On a dark night in October 10, 2023, a stray rocket hit our house, destroying the upper floor. Fortunately, we were all on the ground floor, hiding from the deafening explosions and trembling walls. We emerged unharmed, by the grace of God, yet fear filled our hearts, and my younger siblings’ Mohammed, Moath, Ibrahim, and Ghazal eyes were wide with terror. My parents and I tried to calm them, whispering words that felt powerless against the enormity of our fear.

We sought refuge in a school shelter, but after two days, devastating news reached us: our house had been completely destroyed. On October 23, 2023, we were displaced to relatives’ home in Al-Nuseirat, and within three months, we had to leave again due to evacuation orders and ongoing bombardment.

In January 6, 2023 We ended up in Deir al-Balah, desperately searching for any empty space to pitch a tent made of torn fabric and wooden planks. I once dreamed of living in a tent like in the movies—waking to the sound of birds, breathing in the scent of nature, reading under golden sunlight. I imagined it as a haven of peace and freedom, a place to escape the noise of the world and find myself.

But that night, under the relentless rain, the dream became a living nightmare. Drops seeped through the fabric, pooling in the corners and sometimes falling directly on my face, as if saying: “This is your life now.” The tent that once symbolized freedom had become a prison of damp cloth. Huddled together under one blanket, we shivered, longing for warmth, for safety, for a life that now felt impossibly far away.

I never imagined living like this—constantly cold, always afraid, in a place that offered neither shelter nor the simplest comfort of home. 

Wet Books, Drenched Memories.. 

The next morning, I sat on the cold ground, looking at my soaked university books, imagining the faces of my professors if they could see them like this. These books were once a source of knowledge and ambition, and now they are small symbols of my suffering, soaked with the smell of rain and fear. I shout to myself: “Where is my luxurious gift from the sky?”

The rain continues to seep through the coverings, and even the air inside the tent feels heavy and humid. Each wet page reminds me that life is no longer as I dreamed. I tried to organize the books, but the water always seems to win, gathering them into little piles, each one holding a part of my lost story.

The Tent Dances with the Wind – January 11, 2024, 6:30 AM 

I woke up at half past six in the morning to the sound of the wind striking our fragile tent in Deir al-Balah. The air was damp and cold, and even the smallest movement inside the tent felt like a test of patience. Suddenly, the wind hit the fabric with force, making the tent sway as if dancing to the rhythm of a war I never chose and was never prepared for. 

I tried to secure the poles with my hands trembling from the cold, and sometimes I smiled at the absurdity of the scene—a strange feeling that the tent itself refused to be just a shelter. Every attempt to clear the damp air or ventilate the space turned into a game with the wind. I lifted a flap to check for dryness, only to find a new wet spot. Occasionally, a small smile would appear, a brief relief, yet the weight of suffering remained, pressing heavily on my heart before my body.

Touches of Rain in the Evening 

Each evening, I see children running in the streets, smiling, while I open the tent to find a small hole where rain has entered, stealing a moment of rest I had tried to gather. I smile lightly at the strange situation and continue to clean the water as best I can.

The rain has become part of my daily life, reminding me of our fragility and forcing me to accept what I cannot change. Sometimes it feels as if everything inside the tent rearranges itself in a strange way, teaching patience quietly, without the need for exaggerated laughter. 

Drops That Remember What I Lost 

The night passes, and the rain does not stop. The tent has become an open book of today’s suffering, of a dream that was, and a reality that is. Every drop of water is a reminder that life can be harsh, and that some dreams do not just break—they turn into experiences that break the heart, while still allowing a quiet smile at the absurdity of fate.

I sat on the ground, closed my eyes, and remembered the old house, the smell of the kitchen, the family laughter, and the warmth of the roof that once protected me from the cold. I gather a little hope amidst the night and the rain, trying to write a better future for myself, even though every moment now screams that the tent can only remind me of what I lost.

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.