Today… I will not write about the war as I used to,nor about displacement, nor about the faces of pain that have become so familiar they no longer carry their first shock…Today, I write about myself
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Today… I will not write about the war as I used to,
nor about displacement, nor about the faces of pain that have become so familiar they no longer carry their first shock…
Today, I write about myself.
About this body that can no longer endure any more,
about a body collapsing in cold silence, without asking my permission, without even granting me the chance for one final moment of strength.
My story began in the first months of the war,
when pain came to me in fragments, as if testing my patience before deciding to settle inside me.
Food then resembled absence more than life…
and when it existed, we left it for our children, while we remained on the edge of hunger, mastering the illusion of fullness so as not to burden their small hearts.
At that time, doctors said what I was experiencing was merely a psychological effect of the war,
and prescribed medications to calm the storm in my stomach,
assuring me it was temporary, familiar, passing…
but the pain was never any of those things.
It did not leave.
It returned—more brutal—when the roads carried me to the Deir.
I remember those nights well…
nights without sleep, without rest, without even a corner of safety,
I would cry in silence while the world slept without noticing,
and my husband moved between hospital and search, holding nothing but exhausted attempts to save what could not be seen.
Once…
I was forced to take two painkiller injections within two hours,
until my body fell quiet—not because it healed, but because it surrendered.
Then the pain faded briefly,
only to return in May, as if it had never left at all, merely waiting.
Those were famine days…
one meal every thirty-eight hours, sometimes less, and never enough to convince hunger to calm down.
I gave my food to my children, to my husband,
and my husband himself had just recovered from an injury a month earlier—a time when everything broke at once.
Fainting began to overtake me,
along with an endless pain.
I remember one day…
I placed a piece of cloth in my mouth,
not to endure, but to silence the sound that might have revealed my collapse in front of my children and husband…
but the body, when it screams from within, never learns silence.
On another day,
I searched for eye drops for my husband for four full hours,
moving from place to place—not in search of comfort, but of something barely affordable.
Even pharmacies became another face of pain,
as prices multiplied until medicine became a postponed dream,
and alternatives were no different from absence.
The sun was setting…
I entered the last pharmacy tent, dragging what remained of my strength,
and as I was finishing my conversation with the pharmacist… I collapsed.
I fainted, and only woke up in the hospital.
My daughter was beside me…
holding my hand with trembling fear, crying:
“Be well, Mama… we don’t want to lose anyone else.”
Then came the operation—urgent, harsh, decisive.
I left it on treatment beyond my capacity,
yet I tried… with whatever was left of me.
I improved slowly… like someone learning to walk over the memory of pain.
But just one week later,
the final evacuation order for the north came…
and everything broke again.
The pain returned stronger,
bleeding returned,
my blood dropped,
fainting repeated…
as if my body refused to believe it had survived.
And the treatment failed.
The doctors said, in a heavy voice: we will repeat the surgery.
After long days of breaking,
I returned to the north after a fragile ceasefire,
and underwent surgery in November…
one of the hardest experiences of my life.
I needed a month and a half afterward just to partially return to myself.
Doctors advised proper nutrition, vegetables, vitamins…
but all of it was beyond reach,
amid rising prices, scarcity, and restrictions,
as if life itself were distributed by a merciless scale.
And now…
for ten days, the fainting returns,
the bleeding returns, the pain returns… as if it never left.
There is talk of a new treatment cycle…
and I do not know whether I fear it, or cling to it as my last remaining thread.
I do not want to go through that surgery again…
for I have seen enough to make even memory afraid of itself.
I cry often… in silence.
Not only for myself,
but for my children who need what I can no longer provide,
for a husband exhausted by illness, loss, and hardship,
and for a life that has become heavier than anything a human should carry.
And I…
I only feel that I am being drained slowly,
as if the road ahead does not end… but dissolves into nothingness.
A support link for my family
️️️️
https://gofund.me/83e09b493
#Gaza
#Palestine
-
R relay@relay.infosec.exchange shared this topic on
-
Today… I will not write about the war as I used to,
nor about displacement, nor about the faces of pain that have become so familiar they no longer carry their first shock…
Today, I write about myself.
About this body that can no longer endure any more,
about a body collapsing in cold silence, without asking my permission, without even granting me the chance for one final moment of strength.
My story began in the first months of the war,
when pain came to me in fragments, as if testing my patience before deciding to settle inside me.
Food then resembled absence more than life…
and when it existed, we left it for our children, while we remained on the edge of hunger, mastering the illusion of fullness so as not to burden their small hearts.
At that time, doctors said what I was experiencing was merely a psychological effect of the war,
and prescribed medications to calm the storm in my stomach,
assuring me it was temporary, familiar, passing…
but the pain was never any of those things.
It did not leave.
It returned—more brutal—when the roads carried me to the Deir.
I remember those nights well…
nights without sleep, without rest, without even a corner of safety,
I would cry in silence while the world slept without noticing,
and my husband moved between hospital and search, holding nothing but exhausted attempts to save what could not be seen.
Once…
I was forced to take two painkiller injections within two hours,
until my body fell quiet—not because it healed, but because it surrendered.
Then the pain faded briefly,
only to return in May, as if it had never left at all, merely waiting.
Those were famine days…
one meal every thirty-eight hours, sometimes less, and never enough to convince hunger to calm down.
I gave my food to my children, to my husband,
and my husband himself had just recovered from an injury a month earlier—a time when everything broke at once.
Fainting began to overtake me,
along with an endless pain.
I remember one day…
I placed a piece of cloth in my mouth,
not to endure, but to silence the sound that might have revealed my collapse in front of my children and husband…
but the body, when it screams from within, never learns silence.
On another day,
I searched for eye drops for my husband for four full hours,
moving from place to place—not in search of comfort, but of something barely affordable.
Even pharmacies became another face of pain,
as prices multiplied until medicine became a postponed dream,
and alternatives were no different from absence.
The sun was setting…
I entered the last pharmacy tent, dragging what remained of my strength,
and as I was finishing my conversation with the pharmacist… I collapsed.
I fainted, and only woke up in the hospital.
My daughter was beside me…
holding my hand with trembling fear, crying:
“Be well, Mama… we don’t want to lose anyone else.”
Then came the operation—urgent, harsh, decisive.
I left it on treatment beyond my capacity,
yet I tried… with whatever was left of me.
I improved slowly… like someone learning to walk over the memory of pain.
But just one week later,
the final evacuation order for the north came…
and everything broke again.
The pain returned stronger,
bleeding returned,
my blood dropped,
fainting repeated…
as if my body refused to believe it had survived.
And the treatment failed.
The doctors said, in a heavy voice: we will repeat the surgery.
After long days of breaking,
I returned to the north after a fragile ceasefire,
and underwent surgery in November…
one of the hardest experiences of my life.
I needed a month and a half afterward just to partially return to myself.
Doctors advised proper nutrition, vegetables, vitamins…
but all of it was beyond reach,
amid rising prices, scarcity, and restrictions,
as if life itself were distributed by a merciless scale.
And now…
for ten days, the fainting returns,
the bleeding returns, the pain returns… as if it never left.
There is talk of a new treatment cycle…
and I do not know whether I fear it, or cling to it as my last remaining thread.
I do not want to go through that surgery again…
for I have seen enough to make even memory afraid of itself.
I cry often… in silence.
Not only for myself,
but for my children who need what I can no longer provide,
for a husband exhausted by illness, loss, and hardship,
and for a life that has become heavier than anything a human should carry.
And I…
I only feel that I am being drained slowly,
as if the road ahead does not end… but dissolves into nothingness.
A support link for my family️️️️
https://gofund.me/83e09b493
#Gaza
#Palestine@nada I'm left without words, I can only wish you to recover in the body and in the soul.
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R relay@relay.mycrowd.ca shared this topic
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@nada I'm left without words, I can only wish you to recover in the body and in the soul.
@RFancio Thank you, I’m truly grateful to you from my heart.
Your support and your presence are a strength to me. -
@RFancio Thank you, I’m truly grateful to you from my heart.
Your support and your presence are a strength to me.@nada Dear Nada, thank you for your kind words. I hardly deserve your gratitude but I'm happy to give you at least a little moral help. Best wishes for your treatment, I hope it will be successful. A big hug to you and to your dears.
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@nada Dear Nada, thank you for your kind words. I hardly deserve your gratitude but I'm happy to give you at least a little moral help. Best wishes for your treatment, I hope it will be successful. A big hug to you and to your dears.
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System shared this topic
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@nada Dear Nada, I'm sure that it's important to everyone is following you and reads your heartbreaking testimonies of the hardship you are getting through just to survive in the hell Israeli made of Gaza!
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@nada Dear Nada, I'm sure that it's important to everyone is following you and reads your heartbreaking testimonies of the hardship you are getting through just to survive in the hell Israeli made of Gaza!
@RFancio I hope so. We have been through a lot here. -
@RFancio I hope so. We have been through a lot here.
