14 May 2025
The walls of a nylon tent are very thin.
Our neighbors were just a meter away, though it felt like they were even closer.
The tents were so tightly packed into the Yarmouk stadium in Gaza City that I
heard every sound as if there were no barrier at all.
One evening, it would be a neighbor bathing. I could hear the buckets being
filled, the water splashing, even the zippers being zipped.
In the next moment it was an argument or a conversation – most often
about food.
“This is my share – don’t pretend you didn’t take extra yesterday!”
“We waited in line for hours, and now there’s nothing left for my children – how
is that fair?”
People’s lives were unfolding right beside me with only a thin piece of fabric
between us, barely enough to divide space, let alone protect dignity.
From tent to tent, our different noises blended into each other, but each sound
was distinct – even silence.
Just as I could hear every detail of their lives, they could hear mine. Neighbors
knew when my husband and I whispered to each other, when the baby woke up
crying. They knew if we had managed to get food that day, and if we hadn’t.
Even outside the tent, my life was exposed in a way I’d never experienced before,
with comments on my clothes or other matters. No emotion could be had in
private. Our lives were open books, unwillingly read by everyone around us.
Personal space no longer existed.
The value of a door
Before the war, I lived with my in-laws for five years. Though they were kind, it
was a great relief when my husband and I moved into our home in Beit Lahiya in
northern Gaza in April 2023.
It was, for me, the embodiment of peace: a room with a door I could close when I
wished; a kitchen to cook any meal I wanted; a space adorned according to my
taste and preferences.
In May 2024, we were forced to evacuate to a relative’s house in the al-Daraj
neighborhood of Gaza City, where 15 of us were crammed into a room that would
comfortably fit four.
There, the psychological war began. I couldn’t change my clothes without asking
everyone to look away, as if my body was no longer my own.
I couldn’t cry when I needed to cry – there was simply no space for sadness.
I would escape to the bathroom to sit in silence for a few minutes.
But knocks on the door would come immediately: “Hurry up! It’s my turn!”
Even my silence had no place.
I thought that overcrowded room was the worst it could get.
But in July 2024 at around 4 am, that very house was shelled while we were
inside. We rushed to the basement and stayed there until around 7 am.
When the situation calmed down slightly, we were able to leave. It was a
terrifying night, and we left with nothing on our backs.
We fled again, and that is when we moved to the tent at Yarmouk stadium.
One night, the suffocation inside the tent was unbearable. I needed a
minute alone.
I walked out into the dark, sat behind a piece of rubble and cried.
As I was on my way back to the tent, my neighbor asked gently, “Are you OK? I
heard you.”
Source: electronic Intifada
