Haya El Wadyia
A shelter in Gaza City.
Two days before Eid in late March, I sat in the cafeteria I visit almost every day, trying to find a table where I could study for what remains of my final university semester. Since the war began, quiet spaces have become rare in Gaza, and even studying now feels like a luxury in an environment that allows for none.
The clinking of spoons, the smell of mint tea, and a low hum of voices filled the air. I stared at my phone, unable to focus. Every now and then, my eyes drifted toward my friend Saqr, who works at the cafeteria. He moved quickly between tables carrying Internet cards and drink orders. I called him over, and he sat with me for a few minutes.
“Do you like this job?” I asked him.
He smiled faintly. “Do we really have the choice to like or dislike?”
There was a brief silence. Then he said, “After everything that’s happened, I feel like I’ve aged ten years all at once.”
In October 2023, Saqr was a new university student living a simple life like any young man. He planned to earn a bachelor’s degree in accounting and dreamed of working for a big company after graduation. But war does not leave any paths untouched. In May 2024, he lost two of his brothers. In a single moment, everything changed. There was no one left to provide for his family except him. “Suddenly, I became responsible,” he said.
After the death of his brothers, Saqr left his studies behind. Exams and graduation were no longer within reach. “I used to think about the future,” he told me. “Now I only think about how to survive tomorrow.” I looked at him, not knowing what to say.
In Gaza, you can lose your family and lose your future along with it. As I sat there listening, I realized this was not just his story; over the past two years of war, everyone, including myself, has a story they never expected to live through.
Today, thousands of young people in Gaza are no longer just students; they have become providers, caregivers, and individuals carrying responsibilities far beyond their age. According to the Palestinian Central Bureau of Statistics, about 39,000 children in Gaza have been orphaned, having lost one or both parents since the beginning of the war.
This number reflects more than loss. It signals a profound social transformation. An entire generation is being forced to grow up too quickly and to give up its childhood or youth.
A generation that was meant to build a future now finds itself simply trying to endure. The question is no longer what do you want to become, but rather: How will you survive?
When I walked home later that afternoon, I passed a small boy on the side of the road holding a cardboard box, selling simple items like biscuits, gum, and sunflower seeds. He should have been in school, but here he was instead, trying to survive.
On my way back, my mother called, asking me to pick up a medicine she uses to treat migraines. I checked several pharmacies without luck; war makes it hard to attain even a simple box of medicine.
While I was still on the phone with her, I approached a small spice stand that was manned by a vendor whose fingers were stained yellow with turmeric. He was neatly arranging red, yellow, and brown bags, which filled the space with the scent of Palestinian za’atar and cumin. When I told my mother I couldn’t find the medicine, the vendor interjected, suggesting she try herbs instead.
“Drink them warm before sleep. And make sure she rests her head on a comfortable pillow. It helps sometimes,” he told me.
I looked at him, surprised. “How do you know all this?”
He smiled. “Because I used to study pharmacy.”
He told me he was only one semester away from graduating and becoming a pharmacist when the beginning of the war disrupted his education and diminished job opportunities. He had very little money, forcing him to choose: continue studying with no guarantee that he would graduate or get a pharmacy job, or find a more reliable source of income. He chose to open a small spice stand in a small venture with his friend. Among the bags of spices stood a whole future, delayed but not entirely broken.
“At least I can survive,” he said. “I hope one day I can return, finish my last semester, and open a pharmacy of my own.”
Right before I made it home, just before the evening call to prayer, I bought a cold bottle of juice from our neighbor Umm Ahmad, who stored the drinks in a small refrigerator powered by solar panels. I told my mother about the spice seller and how he had studied pharmacy. She listened, then said, “Do you know that Umm Ahmad used to be a teacher? She has a master’s degree in Arabic.”
After her husband was killed in 2025, my mother told me, Umm Ahmad became the sole provider for her children and her mother. She still teaches classes virtually, but needs to supplement her income. Plus, “her salary is delayed for more than fifty days, and even when it comes, it’s not enough,” my mother told me. I looked at the bottle of juice in my hand. “She had to do something,” my mother said.
With a few solar panels Umm Ahmad already had, she decided to set up a small space inside her tent to cool water and juice, selling them for a small amount of money. She does it not because she loves selling cool beverages, but because it is the only option for her family to survive.
These stories are not just about suffering; they are about resilience. Saqr goes to work every day, carrying orders and trying to smile. The child stands in the street, growing up faster than he should have to. The spice seller still holds on to his dream. And Umm Ahmad fills cups in her tent, doing what she can to feed her family.