Me and my Childhood. She was beautiful, she and her siblings were pampered by her father. Indeed her father loved her dearly, he would bring her every toy and gift she ever wanted.

My Childhood’s father spoiled her so much.

He would take her to every nook and and beautiful new place in our little city. My Childhood, her name was Amany. How happy little Amany was to just go for a simple drive in besieged Gaza.

Little Amany’s father would give her a tour of the only small little city that she had ever known. He would tell her all the folklore and tales of this small place. Even though little Amany had never ventured beyond this small little city, there was always something new to explore every day.

Little Amany’s life was simple, yet the most mundane things brought her joy and wander.

Little Amany’s father dearly loved her, truly she was the apple of his eye. Throughout her life he supported her in most difficult times, and now he is the most enamored grandfather to her children.

Although a simple childhood, little Amany had all the beautiful toys and beautiful clothes that little girls felt beautiful in.

Each Eid, Little Amany’s mother would dress her in the finest garments. Her friends would come over, and Amany would frolic and play in her new dress in games of pretend and wander.

She always loved elegance and beautiful clothing, drawn to colors and accessories like any child.

I miss this innocent, peaceful childhood. I yearn for my children to have an even more beautiful childhood than mine.

Now when I see the faces of my children, faces shaped by genocide, I see the lost look in their eyes. I see the hope diminishing from their faces. I see a childhood being taken away from them.

Now, I miss Amany, the ten-year-old girl.

A year of war has made us grow a hundred years older.

I no longer like looking into the mirror, nor do I love this life anymore. How I hope, that little Amany can forgive me for the future she will have to endure.

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On this day in 2016, I married my lifelong partner, a piece of my heart and the love of my life. I married the one my heart chose; The bliss was so surreal that I forgot about the suffering of a besieged Gaza. I now have two children as precious as flowers; they are still very young, and truly, they are all I have in this life. They have not lived the life they deserve, nor have they experienced a beautiful childhood that they can look back on fondly as they grow and say, “We were happy; we were flying free.”

Since my wedding day, I have endured three bombing campaigns, and each time, we waited for the end, and somehow it would end, leaving behind immense pain. But this time, a year has passed, and the genocide has not ended; it still rages on.

A year has passed, and my husband and I live like strangers now. We’ve become preoccupied with searching for protection and safety. We live in such a crowded place that sometimes I don’t see my life partner for days. I keep myself busy figuring out how to cook and prepare food, while he moves from place to place looking for our daily bread.

We live each day simply praying to God that we survive and that we do not endure such suffering. I look at our children and say, “Oh God, do not let me see any hardship that makes me weep,” for my children are still small and full of love for life.

Today, we were supposed to celebrate our eighth wedding anniversary, but instead, we are entrenched in a catastrophic genocide that has shattered us and killed all our dreams. We will only celebrate on the day we are saved, the day of victory.

Will that day ever come, or will we continue to live in fear until we meet our Creator?

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Here as I write to you my reader, my eyes have not stopped searching fora glimmer of hope

I cry not tears but blood

For our tears dried up long ago

For blood has filled every corner of our lives

For my life has been shaped by this occupation since my birth

Grieving for over a year, I do not only grieve for a chance at life, I grieve for dreams that I will never get to fulfill

Just like you, I too wonder what the world looks like beyond this cage

Unlike you, my eyes will never set upon vast green valleys, or big river gorges

A lot like you, I have dreams of a life where I can breathe crisp mountain air or see what the world looks like from an airplane window

Yet this won’t be my future

I will be among the people who either die of hunger, murder, or being burnt alive

As a ghost is a soul without a body, I am something of the sort, that is a body without a soul

I know that perhaps I will not live

But it is enough for me that one day I will die a resilient, strong, struggling Palestinian

If I could only express to you my dear reader, just deeply I yearn for an ordinary day that passes without war and destruction

How I so deeply, deeply, deeply yearn for a day where children do not scream at their newfound orphaned reality

Where blood is not the only non-neutral color I see

Where the depth of pain is so abysmal, no language could express it

I violently yearn for an ordinary day that passes without torment, yet the ocean behind my heart no longer roars

My dear reader, I say to you simply that I yearn for an ordinary day

At the end of which I rest my head on my pillow and sleep in peace

A sleepless year has passed, not even a rippling moment for my eyes to rest

My dear reader, do you know what it is that I dream of?

I do not dream of palaces and riches

I dream of safety, of a wall and a window overlooking trees of peace and tranquility

I dream of a cup of coffee on a quiet morning

I dream of a simple, healthy breakfast with my family, all together at the table

I dream of sleeping on a bed, my children around me, listening to a beautiful bedtime story

I dream of their ears awakening to the sounds of peace, not closing them to sleep to block out the sound of missiles

Is that too much to ask?

Will there ever come a day where I can write about my freedom?

Or will I remain in this prison in Gaza, dreaming of peace?

Last night, I was dreaming—dreaming of my past days, as if this war had never come.

Last night, I spent wandering in my imagination between the rooms of my house and the streets of my neighborhood.

Last night, I was dreaming of freedom, justice, and safety because for a year now, we have been searching for safety.

Last night, I closed my eyes and shut my ears. I don’t want to hear missiles and warplanes anymore, nor see blood and dismembered bodies.

Last night was a very harsh night because the reel of my memories played before me, reminding me that you once had a life full of color, but not anymore.

Last night, I slept not wanting to wake up, like every day.

Why do we wake up? What do we wake up to?

We don’t wake up to the chirping of birds like you do.

Nor to the smell of my mother’s breakfast and the brewing of tea.

Nor to the smell of coffee filling the air everywhere.

Nor to the sounds of the street vendor calling out, “Come, fruits and vegetables!”

Now, we only wake up startled by the sound of a Zionist bombing, its noise piercing our ears.

Or we wake up to the smell of smoke or phosphorus choking our breath.

I used to love waking up to open my window, take a deep breath, and smell the soil of my homeland.

But I don’t love it anymore because the smell of blood and gunpowder fills my city.

I don’t open the window anymore because all I will see is destruction everywhere.

I won’t open it because it’s forbidden for us to breathe the air from our windows, for we are Palestinians in Gaza, under siege.

I cry from time to time—yes, I cry because I want my freedom.

I want my home, my life. I want safety, and I want to survive.

Is that too much to ask?

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It seems my heart has not left

My body is here in the south like a corpse, but my heart is screaming, saying:

Where is my home that was once full of life? I hold onto its pictures, even though it’s destroyed

Do you think we are resilient? We are forced to be!

Do you think we are content? We are in pain!

People were burned alive — children, elders, and women

They burned the tents with people inside, and their screams reached the heavens

And the world is still heedless, watching and sending only food

As if they are saying, “Die, but here is food for those of you who remain alive”

Each time, with every massacre, with every atrocity,

We stand powerless, pleading with God, patiently enduring

Where is the Arab world? Where are the Muslims? You are guilty too

How many souls will we give? How many sacrifices are we waiting for?!

I am still in my thirties, displaced today for the twentieth time

In many massacres, I was one of the witnesses

I survived a certain death, and they said, “A woman among the displaced has survived”

Do you think because I survived, I am happy? How I wished to be a martyr

But I must protect my children first; no one will look at them with pity

We are displaced; my eyes sleep in the south, but my heart in the north has not slept

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We love life as much as we can hold onto it

But…

If we die, close our pages, and do not mention the name Palestine

Continue with your lives, eat, drink, and have fun from time to time

Damn you, you have forsaken us, don’t pull your heads out of the clay

Keep yourselves out and play, don’t let our suffering ruin your day

Don’t let our screams inconvenience your lives, buy the cup of Starbucks

Have a fun time

Don’t let our cries kill your laughter, have your drinks, worry about it after

Sorry to pester you with our slaughter, and the diminishing hopes and dreams of our sons and daughters

Here, a people are being exterminated — are you still here?!

We are not strong, we are very afraid, do you hear?!

To the willfully deaf, I hope you never know this fear

We are tired of fleeing from here to there

But there is no use

This omniscient danger is everywhere

It exists in the water, it exists in the air

Have you become used to seeing us this way? We are not used to it

Every day, death knocks on our door to become either martyrs or wounded

You watch us in silence as we still carry our souls, but by God, I swear we are dead inside

We are not numbers, we are the people of Palestine

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Our homes have become empty, our ears are still attentive, waiting for a carrier pigeon to bring us joyful news, saying to us: “Return”

Yet our homes remain empty, their colors now faded, for they have witnessed many bloody days. And our loved ones, eagerly, say to us: “Return”

But God, when will we return?! Still, we suffer under this perpetual siege. We have grown weary of these wishful promises “Today you will return — no, tomorrow you will return”

But a year has passed, and we have not yet returned

I imagine a morning where the wood sandpiper does not hide from missiles 

Where the coffee brews for a day that I am certain to see the end of 

I imagine a young olive tree, only a century old to tell me about my ancestors. But this is only in my imagination

How deep these wishes of mine run. To wish and imagine a life so beautiful, that to others it sounds mundane

How I wish to collect the water that falls from the sky. How I wish to go to my motherland that everyone has seen but her children

More than that, how I wish to watch my children run and not look at the sky, but straight ahead

But again, I must say, these mundane wishes of mine are nothing to ponder to someone else, yet they paint themselves only in my imagination

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