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Daily Life and Shattered Dreams in Gaza—Writers Share Their Stories
By Rama Hussain Abu Amra
IN THE GAZA STRIP, violence never ceases and the blockade suffocates life. Hunger is no longer a lack of food; it has become an existential threat targeting the most vulnerable: mothers with exhausted bodies, infants born on the edge of survival.
I met Iman Mousa when I was researching an article about malnutrition rates in Gaza. I was introduced to her by a mutual friend from the university, who told me about her situation. When I first saw her, Iman carried within her a beauty that seemed almost otherworldly, her light blue eyes wide and luminous, like a window to the sea, drawing the gaze with quiet wonder. Her beauty was inseparable from the harsh truth etched upon her body, the pallor of hunger, the fragility of her body reduced by starvation, the shadows of exhaustion resting heavily upon her. Yet still, in the midst of such frailty, there lingered a strength, a rare grace that her suffering could not erase, a reminder that even in the darkest times, the human spirit can remain radiant.
We spoke quietly about her struggles and soon her words drifted to her personal life as she described how she met her husband and how they managed to hold a wedding while bombs fell in the distance. Iman told me she had met her husband before the war, a time when life was calmer and more forgiving. They were introduced through mutual friends, exchanged shy smiles and then quiet conversations; slowly a bond of affection and trust grew between them. Back then, there were no drones overhead, no checkpoints, no sounds of destruction, just the small joys of ordinary days.
When things are normal in Gaza, weddings can last for days. The celebrations begin when the bride gathers her closest friends around her to help her choose her special outfits. I remember my best friend’s wedding just two months before the war. We, her closest friends, helped her choose the dress she wore on her wedding day. I will never forget her, she looked like a beautiful queen. On the wedding day itself, ululations echo in the air, drums and singing fill the streets and family and friends join in the dabke dance before the bride and groom make their way to the ceremony.
Since the war, everything has changed. Today, the feasts are gone and no one sings. Instead of music, the whine of drones and the thunder of bombs fill the air.
Iman and her husband had never planned on having a traditional wedding. Instead, they dreamed of performing umrah to Mecca together, to begin their life with faith and devotion, hand in hand. Their plans came to nothing though, because war broke out and they had to leave Gaza City. They cancelled their travel plans and evacuated their area.
Instead, Iman and her husband managed to hold a small wedding amid the chaos. Then, just three days into her marriage, warning leaflets were dropped over their neighborhood in Hamad City, Khan Yunis. The Israeli army designated the whole area a red zone and they were forced to flee. “I didn’t get a chance to celebrate my wedding. Everything disappeared, my home, my safety, even my memories,” Iman told me.
They moved from place to place many times. At first they moved from their home in Gaza to another place in the same area, then they were forced to evacuate the city. After several displacements they arrived in Khan Yunis, but when the home they were in was bombed they sought safety in Deir al-Balah.
Iman and her husband now live in a tent in Deir al-Balah. They try to live as normally as possible, trying to enjoy each other’s company, just like any newlywed couple, trying to shut out the drones overhead, the dust and dirt, the harsh smells, the relentless stress of war.
Iman told me the psychological and physical stress she endured caused her weight to drop to just 40 kilograms (88 pounds). She managed to get some vitamins and appetite stimulants from a medical distribution point. Despite everything, she discovered she was pregnant.
Iman’s emotions were a tangle of hope and fear, stepping into motherhood amid chaos and destruction. She had dreamed of welcoming her first child in the safety of her own home, with a nursery waiting, laughter echoing from family and friends nearby. Instead, her baby arrived in a tent, under the shadow of violence and in the grip of a new weapon of war—the starvation that had gripped Gaza for over five months.
Iman could never have imagined finding herself in such a moment, with her husband and newborn daughter, facing a reality so far from the dreams she had once held. What should have been a gentle journey into motherhood became instead a trial of survival: carrying life within her while she herself was weakened by hunger, displaced from her home, surrounded by violence and destruction. Each flutter of the baby inside her was a reminder of the immense responsibility she had to bear in the harshest of conditions. Iman is a young woman, barely stepping into adulthood, carrying within her a natural instinct to nurture but lacking the support that new motherhood demands. She and her husband decided to give their child her name—a demonstration of the love between husband and wife.
Baby Iman came into the world at a time when her mother’s body was starved of nutrients, strength and hope. She was born in a cramped, makeshift tent in Deir al-Balah. There was no bread. No milk. Not even the most basic healthcare to welcome a new life.
In that moment, the mother Iman wasn’t just fighting to give birth, she was fighting to survive. She weighed no more than 45 kilograms (99 pounds). Baby Iman was weak, silent, barely able to cry. Her skin was pale, her eyes, blue like her mother’s, searching for comfort and reassurance. “I was breastfeeding her but I was not eating myself,” Iman told me. “How could I produce milk?” The few medical professionals available could only offer grim words: “The baby is in critical condition.” Her mother refused to surrender. She held Baby Iman close, as if cradling the universe itself, whispering words no one else could hear, words that somehow kept her daughter’s heart beating.
Days passed, each one a battle. There was no incubator, no special formula, no psychological support. Just a mother fighting with every ounce of love she had and a baby clinging to life with quiet determination. Slowly, Baby Iman began to respond. Her eyes began to shine. Her breath grew steadier. It was a small miracle, but a miracle nonetheless. Still, the battle isn’t over. “I have nothing to feed her. No vegetables, no fruits, even biscuits are too expensive,” Iman says. “She cries and I feel helpless.”
Mothers like Iman are fighting every day to feed their children in conditions where life is measured by spoonfuls and hope by milligrams.
Today, Baby Iman is not just a child who survived famine. She is a symbol of resilience, a testament to the power of maternal love in the face of impossible odds. Her survival reminds us that behind every birth lies a journey, some journeys more treacherous than others. Baby Iman and her mother have endured one of the most perilous—and it’s not over yet.
Rama Hussain Abu Amra is a Palestinian-Syrian who lives in Gaza. She graduated from Al-Azhar University’s English language and translation department. She works as a freelancer in the writing and translation field and has been employed by the Al Dameer Association for Human Rights. She is training with We Are Not Numbers (WANN), a project to amplify the voices of young Palestinian writers. Her mentor was Hannah Vincent.
