I have been working with people in Gaza for about eight years. I am somewhat embarrassed to say that at the start in around 2017, I knew basically nothing about Gaza. But I soon learned. And through this I made friends, learned the history, learned about and from the people. I remember the very first time I connected with a classroom through Zoom. They were young girls in elementary school who sang me a song and had loads of questions to ask. I remember in a following session my then 7 or 8-year-old son playing drums for them and them being much more interested in asking him questions than asking me. I lost contact with that teacher following the Great March of Return and heard without any confirmation that she and one of the students had been injured or killed. That was my first exposure to the loss.

By 2023, I had met lots of Gazans and was actually doing IELTS online with two people who wanted to pursue graduate studies outside of Gaza. Then it all changed. I remember the raw heartache I felt when one of the kids I had contact with was killed. And another whose poem was read around the world in many languages. Her name was Fatima. She was 10.

I remember helping people raise money for evacuating and the absolute delight I felt when the first family made it to Egypt. I signed letters, wrote letters, attended protests, but the struggle of dealing with people who just believed propaganda was wearing me down. The regular news of death, destruction, and pain eventually killed something in me. And by the time a teacher who I had worked with at the Hands Up Project was killed, I struggled to feel anything. His name was Omar and I rated him very highly. But I felt numb. Defeated. There was nothing I could do. Nothing anyone could do. I was lost. The need was so great, and the sheer number of people I was speaking to meant I no longer actually knew anyone. Not like before.

That didn’t mean I stopped trying, and I was still involved in education projects. I was still doing classes weekly and also helping refugees from Syria. I arranged or helped arrange online events where we hosted speakers from Sudan, and Ukraine in addition to Gaza and the West Bank. I was teaching a class for Al Aqsa university.  But deep down, I felt like I had died. News of death brought no emotion. My family brought me no joy. I started working on the Resilient Voices project because it was just something else to do.

However, meeting with them weekly meant I started to get to know people again. Care about how they felt and what their thoughts were. And they wrote. Lots. Endlessly. Great stuff. The poems, the stories, and everything else. I distinctly remember two things. One, I was asked to comment on a story of a girl who was struggling to continue her studies because accessing anything online was so difficult. Her dreams and struggles. There was a deadline to apply for something. I remember replying to her saying, ‘I read halfway and then scrolled to the end first.’ She asked if it is because the story was bad, and I replied, ‘No, but I had to know if you actually made the deadline or not and I couldn’t wait. That’s how good it was.’ The second, a few months later was about a person (and that is one of the stories in this project) who saved a cat, but the ending is quite sad. I replied saying, ‘I am sorry this happened to you’ and I felt really sad. And I realised the numbness and inability to feel anything had disappeared. Being part of this project gave me my heart back.

Note: This project is supported by the British Council as part of the SARD programme, which focuses on the role of English and other languages in building resilience. SARD – Stories of Adversity, Resilience and Determination – encourages Palestinians, particularly young people, to share their stories and lived experiences through creative and educational media. The content of this production is solely the responsibility of Resilient Voices and does not necessarily reflect the views of the supporting or partnering institutions.