TESTIMONIAL A Gazan woman’s diary: “We died all kinds of deaths”

Nour Z Jarada has lived in Gaza all her life. For  the French daily “Libération”, this psychologist from Médecins du Monde France writes about her daily life in the war-torn Palestinian enclave. Episode six: the anguish of winter and a hint of hope.

by Nour Z Jarada, Gazan psychologist for Médecins du Monde France, Libération  , 12/31/2024
Translated by Fausto Giudice, Tlaxcala

December is drawing to a close and we’re facing a second winter of war. I could never have imagined going through another winter like this one. Winter used to be my favorite season. When asked what my favorite time of year was, I always answered winter. Always. I loved its rain, its coolness, its comfort. I wished it was always winter. But things are different now. I can no longer afford the luxury of loving winter. I no longer have a warm home, winter clothes, blankets or even heating. I no longer have our streets, our gatherings, or our warm cups of tea shared with loved ones. From now on, none of us here can afford the luxury of loving winter.

I remember crying my eyes out at the first rain of the year. The sadness of another winter while we’re still at war was unbearable. My heart broke for us, for the families in the tents. That night, I saw flooded tents on the news and thanked God for the fragile roof over my head. Yet my heart broke for our children and families who spent the night in the icy water, waiting for dawn or simply for the rain to stop. As those dark hours stretched on, a child’s cries rang out from a nearby tent. They pierced the silence, filled with sorrow and pain. I didn’t know if the child was cold or hungry, but I couldn’t sleep. All nights are terrifying in wartime: they are merciless, cruel and endless. As we all know, we dread the long hours between now and morning and pray for the night’s horrors to come to an end.

Displaced people’s tents after heavy rain in Deir al-Balah, Gaza Strip, December 30. (Madji Fathi/NurPhoto. AFP)

Resilience

Today, after more than a year and two months of war in Gaza, I’m a different person. Unfortunately, I’m not sure whether this change is a good or a bad thing. On the one hand, grief weighs heavily on my heart, a wound so deep that not even time can erase it. This injustice opens the door to a myriad of questions racing through my mind: Why? How is it that the geographical space in which we were born, to which we belong, our race, our color, our religion, are all factors that determine our destiny? Our suffering, our trauma? How can these elements, which we have not chosen, control the course of our lives? How can we heal from such merciless traumas? How can I go on living without my loved ones? These questions haunt me, all the more so when I imagine the end of the war.

Yet I’ve also discovered a resilience I never imagined I possessed. I endured fear, displacement, loss, grief, tears and unimaginable sorrow. I’ve faced it all patiently, even when I had no choice. Through it all, it was my unshakeable faith that carried me through, a conviction that there is a reason for everything, even if only God knows it. We believe in God. Every trial we go through carries with it a wisdom we can’t grasp with our minds. We turn our hearts over to God, even when the trial seems humanly beyond our capacity. This faith has driven me to persevere, to keep working, to fight and to support those around me.

Security nowhere to be found

In this war, adversity knows no bounds: the famine in northern Gaza during the year was unthinkable. People were forced to eat tree leaves, desperately searching for the slightest remnant of flour. The “flour massacre” even made international headlines, with people eating blood-stained bread. Countries sent aid by sea, our people drowned trying to reach it. Is it really possible that Gaza, once celebrated for its hospitality and generous cuisine, is now a land of starvation? Yet this is the reality we face. We have died all kinds of deaths. And today, famine has caught up with us in southern and central Gaza, areas supposedly “safe” for displaced civilians. But safety remains elusive.

Food is becoming increasingly scarce, and prices are rising so much that they are becoming unaffordable for most of us. Flour, once a staple, is now hard to come by. Those who manage to obtain small quantities often find it infested with worms or insects, but we sift it before cooking and eating it because we have no alternatives.

I’ve even joked bitterly with colleagues that I’d rather die in an air strike than starve to death: it would be quicker and less painful. What greater injustice can there be than to live in a world where we think about a way to die, about the least unbearable way to leave this life?

Maybe I’ll never write again

Since the beginning of December, there have been a few glimmers of hope; rumors of a potential ceasefire. But nobody dares to be optimistic anymore. That’s another change. Just a few months ago, I was one of those hopeful people. Every time I heard rumors of a ceasefire, I rushed to pack my suitcase, ready to go home. But each time, my heart was broken. Today, I’ve learned not to hope. In psychology, this is called learned helplessness: when repeated failures or hardships leave a person in a state of helplessness, unable to believe that things will change.

Yet I still dream of the end of the war. I dream of returning to my home in northern Gaza, of seeing my grandmother again. She’s over 70 and a resilient, gentle and very religious woman. I haven’t seen her since October 7th. My heart longs to hold her close to me. I can’t imagine how she has endured terror, hunger and grief. Sometimes we talk on the phone, but it’s too painful. We both cry and the calls end with more fear and longing.

At this moment, I imagine myself writing to you next time from the north of Gaza. Maybe a little piece of the hopeful Nour is still there in me. Or maybe I’ll never write again. No one knows what the future is made of. But what I do know is that oppression always ends one day. As the poet Aboul-Qacem Echebbi  wrote: “If it happens to the people, one day, to want to live, fate will have to answer.” And as God promises in the Qur’an: “Next to difficulty is, surely, ease!” Despite all we endure, we cling to our strength and resilience. Every day, we put aside our grief to take on our roles and reach out to those around us. Helping those the world has forgotten gives meaning and purpose to our lives.

Such a simple desire

Last month, a moment seared itself into my memory. A young man visiting our clinic lost his entire family and his right leg in the war. The only survivor, he now lives alone in a flimsy tent. Despite this unimaginable loss, he represents a source of hope for others. During psychosocial sessions, he learned breathing exercises and coping techniques. We’ve noticed that he’s now teaching these exercises to other patients in the clinic’s waiting room, and sharing how he’s coping with his grief. His strength inspires me.

At times, my colleagues and I allow ourselves to dream of returning to our devastated city. We talk about the first things we would do when that day comes. First and foremost, we want to honor the memory of our dear colleague, Dr Maisara, by digging his body out of the rubble of his house after more than a year and giving him a dignified burial. Then we’ll seek shelter; perhaps in tents and work together to rebuild our lives and the clinic, to continue serving our people. As for me, I’ll see my grandmother again. It’s such a simple but profound desire that gives me the strength to continue enduring the hardships.

Honestly, after all this, if I had the choice, I’d choose to be a Ghazawiya, to be a Palestinian, from this land I love again and again, today and forever.