Voices from Gaza: Life in a War Zone

Voices from Gaza: Life in a War Zone

The sound of drones overhead has become as familiar as the call to prayer in Gaza. For many who live there, especially children, war is not an occasional event — it is a background noise, an uninvited guest in every home, every conversation, every dream. Behind every statistic, every news headline, there is a human being. A child who didn’t sleep. A mother who buried her son. A student who writes poetry by candlelight because the electricity is out again. These are the voices from Gaza — voices that demand to be heard not as numbers, but as people.

A Mother's Quiet Courage

Umm Salim, a 43-year-old mother of four, lives in the Al-Shuja’iya neighborhood, one of the hardest-hit areas during repeated bombings. Her husband was killed in 2014. Since then, she has become both mother and father to her children. “I tell them stories when the bombing starts,” she says. “Not to entertain, but to distract. If I can make them laugh, maybe they won’t remember the sound of the walls shaking.” Her youngest daughter, Rima, no longer cries during airstrikes — she just holds her mother’s hand tightly and waits.

Food is often scarce, but dignity is not. “We may not have meat every week, but I won’t let my children sleep hungry,” Umm Salim adds. She barters homemade bread with neighbors for vegetables, and in moments of calm, teaches her daughters how to make simple meals with pride and resilience.

The Student Who Refuses to Quit

Hani is 19, and dreams of becoming a doctor. He studies by flashlight because Gaza’s power is unpredictable — often only 4 hours of electricity per day. “When the bombing gets too close, I study in the hallway. It’s the safest place.” Despite losing two cousins in recent strikes, he refuses to give up. “I want to save lives, not lose mine without purpose.”

He recently passed his exams with distinction and was offered a partial scholarship to study abroad — but due to border restrictions, he can’t leave. “They say I live in an open-air prison. But even prisoners can dream,” he says. “One day, I will wear a white coat not just for myself, but for everyone who didn’t get the chance.”

Children of the Rubble

Nine-year-old Amal plays with her younger brother using broken bricks as building blocks. Their house was destroyed in the last airstrike. They now live in a temporary shelter, along with dozens of others. “Sometimes I dream our house is whole again,” she says softly. “Then I wake up, and remember.”

Like thousands of children in Gaza, Amal has known nothing but conflict. Her drawings — once colorful — now show tanks, fire, and crying faces. A psychologist working with her notes that trauma in Gaza’s children is widespread and generational. “These kids grow up fast. They lose their innocence too early. But somehow, they still laugh, still play. That’s strength.”

Life Between Bombings

For many in Gaza, life is about navigating the space between attacks. Weddings still happen. Babies are born. People go to markets, attend school, fall in love. But everything is shadowed by uncertainty. Even happiness feels fragile.

Rasha, a young teacher, speaks of the exhaustion of trying to maintain “normalcy” in the classroom. “I teach English to children who have seen more than any child should. I ask them to write essays about their favorite place. Many write: ‘Home, before it was bombed.’”

Despite this, she continues. “Education is an act of resistance here. When we teach, we say: we are still alive. We still matter.”

The Global Silence

Perhaps the most haunting voice from Gaza is not spoken but felt — the silence of the world watching. The people of Gaza are not looking for pity. They want justice, freedom, and above all, peace.

In the words of an elderly shopkeeper, Abu Youssef, who has survived five wars: “We don’t need anyone to cry for us. Just to hear us. To see us. We are not invisible.”

Conclusion

Gaza is not only a war zone — it is a place of people: strong, broken, beautiful people who cling to hope with bleeding hands. In the darkest corners of conflict, their voices rise — not just in grief, but in love, laughter, and resilience. To hear them is to remember their humanity. And perhaps, to remember our own.