Yahya al-Masri is a Palestinian writer and linguist in Gaza.
I wake up around 7 a.m. each morning to the sound of the water truck arriving. The low rumble of the engine is a sound I have come to rely on in this displaced life. My brother, Rafiq, and I grab our plastic containers and rush downstairs from the third floor of the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees (UNRWA) school we now call home. The stairs creak under our feet as we hurry to join the crowd of displaced people. There is always a crowd—families from the school and neighbors from the surrounding area—waiting for their turn. If we miss this opportunity, we will not have a second as the water truck only comes once a day. There is simply no other source of water.
Once we have secured enough water, we return to prepare breakfast, lighting a small fire of wood, cardboard and plastic. On a good day, we make tea with fava beans or hummus—assuming we have bread. When there is no bread, we have tea and dry biscuits. This is our experience under severe famine, with drastic widespread shortages of food and clean water. It is difficult to explain the feeling of surviving with so little, but each meal feels like a small victory—however humble.
After breakfast, I leave to charge my phone. The school lacks electricity, so I walk to a man named Jameel, who runs a small solar-powered charging shop in his front yard. He charges 50 cents for a phone and $1 for a laptop. That might not seem like much, but every penny counts when living under the constant stress of war. These days, I spend ample time thinking about money: how to make it stretch, how to find any source of income and how to survive without any reliable support. The war has destroyed much of what we once had, making economic survival an exhausting challenge.
Thankfully, I managed to bring my Kindle when we fled our home. It has become my constant companion—a small escape from this harsh reality. Currently, I am reading "The Hundred Years' War on Palestine" by Rashid Khalidi. It is a powerful and essential book tracing the history of the Palestinian struggle, from the Balfour Declaration to the present. It is also haunting, as our experience today marks another chapter in that long, painful history. The pages echo our current plight, and each word weighs heavily on my heart. What we are enduring is not new—it is the continuation of a century-long struggle that has only produced suffering, loss and displacement.
We continue to fight. We continue to survive. We continue to dream of a new dawn—a day when we will no longer live under the shadow of war, displacement and genocide.
- Yahya al-Masri:
Later, I light a fire to prepare lunch. With famine tightening, the markets are mostly empty, and food supplies are scarce. The breadlines are long—even canned food is a rare commodity. My mother usually cooks rice or pasta that we stored away for such difficult times. It feels like a small victory when we are lucky enough to find canned beans or peas. On such occasions, we often say "wada'na looz"—a rare moment of comfort amid the chaos. It is an expression we have come to treasure, symbolizing the fleeting moments of relief stemming from joys as simple as a can of beans or a bowl of rice.
After lunch, I return to Jameel's shop to grab my phone. He has become more than just a man who charges our phones—he is part of our community now. We exchange brief words of encouragement and a quick smile before I head to the market near the school to buy an internet scratch card. I search for a spot with reception, sometimes sitting on the street at a nearby café. The internet is crucial for me, not merely to check the news or talk to friends, but as my lifeline to the outside world. I search for opportunities: scholarships to pursue a PhD in Linguistics and Discourse Analysis, alongside remote work opportunities that can help support my family. Every moment I spend on the internet feels like a small chance to build a better future free from the suffocating grip of war—an instance to hold onto the dream of something more.
Later in the day, I visit my friend Mohammad, who lives in the same school. We knew each other for years before the war. He is not just a friend—he is a comrade in this struggle. Mohammad studies history while I study linguistics. Despite the differences in our fields, we've found a shared space for collaboration: analyzing political discourse with an eye for historical and linguistic perspectives. It is in these conversations that I find some solace. We talk about the future we hope to build—one where Palestinians can live with dignity; where we can speak our truth without fear; and where our voices can be heard above the noise of occupation and violence.
At night, I sit with my parents and Rafiq. My other siblings are scattered—forcibly displaced to different areas after repeated evacuations. We use our phones to check on each other and stay connected with friends and relatives. Our conversations are soaked in sorrow, survival and the endless uncertainty of life in a war zone. We speak the language of reassurance and grief: "Let us know you are okay," "Take care of yourselves," "God is with us," "May it get better soon," "May they rest in peace," and "Our condolences." These words, while meant to comfort, often carry more weight than we can bear.
We usually skip dinner—not because we lack food, but because our spirits are heavy. Our calls are often filled with tragic updates that silence any appetite. We try to quickly fall asleep before something happens that will keep us up: the sound of an airstrike, ambulances rushing to the nearby hospitals or the heart-wrenching news of more lives lost. If nothing happens, nightmares often disrupt sleep anyway. The terror of the past year-and-a-half has seeped into our subconscious, leaving our dreams haunted. Since this genocide began, I cannot remember the last time I had a peaceful dream.
The next day, we wake up and repeat the same routine—unless something unexpected forces a change, like sudden shelling or another forced displacement. We live every moment with our hearts clenched in fear, knowing we could be ripped away. But we refuse to stop. We continue to fight for survival, to protect each other and to keep moving forward. We ignore the odds.
Challenges close in from every direction—food, water, safety, connection and sleep—yet we carry on. With hope as a vital flame, we push forward. As Khalidi writes, the Palestinian people have endured the unthinkable: ethnic cleansing in 1948, military occupation in 1967, ongoing apartheid and the brutal wars of 2008, 2009, 2012, 2014, 2021 and the current genocide. It's been over 572 days of relentless horror. Yet, still, we refuse to give up.
We continue to fight. We continue to survive. We continue to dream of a new dawn—a day when we will no longer live under the shadow of war, displacement and genocide.
Through it all, we remember who we are: a people who have been displaced, oppressed and crushed under the weight of history. But we are also a people who resist, endure and never forget. We carry our past with us. We build our future one step at a time. For in the heart of darkness, there is always hope.
We continue. We survive. We dream of a new dawn.
