Fedaa al-Qedra
The Electronic Intifada / August 20, 2024
I woke up to a kiss from my daughter on my cheek and she said to me, “Mama, today is my birthday. I want to wear a white dress, and I want a chocolate cake.” My daughter Rita has just turned five years old.
I smiled and hugged her and said, “Happy New Year, Mama.”
Like any mother who feels happy when she sees her children growing up in front of her, I was grateful that God had granted life to my daughter, but I was sad about the year in which my child experienced a war of genocide in every sense of the word.
There is a special love between Rita and me, and everyone who has seen this child knows how smart and amazing she is.
Everyone who sees her says she looks like me.
I am truly amazed at her resemblance to me in appearance and characteristics to the extent that I see her as a copy of me.
Trying to give Rita all she needs
I’ve given her special attention since she was a fetus in my womb. I would talk to her and always tell her that I would be a wonderful mother to her.
I always tell her: “Don’t be afraid of anything as long as I am with you.”
For Rita, I’ve always chosen everything carefully: her beautiful room, her toys, her dresses and other clothes, her hairstyles, her kindergarten.
I was proud of myself and her father as we tried with all our might to provide our daughter with a healthy and safe environment surrounded by warmth and love in which she could grow up far from all the conflicts and challenges that we parents live in – an environment fertile with wars.
Now, my daughter is experiencing genocide at a very young age.
Instead of growing up in an atmosphere of love and safety and exercising her right to learn and play, she has lived through over 300 days of continuous bombing, displacement, hunger and disease.
I, as a mother, have lived with nine months of anxiety about my daughter and her future. Her simplest needs even became a major challenge. We have suffered a lot in obtaining appropriate food, clothes and clean water for our children.
I live this war as a journalist, as a mother and as a woman.
I’m not used to it yet.
Whenever I see a child’s corpse, it reminds me of the danger facing my daughter here and the sad truth that our children’s lives have no value, as long as the world watches the killing of their childhood and remains silent.
The war crimes and massacres committed by Israel against us in Gaza have revealed how dangerous life here is for our children, and I always ask: Should I hold on to my land or guarantee the safety of my children and leave?
I remember well how we suffered with Rita in the 2021 Israeli aggression. She was two and a half years old when Israeli warplanes carried out a fire belt near us. At that time, my child felt intense fear, and she stopped speaking entirely and would only cry. She would walk and stick her index fingers into her ears all day long.
We suffered as we treated her for the effects of post-traumatic stress until she returned to being, on the surface, a normal child, playing, laughing and mingling with her peers.
How can one get used to war’s horrors ?
Today my daughter is experiencing fear again, and I have to explain to her not to be afraid as long as I am by her side, but in reality, I am afraid that parents are expected to get used to it.
But I don’t want to get used to it.
Not to killing and the fear of death, not to a situation in which human suffering becomes invisible and the sounds of war become the constant soundtrack of our days.
I cannot get used to depriving my daughter of the things she loves – for example, her white dress and birthday cake – but it is war.
My little princess is growing up quickly. I want her to keep something of an innocent childhood.
The war will end, and I will buy her the Disney and Barbie dresses and bracelets and coloring books that she loves.
I will always give her love.
Fedaa al-Qedra is a journalist in Gaza
