From Beauty to Tragedy

November 23, 2024— a day that showed me both the fragile beauty of life and the unbearable weight of living under siege. This is my life in Gaza, a place where even the smallest moments of peace are stolen by the occupation.

The morning began with a walk. I often walk through the rubble of what used to be Gaza.. my life, my peace. It’s not an escape, but it helps me feel grounded, as if I’m still connected to this land despite what it has become.

Today, among the ruins, I saw something extraordinary—a cat. She was perched delicately on a crumbled wall, her soft fur and bright eyes standing out against the gray destruction. In our culture, cats are sacred. To see her here, alive and unbroken in the midst of so much devastation, felt like a gift.

For a moment, it felt as though time had stopped. She wasn’t just a cat—she was a reminder that even here, amidst all the destruction, life can persist.

But Gaza doesn’t allow moments like that to last.

By evening, my sense of peace was shattered. The ground shook beneath my feet. A deafening explosion shattered the sense of calm I had carried with me. I ran outside and was met with the sight of flames rising into the night sky.

It was my neighbor’s home.

The house, once filled with laughter and life, was now a heap of rubble. People screamed, running toward the destruction, pulling bodies from the debris. Two of my neighbors were gone—martyred in an instant. Seventeen others were injured, their cries echoing in the chaos.

I stood frozen, unable to move, my mind racing. Only hours earlier, I had been marveling at the resilience of a cat in the rubble. Now, I was watching my neighbors’ lives turned to rubble.

This is the duality of life in Gaza. In the morning, I was reminded of the sacredness of life through a cat’s quiet presence. By evening, I was reminded of how easily life can be taken, of how the rubble that a cat rested on could so easily become my own home, my own family’s grave.

Living Under Siege

This is what it means to live through a genocide . You hold on to fleeting moments of beauty, but they are always overshadowed by the terror that follows. Every explosion, every loss, chips away at your soul. And the worst part? The world watches and does nothing.

How can governments who claim to stand for human rights allow this to continue? How can the world remain silent as my neighbors are killed, as my family starves, as our lives are systematically erased?

Why I Share My Story

I share this because I want you to understand what it means to live here. I want you to feel the contrast—the fragile beauty of a cat among the ruins and the devastating loss of neighbors reduced to rubble.

I don’t want pity. I want justice. I want you to use your voice to amplify ours. Share my story, my neighbors’ stories, Gaza’s story. Remind the world that we are not numbers. We are people—people with families, dreams, and the right to live without fear.

Tonight, I sit with my family, thankful that we are still alive. But the fear remains. How long do we have? How many more homes, lives, and dreams will be destroyed before the world takes notice?

I don’t know the answers.

But I know that as long as I am here, I will keep telling my story. I will keep reminding you that life, even in the rubble, is sacred. And that the world must act before it’s too late.

Anwar Zidane