The people of Gaza have suffered relentless genocide for two full years. Time has frozen here. Life has become a constant cycle of mourning, loss and death.
Every day brings a new wound. Every night carries a fear heavier than the last.
We have endured two years of death and destruction, of limbs scattered across Gaza’s streets, of Israeli rockets leaving nothing but ruins. We live between bombardments and explosions, measuring out our days to the rhythm of death.
It has been two years without the loved ones who once walked beside us. We fall asleep to the sound of shells. We wake to the screams of those searching for the missing amid the debris.
For two years, the world has neither heard our cries nor seen the smoke that suffocates our skies. All that remains is waiting for an unknown fate.
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I am Taqwa Ahmed al-Wawi, a 19-year-old from Gaza. Age does not define life here; survival defines it.
I am a writer, poet, editor, publisher and photographer. I come from al-Zawayda in southern Gaza. I’m studying English literature at the Islamic University, where I had barely begun my academic career before the genocide tore everything apart.
Life under nearly two decades of siege had always been challenging, but nothing compares to the incomprehensible devastation of these past two years. The genocide has changed us entirely. We have lost friends, families, and parts of ourselves. Every person here carries a story that demands to be told.
Unfathomable loss
My first loss struck with the martyrdom of my closest friend, Shimaa Saidam, on 15 October 2023, when Israeli forces bombed her home, killing her and most of her beloved family.
The next day, Israeli rockets killed my friend Raghad al-Naami and her family. Then came our displacement – or as I insist on calling it, “nozou” (“being violently ripped away”) from our homes and safety. How can one compress an entire home into a single bag?
On 17 October, we fled to my sister Doaa’s house in Khan Younis, where we stayed for a month. On 14 January 2024, Israeli missiles destroyed her entire six-storey house.
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In the same period, Israeli strikes killed more of my friends: Lina al-Hour with her family on 27 October 2023, Mayar Jouda on 31 October 2023. Another friend, Asmaa Jouda, was killed by Israeli strike on 24 May 2025.
In addition, on 1 November 2023, Israeli missiles demolished my uncle’s house, killing my uncle’s wife Neveen, my aunt Asmaa, and my two-month-old cousin Fatima. It was unfathomable. I could not grasp that this was only the beginning of a process of continuous loss.
The first ceasefire arrived on 24 November 2023, but ended just a week later when Israeli forces broke it on December 1. By the end of the year, Israeli strikes had flattened my grandfather’s four-storey house. My uncle Abd al-Salam and his children, Huthaifa (13) and Hala (8), were martyred.
We then fled to Rafah, where we stayed for nearly five months. Displacement carries a bitterness words cannot describe. But you have no choice: remaining at home threatens your life, while leaving tears the soul from your body.
I left with a single bag containing a few clothes. Every corner, every wall, every object carried a piece of my soul. I wished for a bag that could hold all the walls, all the memories, every vestige of my home.
Those months in Rafah were among the most excruciating of my life. Finally, in May 2024, after Israel rejected another ceasefire proposal, we left Rafah and returned to Zawayda, where our home miraculously stood intact.
In July, the Islamic University resumed online education. I enrolled, even though Israeli air strikes had destroyed the campus. It was no longer the university of my dreams. But as my professor, Nazmi al-Masri, said: “Life for Palestinians is lifeless without education.”
Fighting against fear
Despite the destruction and loss, I completed five semesters with an excellent grade average. Online learning was harsh and exhausting. I took exams amid the sound of bombardments. Still, the process reinforced an important truth: Israeli forces may destroy our schools, our universities and our cities, but they cannot destroy our resolve.
I was accepted into several international online courses, which became windows into a world beyond Gaza and allowed me to feel that life continues despite the genocide.
Each course – in English, filmmaking, storytelling and more – became a lifeline; a way to nurture my skills and connect with the world. The courses allowed me to reclaim a sense of agency amid the unbelievable circumstances around me.
We must continue telling our stories. If we do not, the world will hear only the occupier’s version. As poet Refaat al-Areer said: “We love the story because it is about our homeland, and we love our homeland even more because of the story.”
Since childhood, I have loved reading and writing. I believed they could open other worlds. I joined competitions, winning second place in the Arab Reading Challenge in 2020. I write in notebooks or on my phone daily.
We are utterly drained, our spirits crushed, our laughter hollow, our hearts distant from the selves we once knew
After the genocide began, writing became my therapy and my refuge. Reading became my sanctuary – a way to survive and distract myself from a reality beyond comprehension. I published my first works in February 2025. By the end of September, I had published 42 pieces and 25 poems, and released my first zine with the support of my dear friends Leila and Anni in Berlin.
Every day, I fight to protect my dreams, to resist fear of the future, and to survive memories that still devour me from within. I have countless dreams, but all I long for now is an end to this genocide.
It has drained us of our humanity and stolen our lives piece by piece – family, friends, homes, even ourselves. We are utterly drained, our spirits crushed, our laughter hollow, our hearts distant from the selves we once knew. Death has taken our souls, leaving only our bodies to wander – and we are changed beyond recognition.
We yearn for a single hour of ordinary existence. How much more must we endure before the world truly sees us?
The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Eye.
