22/08/2025
Hard to read.
When I tried to interview Marwa, the internet in Gaza was so bad I couldn’t hear half of her words. She then sent me a written follow-up, which was so moving, and so beautifully written, that I’ve ditched the interview altogether and am including it here in full: “Israel bombed our house into a pile of rubble and dust. Everyone in it-- my mother, my father, my four sisters, my brother, my baby niece-- became a memory in the same instant. During the war, the home had become our lifeline. Comfort wasn't always in words. It was in a shared cup of tea in the dark. It was my mother holding our hands, her presence a silent promise that we were not alone. It was my sisters distracting the children with stories. We would huddle together, our physical closeness a shield against the terrifying sounds outside. It’s probably a mercy that the house is now gone, because I don't think my heart could bear to see the physical emptiness of the rooms where so much life once existed. It’s the 'unimportant' moments, the background noise of a living family, that I miss the most. I miss the sound of my father's key in the door at the end of the day. I miss my mother's hand on my forehead, checking for a fever that wasn't there, just out of habit. I miss arguing with Nour about politics and then laughing about it two minutes later. I miss Mona's quiet smile from across the room, a look that says: 'I understand. I miss Ayat bursting into my room to show me a funny video. I miss the boys debating which one of them was the better gamer. Where all that beautiful noise used to be—there is nothing but profound silence. If I had one more moment with each of them, I would simply say: ‘Thank you.’ To my father: 'Thank you for believing in me more than I ever believed in myself.' To my mother: 'Thank you for every silent sacrifice I was too young or too busy to notice.' To my sisters and brothers: 'Thank you for being the irreplaceable pieces of my childhood and my heart.' And if I could sit them together one more time, I would say to them: 'I see you. I see everything you did for me, for us. And I am so incredibly grateful.”
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Marwa Abu Al-Nour is a mental health supervisor. Her story is part of a series I am doing on the Palestinian staff of Doctors Without Borders in Gaza.
