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Daily Life and Shattered Dreams in Gaza—Writers Share Their Stories
By Nada Hamdona
DESPITE ISRAEL’S two-year destruction of Gaza and mass murder of its people, Gazans are committed to surviving, maintaining hope and telling the world the truth of their plight. Amira’s story exemplifies this.
Wednesday, June 11, 2025 started as a quiet day. My cousin Amira, 29, was making her way home from her parent’s house, a few meters away from her own, when she heard distant bombings. She sensed that something horrible was about to happen. Almost immediately, a missile struck close by her, causing the ground beneath her feet to tremble. She collapsed to the ground in pain; her leg and abdomen were severely injured and blood was streaming from her wounds. She remained lying in the street for nearly half an hour before an ambulance arrived, and by the time she reached the hospital, she was in a critical condition. The skies were filled with warplanes, signaling the onset of more destruction and death. No place was safe from obliteration. She was filled with dread and helplessness.
Amira also felt a deep loneliness. She couldn’t locate anyone to help her. Because Israel had closed the crossings leading to safety and banned medical supplies from other countries and NGOs, hospitals were overwhelmed with injured patients and weren’t able to offer even the most basic treatments. Starvation, injury and disease were commonplace. From day to day, no one knows whether they and their loved ones will live to see tomorrow.
PHYSICAL AND EMOTIONAL SUFFERING
As the days passed, Amira’s condition worsened. She urgently required medical care, but the overwhelming number of casualties exceeded the available medical staff and resources. Still Amira persevered.
Amira remained in the hospital for more than a month. Her injuries were severe: she underwent surgery to insert a platinum plate in her leg, as well as another operation to remove her uterus. These long days of treatment kept her apart from her two children, who were staying at their grandmother’s house during this time.
Beyond her physical suffering, she experienced a more profound anguish: she felt powerless to stop, or even lessen, her people’s collective pain and trauma. Amira was haunted by these questions: How do people endure after seeing their children killed and homeland destroyed? How can one find purpose, meaning and hope amidst such tragedy? She didn’t have answers.
For days, Amira remained motionless, anticipating the worst. She started to hear murmurs all around her—the cries of others who were also hurt and desperate for someone to help them. There were fathers weeping for their lost kids, moms yelling in agony and toddlers sobbing from hunger.
Amira vacillated between consciousness and oblivion—she had no idea if she was still alive. At some point, she was approached by an elderly neighbor, Abu Ahmed, who also lived in Al-Zeitoun, outside of Gaza City. Abu Ahmed had an optimistic heart despite having lost his wife and kids in an airstrike. He gave Amira a weak, yet hopeful smile and said: “The blood that flows from our bodies will fill the next generation with hope. Death won’t win, and the conflict won’t go on forever. After a long night, a new day always arrives.”
Amira would always remember Abu Ahmed’s words—they had quenched her thirst for hope. Despite her excruciating pain and fear, his optimism began to seep into her heart. She saw that the pain of her people could be transformed into the strength and beauty of mountains.
After several more weeks, Amira was finally discharged from the hospital and went to stay at her parents’ home, where her family cared for her until she could regain her strength. During this time, she reflected deeply on her experience. She realized how often we take for granted the simplest things that we call “basic”—like food, health, safety and the embrace of family. She felt the pain of mothers who could not give birth, and she understood their suffering in a way she had never before. Yet she also expressed gratitude: “I’m grateful that I have two kids. God has given me life, and I am in a better position than many others. Despite receiving treatment, some mothers are unable to conceive, while others become pregnant but lose their children. I am blessed, and I will be resilient in raising my kids.”
Amira finally made a partial recovery. The healing process was more than just physical. It was a spiritual and emotional act of survival, not just against her own pain, but also against the inhumanity of those who perpetrate rampant murder and destruction as well as those who are bystanders and do nothing to stop it.
THE ANGUISH AND RESPONSIBILITY OF A WHOLE POPULATION
This is not just Amira’s narrative. It’s the story of millions of people in Gaza and the rest of the world suffering from the effects of extreme oppression and brutality. It is the tale of nations and peoples who refuse to give up despite being crushed beneath mountains of devastation. It is the tale of the Gazan people, who endure daily threats of death and bombardment, and still choose hope.
There is another Amira in agony, another woman who has lost children and another hungry youngster in every part of Gaza. They’ve lost so much, yet their will to survive is steadfast. The people of Gaza are learning an important life lesson: even though the sky is filled with storms, the darkness will not prevail and the sun will rise again. As my grandmother always told us, “hardship builds strength.”
As its brutal attacks continue, Israel continues to lie about its actions in Gaza and is killing and banning journalists and observers who seek to tell the truth. The people of Gaza have a crucial responsibility: to tell the world the truth of what’s happening and to call out the gravity of this injustice. This will set straight the historical record and affirm the sanctity of human life. We must not let our people’s story be forgotten.
Nada Hamdona is a translator and Arabic, English and Turkish language teacher who majored in English and graduated with a bachelor of arts and education degree. She is working toward a master’s degree in international relations and diplomacy at Al-Aqsa University’s Faculty of Arts. She is training with We Are Not Numbers (WANN), a project to amplify the voices of young Palestinian writers. Her mentor was Sharon Weinman.
