A Story of Resilience: From a House in Gaza to the Open Sky
In a corner of the Camp of Hope, where tin houses clung to each other like leaves in a storm, sat Abu Ahmed, fifty years old, trying to weave a blanket from his memories to warm his six children, who shivered from the bitter winter cold.
Part One: The Memory of Jasmine
“I was born in a small house in Gaza. Its roof was made of concrete, but my mother used to hang baskets of jasmine on it, turning our room into a palace. We were of limited income, yes, but our need was embroidered with dignity. My father worked as a history and geography teacher, returning every evening with his modest briefcase and fresh bread. We ate on the floor, but our food was delicious because we shared the morsel with our neighbors.”
Abu Ahmed remembers how his mother baked bread on the saj, and the scent of wild thyme filled the alleys. “We played among the olive trees and returned home with dust on our clothes, but our hearts were clean. I studied in a school with no windows, but our teachers, like my father, planted in us a love for knowledge as if it were an inexhaustible treasure.”
Part Two: The Family Home
Abu Ahmed grew up and married his childhood sweetheart, Asmaa. He built a small house with two rooms, but it was filled with love. “I worked as a teacher and a website designer. My hands ached from long hours on the computer, but when I saw my six children gathering around me at breakfast time, I felt like the richest man in the world.”
He remembers carrying his children to school on his shoulders and how they saved money to buy an old computer to learn on. “Ahmed grew up and started helping his siblings with their studies. We lived on love and a few olives, but we were happy.”
Part Three: The Storm
“Then the war came… I don’t know how to describe it to my children. One night, we were sleeping in our homes, and by morning, we no longer had a roof over our heads.” Abu Ahmed shakes his head, his eyes filled with indescribable pain.
“We fled, carrying what we could, but we lost everything. My house, which I built with stone and a dream, became rubble. The computer I worked on turned to ashes. Even the jasmine tree I planted for my wife on our wedding day was nothing but a broken branch.”
Part Four: Under the Stars
“And now, here we are, using the sky as a blanket and the earth as a bed. No clean water, no medicine for my young daughter who coughs at night, no clothing to protect my children from the winter cold. Even bread has become a dream.”
He looks at his children sleeping in the worn-out tent, covered with some tattered fabrics. “My eldest son, Ahmed, graduated from high school this year, but he cannot go to university. Instead of books, he carries buckets of water from the distant well.”
Part Five: The Flame of Hope
On a rainy night, as the children waited for sleep to make them forget their hunger, Ahmed said to his father, “Don’t be afraid, Father. You taught us how to build houses from stones and how to create joy from nothing. I will study, and I will return to build you a house better than the first.”
Abu Ahmed holds the hand of his son, Moath, the youngest of his brothers, and a glimmer of hope shines in his eyes. “Yes, my children, they stole our roof, but they did not steal our dream. We may use the sky as a blanket today, but tomorrow we will build a roof from the stars for all the children who have lost their homes.”
Part Six: The War That Does Not Stop
And that storm was not passing; the war is still ongoing, like an eternal winter that knows no spring. Sirens have become the music of our daily lives, and the roar of explosions is the ticking of the clock. We no longer distinguish between night and day, for fear is the master of emotions, and death is our neighbor who knocks on the neighbors’ doors day after day.
“Every morning, I count my six children, as if making sure that souls are still in the bodies. We have come to live on terrifying news and whisper so the war doesn’t hear us. Even our dreams are no longer safe, for tanks have infiltrated them, turning our butterflies into ashes.”
Part Seven: After the War… What?
And after the cannons fall silent for a few hours, the real test of survival begins. We emerge from the rubble like shrinking insects, searching for food we cannot find, for medicine that no longer exists, for hope we can feel under the ashes.
“What comes after the war? Our streets have become like mass graves, and our neighbors are either under the ground or on escape boats. Gaza has become an open prison where we breathe air polluted with grief and pain.”
Part Eight: An Unending Ember
But in the depths of this despair, there is still an ember that does not go out. Here is Ahmed, despite everything, gathering his siblings around him in the tent, trying to teach them from what he remembers of his lessons. And here is his wife, Asmaa, making a meal from remnants of flour and wild herbs, reminding us that we are still alive.
“We have learned to measure our lives by the moments we defeat death, not by the number of our years. We have learned that the real heroes are not those who carry weapons, but those who carry a loaf of bread across the lines of fire, the teachers who teach by candlelight, and the mothers who give birth to hope in the darkness of the camps.”
Part Nine: We Will Return
And one night, while Moath, the youngest brother, was drawing a house on the dirt of the tent, he asked his father, “Father, when will we return to our home?”
Abu Ahmed replied, holding his small hand:
“The war will end, my son, because everything in this world ends. And we will return to our homes, not to the houses destroyed by the war, but to new homes that we will build with our own hands. We will return with new jasmine saplings and plant them everywhere. Because this land, my boy, does not forget its children, and we do not forget our land.”
Conclusion: The People Who Learn from Despair
Here they are today, Abu Ahmed and his family, like millions of Palestinians, using the sky as a blanket and the earth as a bed, but their hearts still hold the map of the homeland. Bombs may fall on them, they may hunger and thirst, but their humanity remains tall like an ancient olive tree, extending its roots deep into the earth, insisting on life despite all attempts to cut and burn it.
Because they know that wars end, but a people who adore life cannot end.