My name is Tahreer Abu Suleiman. I am a mother of four children, but today only three of them are still with me. My husband and my son were both killed in the war here in Gaza, and from that moment on I became the only person my children can depend on. Life was never easy for us, but when the war began, everything collapsed at once.
My son was just eight years old when he was killed. He was a brilliant boy, full of promise. At the start of the war, when the electricity went out and he could not study, he asked to stay at his aunt’s house because she had solar power. He just wanted to continue his lessons. That same day the house was bombed. My son, his aunt, and her child were all killed instantly.
My husband Mohammad was killed early in the war too. His car was targeted and he never made it home.
We had not even begun to understand one loss before another came. Even now, I sometimes sit in silence trying to absorb it all. My son was only a child. He had nothing to do with any of this.
Before the war we lived simply but with dignity. I worked as a hairdresser, and my husband worked as an electrician. My children went to school, wore clean clothes, ate well, and had a normal life. We were not rich, but we were stable. Now that life feels like a story that belongs to someone else.
Since the war began we have been displaced five times. Each move stripped something away, our home, our belongings, our sense of safety. We lost our dignity along the way. Today we have no stable income and no certainty about tomorrow.
I no longer have the luxury to collapse. If I fall apart, my children will fall apart too. I must stay on my feet, even on the days when my heart feels too heavy to carry.
Life in displacement is a daily struggle. Instead of waking up to prepare my children for school, I wake up to light a fire so I can heat water. I spend hours washing clothes by hand, queuing for bread, or for clean water. My children, who should be playing or learning, instead have to stand in long lines for hours. Sometimes they come back empty handed or even beaten. This is not a life anyone deserves.
We have no electricity. To charge my phone, the only way my children can join online learning, I have to leave it for hours with someone using a generator. Once, my phone was stolen. Prices are impossible now, but without a phone my children lose their only connection to education.
Even so, I tried to rebuild a little piece of my old life. I hung a small sign outside our tent that says I am a hairdresser for women. With the few tools I have left, I try to work, to earn anything, to feed my children. But with the crisis so deep and support severely disrupted, even surviving feels like a fight.
One of the few sources of comfort came from the psychosocial support sessions offered through Wefaq Association, with support from Women for Women International. A specialist named Safaa sat with me and my children. She listened to us, understood the weight I carry, and taught me small ways to help my children cope, how to play with them using whatever we have, how to create tiny moments of joy, how to help them forget even briefly the fear and the loss. My children always looked forward to her sessions. Seeing them smile felt like a small light in a very dark time.
But the challenges remain. This tent is not a home. At night the cold seeps through everything. Sometimes I sit alone and think about who I was before and who I am now. We have been wronged from every direction. We are suffering in every way.
Today my wish is simple, electricity, normal food, a washing machine, a bit of safety, and a place that feels like home again. I want my children to continue their education without fear. I want them to have a life with dignity. This is not much to wish for, but right now it feels like a distant dream.
I do not know what the future holds, but I hold on for my children and for the hope that one day life will return to something that feels human again.