Beyond my first years
I am 21 years old, but my experiences made me mature before my time, because what I went through left an impact. I started my life in the village of Jinsafut, near Ramallah governorate, my mother’s village. My early childhood was the gentlest period of my life, because my grandfather was very closeto me. When he passed away when I was six years old, it was the first big loss in my life. After that, everything changed. We moved to Old Askar Refugee Camp in Nablus governorate, my father’s place of origin. We became a big family: six children and my parents, who worked from dawn until evening to provide the basics.
The shock of “the camp”
The refugee camp differed from my village to the point of contradiction. There, the houses were packed together, with no privacy, and sounds pierced the walls to reach us. For a shy child like me, the camp was a siege. I will never forget a day in kindergarten, when the teacher’s hand reached out to slap my face because I did not master singing. That slap was more than just on my cheek; it planted a fear of others and a feeling of injustice. From that day I became more afraid, I started to avoid people, and I could not form real friendships.
The emptiness that fills the house
Although I am the youngest of the children, I grew up in a strange emotional emptiness; the absence of my father. He used to leave at dawn and return after sunset, eat and sleep. And the most painful thing: he did not hug me or say a simple word like “my dear”. In contrast, my mother was the lung through which we breathed, carrying the pressures of life and the interference of the extended family. We lived in the family home with my grandmother and my aunts and uncles, and the interference was constant, and the problems between my mother and father grew because of them. And my mother, despite everything, tried to be everything in our lives. I do not forget how she worked just to provide me with the cost of private lessons for Tawjihi, I passed, but university was expensive, so I chose the Modern University College in Ramallah because it is free for refugees.
Losing my support
During my first year at university, my brother was martyred. I and my mother collapsed because he was our support, the one who defended us and met our needs. After his martyrdom, the house turned into a very heavy place, and the relationship between my mother and father deteriorated to the point of separation. That is why I could not continue at the college, and I stayed with my mother who was facing violence and injustice. My grandmother repeatedly blamed my mother, holding her responsible for losing my brother. The pressure increased, and my mother decided to return to her family because she could no longer bear living in the refugee camp.
From one tightness to another
We returned to my mother’s family home. I thought the move would be better and that my situation and my mother’s situation would improve, but it did not as I expected. The accumulation of grief with the restrictions and with the loss almost suffocated me. I entered a clear state of depression. On one occasion I lost consciousness; after that I went to a neurologist and he prescribed me medication for depression, but I did not improve. On the contrary, I felt that I was sinking more, and I reached the worst point and stage in my life – I thought about suicide.
The light at the end of the tunnel
At the end of every tunnel there is a light that gives us hope, and for me this light was my cousin who became a real source of support for me. My relationship with him was very strong and close; after my brother’s martyrdom I considered him like my brother. He encouraged me to become closer to God and to pray, and most importantly: he pushed me towards a practical step. He used to tell me, “Enrol at university, choose a specialisation you like, and go back to build your life.”
I and my mother returned to the camp, but this time I was returning with a different mindset, the spirit of a “fighter”, not a “victim”. I enrolled at An-Najah National University, Faculty of Economics, Accounting, then switched to Marketing because it suited me more. I was studying and trying to raise my average, with a simple goal: to make my mother happy.
One of the most memorable moments was when a lecturer told me: “You are one of the outstanding students, do not neglect your talent.” Those words strengthened my self-confidence. Since then, I began to believe that what we say about ourselves creates our reality. I began to dream and hope, and I am confident that one day I will become as I want.
Psychological support is not just luxury
My recovery journey became stronger and I started to take bigger steps towards it, especially after I joined with my mother a psychosocial support group that includes mothers and wives of martyrs. Listening to the women’s stories made me see life from a wider angle: the pain is not only mine, and recovery is possible. The sessions helped me understand my feelings instead of fearing them, and I learned to set boundaries and defend myself and my mother. Before, as children, we used to stay silent when we saw our mother under pressure. Today, I stand up, speak, protect our boundaries, and I do not stay silent about injustice.
Proud of myself
When I look at the mirror today, I see a strong woman who is proud of herself. In the past, I could not look at myself in the mirror because of the isolation and pain, but today I am confident in myself, I love myself, and I am grateful for every experience I went through because it made me stronger.
My message to every woman going through the same experience: draw closer to God and continue. Continuity is the most important thing. Look for someone who supports you and avoid discouraging people. I advise you to receive psychosocial support because it helps a lot. Always remember after every night there is dawn, after every pain there is healing, and after every tear there is a smile. You are stronger than you imagine, and capable of overcoming any hardship. Life is beautiful when we believe in ourselves and trust our ability to change.