Day 8: There Is Always Hope by Shahd Alnaami

Growing up in Gaza, I suffered through many wars: 2008, 2012, 2014, and 2022. But

this war is the worst. My grandmother is a survivor of the Nakba (Catastrophe); she

tells us that this war is worse than the Nakba; it’s a genocide. However, I am still

holding on to hope of being alive and enjoying peace one day in my country. I am a

refugee in Gaza, originally from Beersheba, a Palestinian city taken by the Israeli

occupation, which displaced my grandparents. Gaza embraced all of us. It was a

shelter and a home for the homeless. Gaza was our only choice, and it was the best.

My grandmother always tells us about our Palestinian cities. Even though we haven’t

visited any of them, we have experienced them in our minds through her stories. I

have never been outside Gaza before, yet I carry the whole world in my heart. Even if

the world does not welcome us Palestinians, we are still trying to be, to exist. In my

first year as an English literature student, the first thing we learned was Shakespeare’s

quote, “To be or not to be, that is the question.” It resonated with me deeply because

of how much it expresses the Palestinian struggle to remain on our land. I will never

stop fighting with my voice and my words to get our land back.

Gaza taught me the true meaning of love, hope, beauty, resilience, and strength. It

showed me how to persevere and, if I faltered, how to rise and start again. From Gaza,

I learned how to give and forgive, how to love and live. Through its heart, I saw

beauty in the world. Yet, the occupation has never allowed Gaza to simply exist. They

have destroyed it, robbing us of so much — our freedom to travel, consistent

electricity (sometimes limited to just six hours a day), and now even our right to live.

Still, we found happiness in the little we had. After every aggression, we would shake

off the dust, rebuild what was destroyed, and reclaim our spirit once again.

This time, everything we had was destroyed — nothing was left for us. They

demolished schools, universities, hospitals, mosques, churches, homes, and even our

infrastructure. They didn’t just destroy buildings; they shattered parts of our lives.

They killed my people — members of my family and my friends. They forced me to

move from place to place five times. For three months, I lived in a tent, a hardship

like no other.

Living in a tent is one of the hardest experiences anyone can endure. At night, while

lying down, you hear the sound of bombs echoing all around you. The thin fabric of

the tent offers no protection from the cold nights or the scorching heat of the day.

Sleep becomes impossible, haunted by the fear of a missile striking the area, burning

all the tents, including yours with you in it. The thought of being killed, burned, or left

unburied lingers in your mind. These visions haunt you every night. For everyone

living in a tent, every night is a nightmare.

Despite all these dark times, I never lost hope. I always believed that every phase, no

matter how difficult, would eventually end. Every morning, I reminded myself: This

too shall pass. Even now, I am certain that this war will end one day, and we will

rebuild Gaza once again, as we always do. Even if it takes years, we will rebuild it.

Nothing bad lasts forever. That’s why, every morning, I wake up grateful to be alive

and pray for the safety and peace of my people. I’ve come to see each new day as a

gift from God, one that we must cherish and use wisely. I’ve learned to be kind to

myself because the world is already harsh enough. If we aren’t the ones who celebrate

our small achievements, who will? If we don’t become our own best friends, who else

will? Our souls are gifts, and we owe it to ourselves to nurture them with love and

care. I’ve also learned that many things in life don’t deserve our sadness or the energy

we waste worrying about them. Hard times will come, but we can live through them,

feel them, and eventually move past them. Our time on this planet is short, too short

to spend it weighed down by sadness. As long as we are alive, things will continue to

change. We won’t stay in the same place forever, and neither will our circumstances.

This is my source of hope: nothing remains the same — neither do our struggles, nor

do we.

I learned the precision and patience required for Tatreez from my grandmother, who

often reminded me, “What is built on a mistake is a mistake.” In embroidery, if you

make an error, you cannot continue without correcting it. This principle reflects the

injustices faced by my community — we believe that systems built on oppression will

eventually collapse. The colors in embroidery choose themselves and flow naturally

in the design, just as Gaza has chosen its people to be a part of it. It is as if no one in

this world can live in Gaza and love it the way we do. Watching my grandmother

embroider always brought me joy. Through her craft, she taught us the meaning of

resilience and how to face each day with strength. She also showed me how to spread

positive energy wherever I go and how to love everything in life.

My parents, too, have always been by my side. They never stopped encouraging me,

teaching me to be a giver and to respond to anyone in need. That’s why I always tell

my friends, “I am here for you.” I believe in standing by each other and spreading

love and hope. I still hold onto the belief that after every sunset, there will be a

sunrise.

My life is not perfect, but I have chosen to paint it with hope. Even if Gaza feels gray

now, we will paint it bright again.

I just want to live.

*****************

I wrote this piece in November 2024, but my perspective has since changed. After my

sister was martyred in a bombing at my uncle’s house, they pulled me out from the

rubble. I was injured and stayed in the hospital for a while. During that time, I

searched for the hope I used to talk about. But then I realized there is no hope in this

city. Hope is within us. It resides in our hearts. We just need a moment to pause and

find people who can reignite that hope. People who remind us of the beauty within

our souls.

In the silence of the hospital room, I came to understand that hope isn’t something

external. It’s not in the places we search, the things we wish for, or the people we

expect to save us. It’s in how we choose to see the world, in how we choose to rise

from the rubble, both physically and emotionally. Life has a way of breaking us

down, leaving us feeling hollow, but in those darkest moments, we often discover that

strength comes from within. It’s in the connections we make, the shared glances, the

small acts of kindness that reignite the flame of hope.

People are the vessels of that light, even when everything around us is dark. It’s in

those fleeting moments of connection, those quiet conversations, and in the simplest

of smiles that we rediscover what hope truly is.

Shahd Alnaami is a Palestinian writer based in Gaza. She is an English literature and

translation student at the Islamic University of Gaza, currently living amid the

hardship of the genocide.

shahadalnaami@gmail.com

@palestinianshahd