A Mother in Gaza

One unforgettable day, my children and grandchildren gathered around me, their voices singing, "Happy Birthday, Mama!" Tears filled my eyes as I whispered, "Here's to more birthdays, to see you all grow and achieve your dreams." As I celebrated my 51st birthday, a surge of emotions swept through me, a torrent of memories, both bitter and sweet, flooding my mind.

I remembered my first pain in life: not having a mother to wish a happy birthday or Mother's Day. The only thing I recall is spending hours crying, listening to "Set El-Habayeb ya 7abiba," a popular Egyptian Arabic song for Mother's Day. Losing my mother at the age of 3, I pretended to be strong in school and the refugee camp where I lived. But honestly, I was hiding my need for someone to strengthen me, to hold my hand, to help me face this ugly world.

Days passed, and I tried to live a happy childhood in the alleys of my beautiful camp. We gathered in the streets, playing our favorite games: football, running, playing with dolls. My all-time favorite game was building sand castles on the beach, reflecting our simple dreams.

Then came the second most painful shock of my life: losing my father at 16. I had to face high school as an orphan, the hardest time a student might experience. People looked at me with pity because I was an orphan, but I was one of the best students in my class. I remember the outbreak of the first Intifada, a time of great suffering for Palestinian refugees under the Israeli occupation. My camp, one of the smallest in the Gaza Strip, was raided one night by the Israeli forces with their barking dogs, looking for young resistance members. I had never felt as frightened as I did that night, with no parents to run to. The occupation imposed a curfew, allowing us only two hours a day to get food.

These tough days passed, but like a huge rock on my chest. After high school, my six brothers refused to let me go to college. I cried my heart out, hugging my hopes and dreams, burying them deep in my broken heart. I was ambitious and loved life in every possible way; I always tried to learn new things. I loved reading and writing. I wrote my own poetry and secretly listened to English radio in the dark, lonely nights. I had no stable home before marriage, moving between my brothers' homes every two weeks, searching for peace and happiness.

I just wish that all parents could live forever.

At 19, I married my cousin against my will. The celebration was nothing like I had dreamed of, limited by the Israeli occupation, curfews, and arrests. I was happy to move to a new place, different from the world I was living in. We lived in the heart of nature, where I found escape in trees on tough days. But soon, a new series of miseries began; I became a mother quickly and had to take on many responsibilities, serving my husband's mother and family. Even in my last month of pregnancy, I had to carry heavy loads of laundry and wipe the floors every day.

In a blink of an eye, I was a mother of 7 beautiful daughters and three sons. The years passed as if I was in a coma; I can't describe all I've gone through: pregnancy, daily chores, domestic violence, raising 10 children, being a wife to a tough-minded man. He helped with the children but had no mercy otherwise. I can't count how many times my health declined or the times I wanted to cry. Now, I'm out of tears; I can’t cry.

After my last child in 2008, the Israeli siege on the Gaza Strip began. It brought a particular type of suffering to a mother of 10: no power, water, gas, high unemployment, travel restrictions, and constant wars. We regressed to cooking on fire, washing in the cold and dark, sleeping by candlelight, often starving.

Now, seeing my children grow up, I feel helpless. Our society limits women, underestimating our abilities. For these reasons, I urge every woman to stay strong, never give up on her dreams, and fight in every way she can; be brave, no matter your circumstances.

— Asmahan, A Mother in Gaza