Imad Mahmoud
Mondoweiss / January 12, 2025
In Gaza, survival is a daily act of defiance. Finding moments of laughter and warmth in a tent battered by rain is nothing short of a miracle.
My 27-year-old sister Hanan has found herself in an unending nightmare. She used to live with her husband, Fadi, and their three children — Ibrahim, 9, Nada, 6, and Adnan, 4 — in Al-Zawayda, in the central Gaza Strip. Their home was destroyed by Israeli bombings, and now a tent serves as the only shelter for her and her children — a fragile space, barely shielding them from the cold of winter or the relentless rain, holding the weight of their past and hope for a future that feels increasingly out of reach.
According to Medical Aid for Palestinians, 1.9 million Palestinians — 90% of Gaza’s population — have lost their homes in the war. Hundreds of thousands of people now live in tents, but life in a tent is far from life. Rain seeps through every side, leaving families trying to collect the dripping water in old pots. Children sleep on the cold floor. The bitter cold has killed at least eight babies in Gaza this winter.
On a cold, rainy night, I visited them. I sat quietly in a corner of their tent, watching as Hanan gathered her children close to shield them from the biting cold. The sound of rain pounding on the tent’s worn fabric was deafening, almost drowning out our voices. Ibrahim, the eldest, tried to appear brave for his siblings’ sake, but worry slipped through in his voice when he asked his mother:
“Mama, will the rain last all night?”
Hanan smiled softly, trying to comfort him while concealing all the pain she was carrying.
“Rain doesn’t last forever, habibi. It helps the earth grow green.”
Clutching a small doll made of old scraps of fabric, Nada looked up at her mother with wide, curious eyes.
“Mama, will the earth here turn green too?”
Hanan hesitated for a moment, as if the words were stuck in her throat. She couldn’t bear to extinguish the hope in her daughter’s voice.
“Yes, my love. One day, it will.”
The rain intensified, and water began to seep through the roof of the tent. Hanan grabbed an old piece of cloth, desperately trying to patch the leaks. Adnan, the youngest, seemed oblivious to the cold and damp; he was laughing, pointing to the droplets of water falling from the ceiling and trying to predict where they would land next.
“Mama, the next drop will fall here!” he exclaimed, pointing to a corner of the tent.
We all laughed, even Hanan, though I could see the exhaustion in her eyes. For a brief moment, their laughter turned the cold, damp tent into a place of warmth.
Later that evening, Ibrahim turned his attention to the unlit stove in the corner of the tent.
“Mama, will you light the fire tonight?” he asked hopefully.
Hanan gently shook her head, hiding the bitter fact that there was no fuel to burn. “Maybe tomorrow, when the rain is lighter,” she said.
Nada suddenly spoke up. “Mama, I want bread like the kind you used to bake at home!”
Hanan froze for a moment, the mention of their old life hitting her like a wave. Back then, the smell of fresh bread would fill their home, and the children would wait eagerly for a warm piece straight from the oven. Now, even a handful of flour feels like a luxury.
Determined not to let her children feel the weight of her despair, Hanan rummaged through her belongings and found a tiny amount of flour she had been saving. Mixing it with water and a pinch of salt, she made small discs of dough and cooked them on a piece of scrap metal over the barely functioning stove. When she handed the bread to the children, their faces lit up as if they’d been given a feast.
Biting into his piece, Adnan exclaimed: “Mama, this tastes just like the bread we had with Baba!” Hanan smiled, her heart heavy yet full at the same time. Her husband, Fadi, was abducted by Israeli forces in the early days of the war, and his absence has been deeply felt by Hanan and her children ever since.
As the rain subsided, we sat together and Hanan began telling stories about their old home. She spoke of the olive tree that would give their yard shade, and the field where Fadi once grew wheat.
Ibrahim, listening intently, suddenly said: “When we go back, I’ll plant a new olive tree.” Hanan placed her hand on his and replied: “We’ll plant it together, habibi, and it will be the biggest tree in Al-Zawayda.”
When the children finally fell asleep, I watched Hanan sit silently, staring at the tent’s ceiling. The rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle, the drops falling rhythmically through the holes above us. Despite everything, eyes held a glimmer of hope — not just for herself, but for her children. In her quiet strength, she carried a love so profound it illuminated even the darkest, coldest night.
In Gaza, survival is a daily act of defiance, and finding moments of laughter and warmth in a tent battered by rain is nothing short of a miracle.
Imad Mahmoud is a father of four children from the Gaza Strip
