studies, trying to focus. Around 4:00 p.m., a strange sound seeped into the air. The sound of ululations, clapping and traditional Palestinian songs echoed in the neighborhood. Someone was getting married! An eyewitness said, “the tent was simply decorated, the bride was wearing the traditional thobe, and the families of the couples were ecstatic. A feeling of triumphant joy was hovering in the corners, distracting us from what we were weary of. We were longing for such joy.”
My feelings were mixed: I admired my people’s resilience and hope, yet I couldn’t reconcile it with the morning massacre.
By evening, my nephew Ahmed and I are standing in the edge of the kitchen, trying to get a reliable internet connection. Ahmed turned 11-years-old during the genocide. Suddenly the window shatters and missile-pierced walls frame a red glow that blinds us. The menacing sound of a drone buzzes in the background. I think another strike will soon follow and crouch, shielding Ahmed as best as I can, employing the safety instructions I’ve learned, even though I know they would serve only the bare minimum of protection. However, what follows isn’t a strike but rather a radiant sunset.
By midnight, rain pours heavily. All I can think about are the displaced families in nylon and plastic makeshift tents, their shelters sinking into the sand, their belongings strewn by the gusting wind, leaving them stranded with no salvation in sight, suffering the night’s frost, hunger and loss. One neighbor cries out, “God, I beg you, stop the rain. We are drowning.”
We invite them into our partially damaged home, but they refuse. “Death is more honorable than this life,” one replies. My mother tries to explain: “it is just the sky crying its heart out after witnessing our unbearable suffering for so long. God doesn’t mean to cause any harm.”
Hend Salama Abo Helow is a medical student, researcher and writer. In 2017, she served as a student ambassador for UNRWA, and she has represented Save the Children at several conferences, advocating for children’s rights and humanitarian causes.
