Zyad Nassar
A displaced woman embroidering inside her tent in Deir al-Balah.
I met Hala inside a worn-out tent in Al-Mawasi in southern Gaza. The thirty-five-year-old was holding a piece of white fabric, a small needle, and a black thread, embroidering a Palestinian keffiyeh. From time to time, she narrowed her eyes to improve her vision, which had been severely affected by an injury she sustained during the war.
In October 2024, an Israeli strike put Hala, who asked that her last name be withheld to protect her safety, in a coma for five days. She woke up to the news that the attack had killed her husband, Ahmed, and left her missing a foot and the pinky finger of her left hand. But all she could think about, she says, was her five children. After her husband’s death, Hala became the family's sole provider.
“My children are young and need care and attention,” she says through tears. “They also need a monthly income so they can live safely and with dignity.”
No one helps her cover her children’s expenses, forcing her to return to embroidery despite the severe pain it causes her following her injuries.
Embroidery has been part of Hala’s life since childhood. When she was ten years old, she learned the craft from her mother, who had learned it from her own mother, creating a family tradition passed down from one generation to the next.
“Before I was injured, I did it because I loved the heritage and wanted to keep myself occupied,” she says.
Before the war, embroidery was not Hala’s main source of income, but rather, something she enjoyed doing in her free time. She used to embroider for about two hours each day, and earned about $150 a month by selling keffiyehs, traditional Palestinian dresses, and embroidered mirrors. Her husband worked as a driver and earned around $400 a month. Hala says that income was enough to cover family expenses and for the seven-member family to live with dignity.
She used her embroidery income to buy personal items and take her family to restaurants or to visit family and friends.
“I was living a happy, peaceful life before the war began on October 7, 2023,” Hala recalls. “When the war started, my happy life turned into hell.”
Before his death, Hala says she would wonder aloud to her husband when the war would end so they could return to their happy life. Her husband would put his hand on her shoulder, reassuring her the war and suffering would end.
But for Hala, the effects of war did not end when the fighting stopped. She was left without her husband, with permanent injuries, and with five children she was now responsible for supporting alone. When Israel and Hamas announced a ceasefire in October 2025, Hala says she could not celebrate.
“I could not be happy about the ceasefire,” she says, “because it came, but my husband was not with me.”
In September 2025, Hala was displaced to Khan Yunis in southern Gaza. She had almost nothing with her; even the cost of transportation to the south was covered by a donor. The family did not have a tent, so Hala and her children slept on the street for two days before a neighbor gave them a worn-out tent.
About two weeks after arriving in the city, a woman she had worked with in embroidery before the war contacted her and offered her a chance to return to work. Hala accepted immediately.
“I considered it my chance to survive,” she says.
Hala now works on the craft for more than twelve hours each day. The practice is no longer simply a way for Hala to preserve a tradition or pass the time: It has become her way of feeding her children and meeting their basic needs.
The shortage and rising cost of materials, driven by movement restrictions and recurrent Israeli military operations, has transformed embroidery work. Before the war, embroidering a keffiyeh required around four boxes of thread; now she uses only two to reduce costs. At the same time, the price of an embroidered piece has increased by more than three times, she says, because of the rising cost of materials—but demand for the products has continuously declined.
Still, Hala spends long hours sitting over a piece of fabric, holding a needle in her hand, and trying to overcome the difficulties caused by her impaired vision and injuries. Hala continues to work despite the pain because five children depend on her to provide what they need.
In her previous life, embroidery gave Hala a sense of independence and time for herself. Today, the craft has become a heavy responsibility she carries on a body exhausted by war—and a small hope for her children to live with dignity.