It's OK to have a rough day. But twenty-five years? Twenty-five years, I think, is a little too much

Is it ok to have more bad days than we have good ones? Is it normal to carry more heartbreak than we carry joy? Because I don’t think I can keep handling that — or even bear to try.

Courtesy (Mohammed R Mhawish)

I was born under a sky lit by explosions instead of stars. My mom brought me into the world in the middle of war, during the Second Intifada, and if I’d known what was waiting for me, I might’ve slipped back into her womb. But babies don’t get a choice, so out I came — headfirst into war, blockade, and a life shaped by survival.

Now I’m 25, and nothing has changed. Gaza, again, is living through hell. The drones buzzing, warplanes roaring, and sleepless nights have become a permanent routine. War hasn’t become just a backdrop in my life. It’s the main character.

My childhood wasn’t “stolen” by one traumatic event — it was chipped away bit by bit. School days weren’t about books and friends; but about running for cover from falling rockets.

I don’t remember all the details, but the fear? That sticks. It never fades.

Growing up, I didn’t just witness war; I saw what it does to people, what it did to me. Even during days of “calm”, I lost four relatives — not to bullets or bombs, but to sickness. They needed medical care. They weren’t permitted to exit Gaza to get treatment. Life was — and still is — a gamble. The war, the blockade, they mean even the simplest rights like healthcare is a political game. One month you would get permission to leave; the next you won’t.

If you’re lucky, you’d get sick at the “right” time.

And it’s not just medical treatment abroad that’s hard — now we can’t even move freely within our own land. Gaza is locked away, and even the land we call home is slowly being taken from us. It’s not just the physical barriers; it’s the emotional toll of being trapped. Words like “blockade,” “apartheid,” and “siege” aren’t just headlines — they’re our everyday vocabulary.

In a span of twenty-five years, I “survived” five wars. Not “experienced,” not “witnessed,” not “lived through.” To stay alive isn’t just about avoiding death. It’s about finding reasons to keep going, even when the losses pile up. Did I find those reasons?

I’ve also lost people I love — friends, family, colleagues, neighbors. Their faces are gone, but their dreams stay with me. They had hopes that stretched beyond the refugee camp, and I feel like I owe it to them to keep living. We’re not just statistics or victims. We’re people who laugh, cry, dream, bleed.

What would you do if your child was sick, and you couldn’t take them to a hospital because of a checkpoint? If you couldn’t protect them from the sound of bombs, no matter how tightly you held them?

We refuse to be turned into numbers. Each tragedy pulls us closer together, grounding us in the same belief that’s kept our elders standing: this land is ours, and it defines us.

But resilience isn’t free. It costs us greatly every day. The kids who’ve never known peace still find ways to smile, even though they’ve lost parents and homes. They dream of simple things, like playing at the beach without fear.

It’s easy to think hope doesn’t belong here, but it does. It has to. Rafeef Ziadah, a Palestinian poet, said it best: “We wake up every morning to teach the world life.” And that’s exactly what we do. We hold onto life, even when it feels impossible.

Even in the rubble, there’s beauty. Gaza’s olive trees stand as a symbol of everything we are. They give us food, warmth, and connection to our land. That’s why the occupiers destroy them — they know what they mean to us. But every tree they cut down, every home they bomb, makes us hold on tighter to what’s left.

My grandfather would tend to his olive trees. He’d hold the branches gently like they were family. “These trees have been here longer than any of us,” he’d say. When the occupation uprooted them, it felt like losing a loved one. But we never stopped replanting. Because every sapling is a promise: we’re still here, and we’re not giving up.

It is not the duration of our struggle that is the challenge, rather, it is how we are able to navigate our lives as we keep moving towards our dreams. I’ve never seen Haifa, Safad, Lydd, or Yaffa, but I know they’re mine. I know all too well I belong there. My connection to them is unshakable, and I keep holding on to that belonging just like the millions of Palestinians scattered across Gaza and in exile now.

I wish I could say I see the light at the end of this tunnel, but the truth is, I don’t. Twenty-five years of war, of loss, of survival — it’s hard to keep carrying the weight when you don’t know if there’s ever a finish line.

There are days when I close my eyes and try to imagine what peace and freedom feel like, but the images don’t come. I see only the faces of the people I’ve lost. I hear the sound of the drones in the back of my head, the cries of children I reported on, the destruction of my homeland that deserves so much more.

Some days, it feels like too much. Like there’s no way forward, only a permanence of destruction and grief. Twenty-five years is too long to live like this. That’s what it means to be Palestinian: Daring to hope, daring to dream, and daring to live.