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As time goes on in Gaza, the pain and destruction intensify, while the outside world continues as normal. My family, my people, and I are struggling to survive.

Day by day, our suffering only grows more profound. Gaza, once a bustling city, now resembles a ghost town. It has become hell on earth. Everywhere we look, things are in ruins with only the debris where buildings once stood, streets are totally wrecked, walls are pierced by shrapnel and rubble overwhelms us. Israel’s relentless bombardments have turned our home into a battlefield.

The sky above us is perpetually darkened by smoke in the aftermath of airstrikes, and the ground beneath us always shakes. It is also soaked with the blood of countless martyrs, many of whom lie beneath the rubble.

Israel’s bulldozers have swept away everything—land, olive trees—whilst their planes left no trace of home. The rattling of bullets of the quadcopters have been raining upon Gazans.

This is our new normal in Gaza.

In the midst of war, we retire early each night seeking refuge in crowded rooms or tents where families gather, facing an uncertain future together. The silence that envelops us carries a weight of fear that grips our hearts with each loud and ominous sound of missiles.

Our fear is not necessarily of death itself, but of losing those we hold dear, of being injured or displaced by indiscriminate attacks, and of having our homes—the symbols of our lives and dreams—destroyed in an instant by those who seek to erase our existence.

The haunting reality

The Israeli occupation targets not only our physical structures, but also our intellectual and cultural leaders—professors, doctors, journalists. With each loss, our community's knowledge and potential dies a little more also.

Last July, journalist Ismail Al-Ghoul was assassinated while covering events in Northern Gaza. He was killed simply for doing his job, for highlighting the dangers journalists face. His death, along with that of photojournalist Rami Al-Rifi, left a deep void in our hearts. Ismail’s young daughter, Zina, is now among the many orphans left in the aftermath, while his wife faces a life all alone.

One thing is certain, we will never forgive the occupation for shedding our beloved people’s blood, to do otherwise would feel like we were killing the martyrs all over again.

Every moment brings the haunting spectre of death as we confront the unbearable reality of our existence. We, the survivors, aren’t really living; every breath is agony for us.

We wonder what purpose remains for us amidst such devastation, and how can we honour the memory of those taken from us? There is a strange comfort in knowing that those who are no longer with us are at least free of further suffering.

Children in Gaza have also long lost their innocence, as they spend their days waiting in long lines for water and food. Their schools have been turned into shelters for the displaced. Their playgrounds are marked by the remnants of shells and shrapnel, where laughter echoes faintly against the walls of war-torn buildings.

There’s a pervasive fear of the future amongst the people of Gaza, as every loss brings the stark realisation of uncertain tomorrows.

They also worry that they are being forgotten.

It is the quiet anguish of watching the world move on.

We don’t want our stories to be degraded to mere statistics, our voices drowned out by the relentless tide of geopolitical discourse.

Exhausted

The occupation inflicts both physical and psychological wounds, leaving us exhausted.

We are tormented by thoughts of the worst possible fate—dying alone, crushed under rubble, or enduring unimaginable suffering at the hands of our oppressors.

Medical treatment is scarce, and healthcare professionals work under horrific conditions. One doctor, Hany Besiso, had to perform an operation of his niece’s leg on his dining table with a kitchen knife, a dish sponge, water, and soap. This was the only equipment he had access to.

Another doctor, Hosam Abu Safia, had to bury his own son near a hospital. "Everything we have built, the Israelis have burned. They burned our hearts," he said in a video clip that was circulated, his voice filled with sorrow. "They killed my son because I'm carrying a humanitarian message” he explained.

Amidst all of this we also never forget about our detainees. We hear stories about their ill-treatment, how they are dealt beatings, electrocution, rape, and are kept in dehumanising conditions. Some prisoners, like , have been killed in cold blood whilst being tortured.

Israel wants total elimination

Everything is rotten in Israel, everything. They enjoy thinking up the worst ways of killing and torturing us.

The Israeli occupation, through this genocide, seeks to erase all traces of Palestinian existence. It aims to uproot us but it will fail, because our land lives in our hearts.

I feel helpless in the face of such suffering, though I try to remain strong despite the pain. But I cannot stop wondering about how any parent endures the burial of their child and be expected to continue living. I question whether people around the world see footage of a father holding pieces of his son and still remain unmoved. When will humanity wake up?

How many more Palestinians must suffer before the world takes action?

When will we, the displaced, return to the north of Gaza? How I long to the breeze of the Gaza City, where my destroyed home was.

In Gaza, each day continues to unfold with the delicate dance between fear and resilience. Amidst the shadows of uncertainty, there remains a flicker of hope—a beacon that illuminates the path towards a future where fear gives way to peace because despite everything, it drives us ever forward.

Huda Skaik is an English literature student, a writer, and a video maker. She is a member of We Are Not Numbers, and she also a contributor for Electronic Intifada and WRMEA. She dreams of a future as a professor, professional poet, and writer.

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