Ayat Al Haj

Head of Public Relations and Media at Nasser Medical Complex, Khan Yunis

Before October 7, my life was dedicated to the pursuit of scientific research, a passion I embraced with ambition and enjoyment. My dreams didn’t cease after that date; I continued to work on my research even after the shock of my home being destroyed by the Israeli occupation. My family and I miraculously survived and were displaced just two days into the current genocide. We were initially among relatives, but eventually, we were forced to live in tents in Mawasi Khan Yunis after fleeing our city of Rafah under the constant threat of warplanes and quadcopter bullets.

Living in a tent led to a deep depression, an experience I never imagined I would face. To cope, I focused on my dream of earning a PhD in media and spent two months during the genocide completing my scholarship application, for which I was even nominated for and completed an interview. Though my hopes were high, I did not receive the scholarship. Despite the disappointment, I was determined not to lose hope. I planned to improve my application and English language skills for a better chance next year.

However, the onset of starvation in Gaza has changed everything. My thoughts are no longer consumed by scientific research or the dream of a doctorate. My only concern now is finding a meal for my children each day to keep them from dying of malnutrition or starvation. My greatest fear is the day I will not be able to find food for them. We have had no sugar for more than three months, and there have been periods without flour. I remember one day when we managed to buy a bag of flour for 500 shekels—approximately $150—a stark increase from its pre-genocide price of $15. The joy on my five-year-old daughter Zeina’s face when she received a simple piece of bread was as if a feast had descended from heaven.

Before the genocide, my children and I would spend our evenings discussing our dreams and ambitions for a beautiful future. I encouraged them to pursue their desired specializations and complete their graduate studies. Now, our conversations are limited to the food, dishes, and sweets we used to enjoy. Their dreams have been reduced to a plate of salad or a piece of candy, fruit, or chicken.

As Head of the Public Relations and Media Department at Nasser Medical Complex, I witness the suffering firsthand. The facility, which serves nearly one million people, has had its bed capacity more than doubled. We receive victims of so-called humanitarian aid, each with a heartbreaking story. In particular, I will never forget Hassan Barbakh, a blond child with green eyes, who died of malnutrition before he could receive treatment. I am exhausted from filming and sharing videos of starving, wounded, and malnourished children, constantly imagining them as my own. I feel I am speaking to a blind and deaf world.

The genocide has also touched my own family. Just days ago, my husband’s brother, Ayoub, was killed by an explosive bullet to the head at a humanitarian aid distribution point. He was a husband and a father to two daughters, Wafaa, 14, and Nidaa, 12, who are now grappling with the shock of his loss.

Despite all this, I am determined to hold on to my dreams for the sake of my own children: Wafaa, 15; Abdulrahman, 13; Hour, 9; Zeina, 7; and Lilian, 9 months old. My daughter Wafaa looks up to me as a role model; her dream is to be like me. For their sakes, I must hold on to my dreams, because we have nothing left but that.