كم ثقيلة هي الإجابة على سؤال "هل أنت بخير؟"
التاريخ: 
14/12/2024

When I turned 22 last year, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions as I celebrated during a time of genocide. It was different than before when there was laughter with family and friends. They would often surprise me with a cake, gifts, and balloons at restaurants, cafes, or my home. But last year, instead of joy, I found myself annoyed and sad — feelings I never expected to have on a day meant for celebration.

I used to feel blessed on my birthday. I would reflect on all that is good and that I am thankful for in my life. I’d celebrate my achievements despite challenges I faced that year, while surrounded by those I love. I’d be grateful for new successes and would make the most of my time. This was the Eman I knew — the one who was always tenacious and hardworking.

I was filled with sorrow in November of 2023 when I was supposed to celebrate.It was the second month of the genocide. I had witnessed many lives lost and buildings destroyed. It was supposed to be a special birthday for me, especially since it was the first one after I graduated. I was working as an English language teacher. Just a month earlier, I’d overheard my students whispering about throwing me a surprise party in class. That didn’t happen, of course.

Last year, it felt like not only my birthday was ruined, but also all my plans for the upcoming year. In that moment, I held on to the belief that there is always a blessing in disguise and that Allah (God) would grant us better things in the future; it was just a matter of time. However, I never anticipated that the genocide would last more than a year, and I certainly didn’t expect to mark another birthday during such horrific times. We are growing older, yet our days blur into a monotonous routine filled with the heartbreaking reality of witnessing such brutality by the Israeli regime.

A Question

"Are you okay?" This seemingly ordinary question carries a heavy weight in Gaza. It has become a daily inquiry from friends worldwide since the onset of the attack. While locals ask it to check on one another, it often feels like a mere formality. The reality is that no one is truly okay. Instead, the question serves as a grim reminder of survival amidst the ongoing turmoil, reflecting a shared understanding that while we may be alive, the trauma and suffering surrounding us define our existence.

Each time I am asked, "Are you okay?" I feel overwhelmed and at a loss for words. Can I truly claim to be okay after enduring relentless attacks for over a year? How can I be okay when I’ve been displaced repeatedly, witnessing massacre after massacre unfold before my eyes? The haunting images of torn bodies, especially those of children, linger in my mind, making it painfully clear that the reality I live in is far from okay.

How can I say I am okay when I am constantly confronted with heartbreaking videos of parents mourning their children — fathers who should be filling out birth certificates for their newborns but are instead issuing death certificates, or mothers desperately searching for their daughters beneath the rubble, only to find their boots stained with blood? These gut-wrenching realities shape my existence, making it impossible to reconcile the question of my well-being amidst such profound grief and loss.

How could I possibly say I am okay when I witness the world watching us burn alive, like Sha’ban al-Dalou near Al-Aqsa Hospital? There is a global indifference directed toward us as if our lives hold no value. Am I okay after being repeatedly displaced from my home, forced into unknown territories, and living in a tent through harsh winters, lacking basic comforts like mattresses or blankets? The relentless floods and swarms of insects, coupled with the absence of even the most fundamental healthcare and medication, further deepen the despair that makes it impossible to claim any sense of well-being.

How can I be okay when I am nagged by the memories of my life before the genocide, longing for the calm and peace I had with my family at home? The pain of that loss makes it hard to feel any sense of happiness now.

How can I be okay when I watch my parents struggle to find wood for heating because there's not enough gas? How can I be okay seeing my younger siblings without healthy food to help them grow? It's been over a year of only canned food, and we've completely forgotten what real, nutritious meals taste like.

How can I be okay when I see my dreams shattered before me? How can I be okay knowing I've lost the chance to finish my postgraduate studies because of this war? Each day I count brings more grief and despair, and I can't shake the memories of the precious things I've lost.

How can I be okay when I see my siblings and other children, who should be in school learning, instead, spending their mornings chasing after a water truck? Am I truly okay when I struggle to find a stable internet connection so I can share my writings with the world, seeking strength to amplify our voices? How can I cope with the devastating loss of relatives, neighbors, friends, and professors?

How can I be okay when fear and pain overshadow every thought of what tomorrow may bring? Each day, this suffocating question looms over me, leaving me yearning for a dictionary that might capture the despair and anguish I feel amid such unimaginable suffering and genocide.

Outside of Gaza, when one asks another, "Are you okay?" It is a routine exchange that can be answered without much thought, rooted in a reality where the right to exist is accepted. Inside Gaza, the relentless presence of death, along with the overwhelming sights and odors of debris, waste, and contamination, permeates the atmosphere, rendering everyday life a struggle for mere survival amid unending suffering. Inside of Gaza, this question is taunting.