I’ve been pondering the task of writing a will. The proximity of death didn’t use to unsettle me, as I once believed it struck without warning. But through this conflict, reality has nudged closer, imposing a confrontation gradual and severe. Our anticipation mirrors that of living under the threat of lands being razed to the ground by bombs.
Fear grips us even when structures stand, remnants of a life relatively untouched by war’s onset. This constant dread has thinned my resolve to nearly a breaking point. Since the beginning of this conflict, our proximity to the Israeli military has left me reeling. At the moment tanks pushed into the Netzarim area, my message to friends trembled with disbelief: “Are they in Gaza? Is this reality or mere illusion?” My hope clung to the possibility of their withdrawal, the liberation of Gaza as we’ve always known it. Their closeness now, confining my existence to al-Fukhari, marks the nexus of Khan Younis and Rafah—a place teetering on the precipice of conflict’s brutal heartbeat.
The toll of this war surpasses my previous experiences.
…
I resist becoming just another statistic in the brutal tally of life and death. Labeling martyrs as “unknown” entities or consigning them to mass graves haunts my thoughts. My essence extended beyond that of a young woman clad in black or blue. I wish to be remembered not as a mere number but as someone who pursued her education in the face of adversity, who worked relentlessly to aid her overwhelmed father, sacrificing dreams for sustenance and shelter. Estranged from her ancestral lands since ’48, my essence is refugee undiminished—imprinting my birth in Khan Younis’ sprawling camp.
…
Ten years of rebuild and effort neared fruition just before October 7th. Life in the war zone, the thresholds of safe havens fringing on blasts, the shadow of fear unable to mute hope’s echo.
Stuffed beyond capacity, my wellsprings of resilience found voice through determination; my inner tempest held back tears, a facade of fortitude to bolster spirits while sorrow and anger gnawed silently within. I sought the finish line just a few months shy of warp’s embrace. Endless survival, resisting despair’s all-consuming tide.
…
Certainty was shattered by reality’s crueler hand, leaving my hope pierced. The return of war, with its cacophony of terror, roused me from attempted slumber with frenzied panic—my desperate search for solace measured only in shadow’s leap from blast’s embrace.
This season of war’s renewal, with its relentless drum of mechanical death, has seen my footsteps agile with fear, the thundering cacophony challenging my heart’s durability. It compels me to ask my friends to bear my story, to digest my essence beyond the confines of numerical records. Time’s rampage devastates the worlds around us, and with each day that bleeds into memory, our weary existence clings to an unseen land of hope.
I pivot, not to abandon, but in memory of a home neither time nor tyranny can erase. A testament to unyielding spirit amidst the ruins of our lives, our love for Gaza enduring through the clangor of war’s relentless waves.
Source: https://www.aljazeera.com/features/2025/4/6/i-am-not-a-number-i-am-a-great-story-from-gaza-remember-it?traffic_source=rss
