My dear sister:
I am so sorry, my sister. No matter how much I speak, I cannot describe the suffering we have endured. I speak to you and weep for everything I have lived through. I remember what I saw, what I experienced, and what I am still experiencing during this war and genocide. We have experienced loss and the pain of loss: I lost my job, I lost my home, my dreams, my friends, my relatives… everything.
My family and I, along with all the people of Gaza, have lived through two years or more of war. It wasn’t just a war; it was annihilation of everything—stones, people, everything. Displacement, forced migration, bombing, hunger, and siege. We were displaced and could not take anything with us. No clothes, no food, moving from place to place, searching for safety, comfort, and food.
I used to go almost daily to the American aid distribution points, risking my life and my brother’s life to get a little bit of food. We endured walking very long distances over sand and rubble. We endured gunfire. We endured watching people die in front of us and being unable to do anything for them. We endured seeing martyrs and wounded people lying on the ground, unable even to get them out.
For two years and more, we have endured the winter cold in tents and the summer heat. Last winter was extremely difficult for us. Water flooded in, our tents collapsed. This winter we think about what we will do to protect ourselves from the cold inside tents, and we think about whether the tents will protect us from the rain and the wind.
Do you know, my sister, what has become of Gaza? They say there is a truce, but it’s not a truce at all; we are in a big prison. A prison that surrounds and closes us off from all directions. The crossings are closed and controlled by Israel. Aid is only allowed in by Israel in a trickle. They are not allowing enough food supplies to enter, and so far, neither medical supplies nor medicines have entered. Also, every two or three days there is heavy shelling: a violation of the ceasefire. We did not return to our homes. We are not in a truce. We are still in a prison — a very, very large prison.