Gaza Diaries: Sara
Editor’s Note:
This is part of More to Her Story’s ongoing Diary series, offering first-person accounts from young women living through conflict, repression, and change. All names have been changed for safety.
My life was never perfect. I did not grow up rich, but now I realize I once had the world compared to what we are living through today.
This is pain at its peak: trapped in a loop with no way out, gasping for breath, wondering if thereis even a way forward. This is a war that erased our dreams, stole our mornings, and made us strangers even to ourselves.
It snatched away the joy of learning and replaced it with days spent standing endlessly in line for water, or waiting for food that comes soaked in humiliation. Things that once cost a few coins now cost hundreds — if you can even find them.
And worst of all? Our worn-out tent — it does not protect us from the burning sun or the cold winds. I feel like I am melting inside. The sun scorches my skin like fire. My mother looks like she might faint from the heat, and my wounded father — he needs comfort and care, but he cannot sleep under these harsh rays. Every visitor runs from the cruelty of this tent. We stay, not by choice, but because we have no other option.
Fetching water feels like walking into a battlefield. People push, yell, curse, even fight — terrified they won’t get their share. You might lose your turn just trying to stay safe, walking away empty-handed, hoping for the next truck. And when it does arrive, you run again, desperate to get water — any water — for your family.
Despite everything… we still keep trying.
One of the most heartbreaking scenes — the one that truly shatters my heart — is watching my mother go to the food kitchen. She is in her sixties, yet she stands at the door with so many other women and children, only to be told that the meals are “for certain areas” or “specific people.”
The door is often shut in her face.
Still, she waits — hoping someone will feel mercy, even just enough to give her a small portion.
After standing there for a long time, she walks back with sad eyes and a heavy heart. It is painful to see her pride broken like this. No one should have to lose their dignity just to feed their family.
On another day, she tries again — searching for anything to bring home for me and my siblings. The crowd is bigger now. Life is getting harder, and food is almost impossible to find. As soon as the kitchen opens, people push and shove, climbing over one another. In the chaos, someone spills boiling food on her foot — burning her badly.
She runs back to our tent, empty-handed. Her face pale, her body weak — she has not eaten in days. Her health is getting worse.
But what hurts her the most is not the burn, or the hunger…it is that she came home with nothing for us. Not to satisfy hunger — just enough to keep us standing.
Everything your heart desires has become a faraway dream.
You crave just a small piece of candy, barely enough for a child, only to be shocked that it costs more than 20 shekels. You walk a little farther and see a man selling cheese — something we have forgotten the taste and smell of.
You ask the price.
He answers casually with an amount you simply cannot afford.
And it goes on like this with every item.
You return to your tent — empty-handed, disappointed, exhausted.
Another day passes…
A day with no joy, no meaning, no value.
In times of war — and from my humble perspective — I believe the psychological war is the cruelest of all.
The fear, the pressure, the forced displacement, the loss of your home — it breaks your sense of safety.
You live in constant terror of what’s next.
This is our life — a life shadowed by death.
And our death?
It happens a thousand times — right in the middle of a life that barely feels like living.