To those sipping morning coffee in peace – good morning. But to my people, I simply hope you’re okay. You, who watches us in silence… let me share a glimpse of what I’ve lived. Perhaps I’ll stir something within you.
After the temporary ceasefire ended – one that lasted no more than seven days – things began to escalate. Shrapnel scattered everywhere. I would wake up in panic, wondering: Are we still alive? I packed a few bags, fearing we’d have to flee and leave our house behind. Day by day, things became increasingly difficult. The military vehicles moved closer, bullets flew through the air, the sound of screaming growing louder. My father came rushing in, shouting: “Hurry! There’s just one street between us and them!”
I still don’t know how we managed to flee so quickly – just before they shut the door of the shelter, only an alleyway away from our home. We stood on the sidewalk, raindrops gently touching our exhausted faces. There was no space left for us in that shelter. Night began to fall, and the winds howled and grew fierce. Suddenly, our neighbour called out: “I found a classroom for the whole neighborhood – come quickly! It’s getting dark, and the rain has started to pour!”
We ran as fast as we could and squeezed into a tiny classroom, now holding more than thirty children and forty women. We spent nearly a week there – in fear, hunger, and thirst. Families were separated, scattered across different shelters.
The situation worsened.
The tanks came closer, and we had to move again – this time to a shelter miles away from home.
This is how I ended up living in my university. It was surreal. Was I really stepping into my university not as a student, but as a displaced person?
For almost twenty five days, I lived in exile – sheltered in the university library. I crossed its gates, running from terror and death. Within its walls, I lived moments so heavy they erased my past identity here, as a student.
We endured a severe water shortage, drinking salty water just to stay alive. My sister couldn’t bear to drink it, and for twelve long days she lived without water. We stood in long lines just to use the bathroom. We would steal rare moments just to shower, in conditions barely meeting the simplest standards of hygiene.
Seven of us shared a cramped room, one we didn’t leave unless it was absolutely necessary, too afraid of what was unfolding outside. I couldn’t even make a phone call – the infrastructure and communication networks were completely destroyed.
One day, I was wandering with my little sister when she spontaneously snapped a photo of a rainbow after a heavy rainstorm – a moment that sparked a flicker of hope inside me. I watched the rain falling, and remembered how I used to run beneath it with my friends Alaa and Rewaa.
I loved to gaze at the moon, escaping each night to a balcony, staring at it for hours. I’d imagine the distance between myself and the moon – wondering if it was the same as the distance between me and my home. I’d take a few photos, then return to our room, still without any answers to my repeating questions.
Cut off from the world, we were disconnected from everything. Our relatives and friends began to believe we were no longer alive.
But we made some new friends. We would sit together, talking about past days; how I used to rush to catch my lectures, where I would sit with my friends.
After Maghrib prayer, we would sit with Uncle Abu Muhammad ‘Al-Hankalulu’ – a word only he understood – and turn up the radio, sipping cups of coffee together and hoping the war would end so he could reunite with his family, who were displaced to the south. Stranded with us in the north, night after night, he gazed at their photos – holding onto each face as if it were a lifeline – whispering quiet prayers for reunion, for the day warmth will return to his world.
We’d share plates; I gave him a dish of
We used to bake bread right in our room. Once, my uncle stumbled upon a pack of cheese by chance, priced at no more than fifteen shekels; when my sister and I asked about it earlier in the university yard, it cost over fifty. From the cheese, we crafted the most delicious
One day, my mother baked a cake – a rare moment of celebration amid a backdrop of exhaustion. The girls were thrilled, waiting all day with glowing eyes and empty stomachs. The cake cost us a lot – not just money, but energy, hope, and longing. But we needed something, anything, to feel human again.
The cake was burnt in the middle. Yet the girls’ happiness was undimmed. Burnt or not, it was our first cake in over eight months of hardship, my dear. We found a forgotten jar of jam, and sprinkled raisins and coconut flakes on top. Somehow, it looked beautiful – the charred centre hidden beneath layers of colour and sweetness.
It reminded me of us – scorched inside, but with just enough decoration to appear fine. A fake smile masking the ruins within: damaged, but dressed up for the world.
After twenty five days of displacement we returned home, carrying new memories, and fresh farewells, particularly to dear Uncle Abu Muhammad. We parted with a hopeful promise: one day, we’ll sit again beneath a quiet sky, sipping coffee, letting laughter rise, unafraid. We dream of that – of one more cup of coffee with Uncle Abu Muhammad and his family.