The Women of Gaza Remind Us That Hope Is a Daily Act
As a ceasefire between Israel and Hamas takes hold, I find myself thinking of the women who, even amid ruins, have kept Gaza alive. For them, “the day after” is not a political abstraction or headline—it’s a question of survival, dignity, and whether their children will live to see normal life again.
Every time I speak with women in Gaza, I am struck not only by their grief but by their unshakable will to live, to nurture, and to hope. Despite devastation, they continue to “teach life,” as one mother told me, “because our children deserve mornings, birthdays, and dreams.”
Another woman echoed: “Even if all I can give my children is the promise of a better meal tomorrow, that promise is what keeps us alive.”
I’m the Women for Women International Country Director for Palestine, supporting women in Gaza and the West Bank, where I live. It’s a constant struggle to overcome my own feelings of pain, stress and anxiety and channel everything into our urgent humanitarian response and the needs of women and their families.
Too often, Gaza is reduced to numbers and rubble, yet its women prove that resilience means more than survival—it means insisting on life.
“We are not strong because we want to be,” said a grieving mother. “We are strong because we have no choice.” What should be admired is not suffering itself, but the dignity with which women resist despair and insist on shaping a future for their families.
Life today is marked by shortages of food, water, and shelter. Yet women transform even these struggles into acts of care. I hear stories of mothers waking at dawn so their children can feel a semblance of routine, even when schools are shuttered. Others queue for hours for water, then return home to cook the one meal that will bring the family together.
“All I want,” one woman told me, “is to wake up and prepare my children for school. To cook their favorite meal on a Friday. To sit together, to plan the weekend, to laugh again.”
When asked about the future, women’s hopes are simple yet profound. “I dream of celebrating my daughter’s birthday with cake, not with grief,” said one. “I dream of sending her to school in new clothes. These are the dreams that keep me alive.”
Another woman reflected: “The biggest dream is to have a bathroom with clean water. Can you imagine? Just a bathroom. And a roof that doesn’t leak.”
Some women dream beyond survival. “I want my son to finish university,” a mother explained. “I want my daughter to be a teacher. Even in war, we do not stop dreaming.”
What sustains women now are their faith, their children, and their community. “Alhamdulillah (Thanks be to God),” said one mother, “not because we are untouched by pain, but because faith is the only comfort we have left.”
What gives me courage is that Gazan women are not waiting for politicians or institutions to hand them solutions. They are already leading—in shelters, in community kitchens, in hospitals, and in classrooms improvised under tents.
One community leader put it clearly: “We are not passive victims. We are holding our communities together with our bare hands. We are demanding to be part of the decisions about tomorrow.”
Another added: “Peace is not only the absence of war. It is schools, jobs, safety, dignity. It is being able to raise children without fear, to host weddings, to celebrate birthdays.”
The world often frames Gaza through the language of destruction. But women here are rewriting that story with resilience and imagination. “We don’t need pity,” said one. “We need solidarity.”
Another concluded with a reminder: “Hope is not given to us—we create it. Every day, we still teach life.”
For the women of Gaza, the “day after” is not an abstract political question. It is a vision of children returning to classrooms, families reunited around a table, and lives restored with dignity. That is the story the world must hear—and support.