Dear 2024, as you approach your end, I reach out from the broken Gaza landa place where the ominous sounds of drones drone overhead, and the deafening echoes of bombs fill our air with despair.
Our lives have turned into a waking nightmare ever since IsraelThe genocide began in October 2023.
You, dear year, have shown no mercy; you have been a relentless wave of agony and despair, sweeping away our hopes, dreams and the very essence of normality we once felt.
I still cannot shake the terrible memories of the terrible days when we were ordered to abandon our homes and seek refuge in Rafah, a city that has become both a sanctuary and a prison for us.
Our lives, rich in memories and comfort, were carelessly packed into flimsy backpacks that felt increasingly inadequate as we faced the terrifying unknown that awaited.
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Each day brings a new wave of anxiety, but I vividly remember the heartbreaking farewell to my once cozy bedroom filled with beloved books, the smell of old paper mingling with the warmth of cherished memories.
Now those days are replaced by a cold and uninviting reality, a sea of uncertainty and fear that surrounds us.
Collective anxiety
January brought us the horror of forced evacuations, moments forever etched in my mind – the grim silence that enveloped my family as we huddled together on a truck, surrounded by the anxious faces of strangers, children and adults, all terrified of the unthinkable looming near .
The weight of their fear hung heavy in the air, a collective anguish beyond words.
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As we witnessed the chilly reality of makeshift shelters popping up along the landscape, I felt the bitter cold seeping into my bones.
The nights spent on the hard, unforgiving ground brought tears of pain and shivers of hunger, our bodies and souls deteriorating under the relentless weight of disease and the indignity of cramped shared bathrooms.
The absence of privacy has become a cruel twist in our suffering, compounding our physical discomfort with a sense of helplessness.
Each day of starvation loomed ominously over us, gnawing at our stomachs and our hope, as we were often faced with the unthinkable choice of either eating or simply surviving.
The evacuations turned into a grim routine, the only thread of existence we clung to in a landscape painted with fear of death and a longing to just survive. Ramadan, a holy month traditionally filled with reflection, family and prayer, passed us by in a shadow, once again overshadowed by the brutality of our current reality.
Mounting despair
The cycle of massacres crept ever forward, invading what should have been moments of celebration and joy. Our Eids were filled with sadness and whispering sadness, when instead we faced our own slaughter.
This year has dragged us through each season’s trials, each a painful reminder of what we’ve lost
Reflecting on the horrors of the genocide, I can still hear my father’s footsteps on the hard ground as he gathered wood for bread, the morning air filled with the loud noise of artillery.
With each explosion, our choices became more urgent and our world more fragmented with each sign of growing violence. We learned to hurry as we grabbed the few things we could save; every time we had to leave, we left pieces of ourselves behind, pieces of a life that felt more and more out of reach.
In our dislocation we found ourselves reduced to mere threads of what once was. We set up makeshift tents by the unforgiving sea, the pulsating waters I once cherished now turbulent, echoing our collective anguish as the waves violently crashed against the shore.
The sun, once a source of joy and warmth, became another adversary, beating down mercilessly on the tents that had become our only refuge. My mind spins at the thought of how I used to walk along the beach and laugh with family and friends, and now seeing it choked with sadness and despair twists my heart and mind in ways I never thought possible.
This year has dragged us through the trials of each season, each a painful reminder of what we have lost.
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In November as I approached another birthday marked with quiet sadness rather than joy, I couldn’t help but reflect on the mounting despair that overshadowed our moments of happiness and celebration.
The dread of another year passing weighed heavily on my shoulders and threatened to crush my soul as I count the days filled with missing instead of laughter.
While people around the world prepare for celebrations, eager to welcome the new year, we find ourselves anchored in grief; grieving lives lost and semesters stolen.
December arrives, heavy with the weight of suffering, even as the world feasts in abundance and joy, oblivious to the plight of Gaza, a land orphaned by war and chaos, without dreams and dignity.
Others lavishly decorate their homes, share meals and exchange gifts while we battle an invisible enemy, battle isolation and devastation.
The stark contrast is hard to bear; while hope fills the air for some, it remains an elusive shadow for us, as dreams of peace and tranquility seem to echo faintly in our hearts, almost forgotten among the rubble.
End the genocide
Perhaps the greatest irony lies in the fact that the world indulges in merriment, unaware that our very survival depends on the fleeting moments of hope and solidarity we strive to preserve amidst our codified sadness.
We long for the dawn of a new year illuminated by the glimmers of peace we so desperately seek
As we enter 2025, the greatest celebration we dare hope for is the end of this genocide and the promise of a brighter future reborn from the ashes of despair.
We long for the dawn of a new year, not marked by the ticking clock or bright lights, but instead illuminated by the glimmers of peace we so desperately seek.
May we in the coming year find the strength to rise from the depths of our struggle and reclaim our identity, dignity and humanity; defined not by tragedy, but by resilience.
This is my prayer as the shadows of 2024 recede, hoping that our stories will not go unseen in a world that is distracted, but will instead resonate with those who have the power to listen and act for change.
The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Eye.
