As we step into 2025, the greatest celebration we hope for is to end Israel's genocide
Dear 2024, as you approach your end, I reach out from the devastated land of Gaza, a place where the ominous sounds of drones drone on overhead, and the deafening echoes of bombs fill our air with despair.
Our lives have been transformed into a waking nightmare since Israel's genocide began in October 2023.
You, dear year, have shown no mercy; you've been a relentless tide of agony and despair, sweeping away our hopes, dreams and the very essence of normalcy we once knew.
I still cannot shake the haunting memories of those harrowing days when we were ordered to abandon our homes and seek refuge in Rafah, a city that has become both a sanctuary and a prison for us.
Our lives, rich with memories and comfort, were carelessly crammed into flimsy backpacks that felt increasingly inadequate as we faced the daunting unknown ahead.
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Each day brings a fresh wave of unease, but I vividly recall the heart-wrenching farewell to my once-cozy bedroom filled with beloved books, the smell of old paper mingling with the warmth of cherished memories.
Now, those days are replaced by a cold and uninviting reality, a sea of uncertainty and fear that engulfs us.
Collective anguish
January brought us the horror of forced evacuations, moments forever etched in my mind - the grim silence enveloping my family as we clung together on a truck, surrounded by the anxious faces of strangers, children and adults alike, all terrified of the unthinkable that loomed near.
The weight of their fear sat heavy in the air, a collective anguish that transcended words.
As we witnessed the chilling reality of makeshift shelters springing up along the landscape, I felt the bitter cold seep into my bones.
Nights spent on the hard, unforgiving ground brought tears of pain and shivers of hunger, our bodies and spirits deteriorating under the relentless weight of diseases and the indignity of crowded shared bathrooms.
The absence of privacy has become a cruel twist in our suffering, compounding our physical discomfort with a sense of helplessness.
Each day of starvation loomed ominously over us, gnawing at our stomachs and our hope, as we were often left to confront the unthinkable choice of either eating or merely surviving.
Evacuations turned into a grim routine, the only thread of existence we clung to in a landscape painted with fear of death and a longing for mere survival. Ramadan, a sacred month traditionally filled with reflection, family and prayer, passed us by in a shadow, overshadowed once more by the brutality of our current reality.
Mounting despair
The cycle of massacres crept ever onward, invading what should have been moments of celebration and joy. Our Eids were filled with sorrow and whispered grief, as we faced our own slaughter instead.
This year has dragged us through every season's trials, each one a painful reminder of what we have lost
Reflecting on the horrors of genocide, I can still hear my father's footsteps on the hard ground as he collected wood for bread, the morning air filled with the loud sounds of artillery.
With every blast, our choices became more urgent, and our world broke apart more with each sign of growing violence. We learned to hurry as we grabbed the few things we could save; every time we had to leave, we left pieces of ourselves behind, bits of a life that felt more and more out of reach.
In our dislocation, we found ourselves reduced to mere threads of what once was. We set up makeshift tents by the unforgiving sea, the vibrant waters I once cherished now turned turbulent, resonating with our collective anguish as the waves crashed violently against the shore.
The sun, once a source of joy and warmth, became another adversary, beating down mercilessly upon the tents that had become our only refuge. My mind reels at the thought of how I used to walk along the beach, laughing with family and friends, and now to see it choked with sorrow and despair twists the heart and mind in ways I never imagined possible.
This year has dragged us through every season's trials, each one a painful reminder of what we have lost.
In November, as I approached another birthday marked with silent sorrow rather than joy, I couldn't help but reflect on the mounting despair that eclipsed our moments of happiness and celebration.
The fears of another passing year weighed heavily upon my shoulders, threatening to crush my spirit as I count the days filled with loss instead of laughter.
While people around the globe prepare for celebrations, eager to welcome the new year, we find ourselves entrenched in mourning; mourning lives lost and futures stolen.
December arrives, heavy with the weight of suffering, even as the world feasts on abundance and joy, oblivious to the plight of Gaza, a land orphaned by war and chaos, stripped of dreams and dignity.
Others are exuberantly decorating their homes, sharing meals and exchanging gifts while we struggle against an unseen enemy, battling isolation and desolation.
The stark contrast is hard to bear; while hope fills the air for some, it remains an elusive shadow for us, as dreams of peace and a quiet life seem to echo faintly in our hearts, nearly forgotten amid the rubble.
End the genocide
Perhaps the greatest irony lies in the fact that the world engages in merriment, unaware that our very survival hinges on the ephemeral moments of hope and solidarity we strive to preserve amid our codified grief.
We yearn for the dawn of a new year illuminated by the glimmers of peace that we so desperately seek
As we step into 2025, the greatest celebration we dare to hope for is the end of this genocide and the promise of a brighter future reborn from the ashes of despair.
We yearn for the dawn of a new year, not marked by the ticking clock or shining lights, but instead illuminated by the glimmers of peace that we so desperately seek.
In the coming year, may we find the strength to rise from the depths of our struggle and reclaim our identity, dignity and humanity; defined not by tragedy, but by resilience.
This is my prayer as the shadows of 2024 recede, hoping that our stories will not remain unseen in a world distracted, but will instead resonate with those who have the power to listen and act for change.
The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Eye.
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