Discrimination from childhood
I come from a village; my husband, from the camp. My story is one of profound pain, rooted in a childhood that was anything but normal. Instead of play, my early years were defined by labor farbeyond my age. My mother, firm and “too serious,” forced me to leave school in the fifth grade toharvest olives. In her world, there was no space for tenderness—only exhaustion. My father was mysanctuary, the kind soul who balanced my mother’s strictness. When he died, I felt a part of myselfperish with him. Living through my mother’s discrimination between sons and daughters, I made a silent vow: “When I grow up, I will be the mother I wished for; I will be the embrace and the supportI was deprived of.” At 16, I found my calling in a sewing course. When my father opened a workshop at home, I realized that sewing wasn’t just work—it was the first time I felt I had skill and value.
When Space Becomes Tight
I married at 20, spending 17 years in the village where my children were born. But after my father’sdeath, our compass shifted. We moved to Askar Camp to live with my husband’s family, and my“kingdom” vanished. I started leaving my children in the street for long periods so I could spare them the problems and disputes. My husband became a stranger under our own roof, distancing himselffrom all of us. And with time, his presence and his absence became the same; the important thing was my children, and after that it did not matter to me.
The Painful Loss
At the height of these circumstances, the blow came that I was not ready for: the martyrdom of my eldest son. He was not just a son, he was my support, he was the only man who defended me, who wiped my tears and said: “Do not ask anyone for anything, ask me.” When he left, safety left. I entered a dark tunnel, where I cried away from my children’s eyes. I was withering in silence to preserve my image as a strong mother in front of them, until I reached a stage where I felt that life had lost all taste.
A Step Towards Healing
Salvation was not individual, but by an extended hand. When psychosocial support specialists visited me and encouraged me to join a supportive group made up of mothers and wives of martyrs, I was hesitant, afraid, and weighed down by grief. But my daughter encouraged me to participate, and she joined with me to encourage me and so that she herself could benefit. Our joining the group was the first step towards strengthening our resilience and strengthening our ability to heal and overcome the shock of loss. During the sessions, I realised that I “was living in a prison I had made for myself”.
My Strength is in my Positions
When I look in the mirror today, I see a solid woman. I am no longer the silent observer of my ownbreaking. I stand tall against challenges and protect my privacy. I am teaching my daughters that theyare not here for dependency, but for growth. Sewing was the first thread of my independence, and losswas the fire that forged my strength.
My message to every woman who is swallowing my pain:
You are not a “continuation” of anyone, nor a “shadow” of anyone. Be a support to yourself. Do not allow anyone to violate your boundaries or neglect your right to exist. Do not think that your grief is a fate you cannot escape; go out, ask for help, and create your own space. You deserve to live with dignity. Do not surrender to any man who takes away your rights and wastes your dignity.