Palestinians are raised in survival mode, but nothing prepared us for this

Gaza is not just my homeland where I was born and raised. Its significance extends far beyond geographical boundaries. Over 25 years ago, I left Palestine for California. I studied international relations at first, to find a solution to what had been happening in Palestine, and to put an end to the suffering of my people.

But I came to the conclusion that politicians are politicians and that they are only going to support their own interests. So then I decided to study psychology, thinking to myself, let me try to help one person at a time.

I left it, but the land is where family and loved ones continue to live. It is the home that is intricately tied to the presence and well-being of those I hold dear to my heart.

Although my homeland evokes nostalgic memories, cultural roots, and a sense of identity, the ongoing presence of family breathes life into the idea of home. The homes where family members still live become integral chapters in the story of my sense of belonging and connection.

For many summers, I’d take my three children and visit Gaza to spend time in the homes of family members. Uncles, aunts, cousins, my father and my siblings – each home, a simple structure in Bureij refugee camp in central Gaza, to me was a comforting familiarity, filled with memories and shared experiences.

But this war has destroyed all of that.

It’s been more than 100 days since the violent and vicious war on the Palestinian people in Gaza began. One hundred mornings of bombings, death, destruction, and starvation.

I’ve spent 100 days being hooked to the news and flipping through social media and news channels – desperately trying to find any information that could tell me which area had been bombed - the orange orchards we once played in, the school we’d walk to each morning? - thirsty for knowledge and a hope that education would offer us better opportunities.

One hundred days of waiting to hear the names of the Palestinians killed that day. Would my family be among the dead, or not?

My morning ritual of prayers was soon followed by calls and messages to each and every friend and family member. But as Israel disconnected all forms of communication, I’ve become reliant on the news.

Headlines of 29 Palestinians dead, 17 Palestinians dead, are just numbers for some, but for me, it’s become heart-wrenching trauma, the uncertainty of not knowing if the faces I grew up with are amongst them.

I turn to social media and go over every post, reading sometimes over a thousand, digging through them for my loved one's names to see if they are buried among the dead.

I return to the phone, dialling numbers. If I’m lucky and I get through to a family member, before I hear their voice, it’s the chilling air strikes I hear dropping on the neighbourhood I grew up in.

Then my sister’s shaky and fearful voice tells me the names of family and neighbours who have been killed. I last spoke to her a week ago, and am left with the haunting echo of her voice: “When will this end? Why is this happening to us? Why does no one care? Are our lives worthless?"

Nothing I have studied in my 11 years of psychology has prepared me for this. I feel helpless, speechless, but I tell her: “No habibti, you are everything”. I tell her it will end soon, that it’s like the other wars before, in 2021, 2017, 2014, I could go on, but I know, the world knows, and she knows, it’s not.

Watching my family being bombed and having to run from one place to another, searching for a "safe" place, with nowhere being safe. While they run from one place to another for their lives, I continue my days running from one news station to another, from one social media platform to another, to find out if they still live.

We’re Palestinian

It’s been 75 years of war for Palestinians. My father and mother originated from Biʾr al-Sab and Yaffa respectively, where they were born and raised. In 1948, they became one family amongst the thousands who were displaced from historic Palestine into Gaza. That’s where my siblings and I were born.

Sadly, my mother passed away in 2012. My father, now 85 years old, has lived through 10 or more wars. He witnessed the British occupation of Palestine, the war of 1948, 1967, 1973, 1982, 1987–1991, the First Intifada from 2000–2005, the Second Intifada from 2008 – 2009, and the wars in 2012, 2014, 2021, and 2023.

Mama and Baba would speak to us about their lives in Palestine before the Israeli occupation, the comfort of living, the beauty of Palestine, and the land, rich in its soil and fruits.

When I was about 10 years old, I remember helping my brothers and sisters pick oranges from the orange orchard close to our home. It was owned by a Palestinian man and he’d offer us seasonal work. We’d climb the trees, pulling the sweetest oranges from the tree and passing them down to my brother who’d be standing by the trunk, holding a wicker basket to collect the fruits.

Sometimes the owner would let us keep a few. We’d take them home and Mama would make us fresh orange juice, and sometimes even murabba al burtoqal, homemade orange jam. If we had a lot, we’d sell them ourselves in the local market. To this day, the smell of orange blossom carries me back to that blissful childhood memory, when orange orchards had the chance to grow.

My parents lived through the trauma of the nakba. Bearing witness to Zionist gangs attacking them, their lands seized, forced exile. The hope to return to their land meant they kept the keys of their ancestral homes close to their hearts.

My father, like the other men of his age, had to find a way to survive and provide for his family. He completed his studies and found work as a passport officer between the Egyptian and Palestinian borders.

He lost his job after the 1967 war, and found work on a local farm, harvesting crops of runner beans, radishes and okra. He never complained about the hardships he faced while financially looking after a family.

We had a humble life, but found ways to make do. When we got fresh milk from the cows or sheep, Mama would keep some to sell, use some to make cheese for us - a creaminess I’ve never found since - and then if there wasn’t much milk left, she’d mix it with water so that there would be enough to go around for all of us.

Survival mode, amplified

Now displaced again and living close to the beach in Khan Younis, my father is getting by on pieces of bread that my brother finds from those around them who are willing to share. This is survival mode on a scale we’ve never seen before.

During the first intifada, we lived under Israeli curfews that would last weeks, even months, unable to not leave our homes, deprived of food and drink. Anyone who tried to leave their homes was shot at and either injured or killed.

Sometimes we’d risk it and sneak out at night to a little field where we’d pick sorrel and wild plants that Mama had once guided us to and told us weren’t poisonous. Taking back these plants, she’d boil it and cook the leaves, giving us sustenance for a few days longer.

People of Gaza have been brought up in survival mode. They’ve been taught how to be resilient since the time they could walk, without any trauma therapists or mental health support.

It’s been happening for generations and goes beyond intergenerational trauma. I came up with a new term during my research called complex continuous trauma, as it’s never-ending. How does one heal from events that keep on trying to break the human form, psychologically and physically?

Living through the fear of Israeli soldiers entering your home at night and arresting family members, like they did to my brother. Or banging their rifles on our windows as they walked past, shattering our plastic roll blinds, leaving shards of its now cracked sharp edges scattered across our homes.

I was also once arrested. On my way to Birzeit University where I had been studying history and political science, because I wanted to help my people. I wanted to solve the Palestinian suffering. I was 19 years old.

I was taken off the street and held in solitary confinement, with the soldiers verbally abusing me, threatening me with rape and leaving me physically and psychologically injured. Despite this, I was one of the lucky ones. My professor got an Israeli lawyer friend to get me out. A scholarship meant I was able to study at Durham University in the United Kingdom, moving later to the United States.

I was determined to help those still there, rooted to a land that Israel is still forcibly trying to eradicate us from.

There has always been a conspicuous absence of narratives from Palestinian children, even before this war. No one was documenting their stories of losing siblings, parents, or both. Who was providing for them, and how were they living, studying and sleeping?

These questions fueled my sense of responsibility as I pursued a career as a psychologist and researcher. I felt compelled to amplify their voices, share their stories, and delve into their experiences. This commitment led me to initiate research on trauma, particularly exploring the impact of war on children in conflict zones.

More than trauma

In 2016, I embarked on my research journey, surprised to find a lack of prior studies on the effects of war on Palestinian children. Travelling to Gaza, I interviewed children supported by Palestinian psychologists and psychiatrists.

I remember meeting an eight-year-old boy who was scarred from the 2014 war. He had sustained injuries to his stomach and back from the shrapnel of missiles or bombs dropped on his home by Israel.

The buzzing sound of drones – which have been a recurring fixture in Gaza's skies now for years – would trigger intense fear in him, prompting him to rush into a room, turn off the lights, and hide under his blanket, expressing a desperate desire not to be seen or targeted.

The year 2014 was marked by a particularly harrowing war, significantly impacting children. Over 50 days of continuous attacks on Gaza resulted in 2,200 Palestinian civilians killed, including 551 children.

At least 142 Palestinian families with three or more members were killed in the Israeli attack. Over 11,200 Palestinian civilians, including 3,436 children, were injured, with 10 percent suffering a permanent disability.

This prompted me to investigate the profound effects on their well-being. Witnessing the extent of trauma and mental health challenges among these children was both eye-opening and distressing.

Signs of war trauma in children include: recklessness and a struggle to adhere to household rules, accompanied by daydreaming, social withdrawal, fear of darkness, flashbacks, nightmares, avoidant behaviour, wetting the bed, sleep difficulties, and recurring memories of trauma.

Physically, these children suffered from the loss of limbs, loss of eyesight, excessive sweating, muscle pain, general fatigue, headache, poor vision, muscle pain in the chest, and hypersensitivity to heart rate.

Cognitively, these children grapple with confusion, a lack of concentration, inattention, incoherent speech, and a decline in academic performance. Despite all, these children have the right to live in a peaceful environment where they can complete their education and fulfil their dreams. This will never happen unless the occupation ends.

Little did I anticipate that the year 2023 would bring an even more intense chapter in this ongoing exploration.

As a mental health professional, I can tell you, there are no existing coping mechanisms to deal with this level of destruction.

Watching this happening again to my own family but amplified, in scenes that are worse than a horror movie makes me feel anxious, stressed, powerless, helpless, and sleepless, seeking God’s refuge and asking Him to put an end to this vicious, ugly war.

It’s a cycle and it’s been going on for years. War, in my view, is a destructive force that erodes our humanity and conscience. I firmly believe that prioritising our shared humanity is paramount. To help heal from the trauma, end the occupation, end it now.

How can I advise someone on what coping mechanisms they can use to get through this, when the people affected are living in fear that it will happen again and again?

We need a political solution before anything else and then we can start to deal with the impacts of healing from the trauma of genocide.

Until then, I will continue to speak up, watch the news, contact loved ones and hope my loved ones live through this.