Warda story

My name is Warda, I am 36 years old, and I am a mother to four children, one of whom has a disability.

I used to live in the Jabaliya Refugee Camp, in a modest house that held my dreams and the dreams of my children. We were living a quiet and stable life, filled with love and safety.

Although life was not perfect, I was somewhat happy, as I owned a small shop selling clothes. This shop was a source of income for my family, and I took on the responsibility of providing a decent life for them.

But in a moment, we never expected, our lives were turned upside down. Bombing, destruction, and devastation—like the horrors of Judgment Day—came upon us. This war arrived like a nightmare, darkening my life and the lives of my children.

The bombings and killings kept coming, destroying everything in its path—people, trees, homes—and shattering our dreams, hopes, and everything beautiful in our lives.

The war began, and with it, our peace, safety, and reassurance were stolen. I lost my house, my source of income, and I lost many family members in an airstrike that targeted a residential area in Jabaliya Refugee Camp. The house collapsed on top of us, some lost their lives, and others emerged from the rubble, shocked and devastated by the loss.

I managed to pull myself and my children from the ruins. In response to their screams and to protect their lives, I made the difficult decision to flee from the north to the south, leaving behind my shattered dreams.

To escape death, my children and I walked the path of destruction, feeling fear, horror, and shock from everything we had witnessed. We continued walking, with continuous crying and despair.

The bodies were scattered along the roads, bombs rained down on us, and the military vehicles surrounded us. We didn’t expect to survive—it felt like Judgment Day.

But by God’s will, we made it to a place I believed at first to be safe. I sat on the pavement, not knowing what to do, while my children and husband relied on me to find them a place to sleep. My husband suffers from a mental illness, which causes him to lose consciousness and requires constant medical attention.

They needed water and food after a long and exhausting journey under the scorching heat, which drained all our energy. I cried until someone came and offered me some fabric so I could make a tent for my family to sleep in. But after some time, we were forced to flee again, this time from the eastern part of Deir al-Balah to Mawasi Khan Younis due to ongoing evacuation orders. From one displacement to another, we have been displaced five times—until we finally settled in an area, we hope is safe.

And here we are, in a tent that offers no protection from the summer heat or the winter cold. From the warmth of my home to this tent, which I’ve been unable to adjust to even after a year since the devastation of the war.

This is where my daily struggles began. I walk long distances to get water and gather whatever I can—some bread and tea—to prepare breakfast for my children, who went to bed hungry the night before.

Despite my husband’s illness, which prevents him from providing for the family, I set up a small stand to provide for my family’s basic needs. However, the cost of living has increased dramatically, and the prices in the market have tripled since before the war. As a woman who owns nothing after losing everything, I have found myself unable to buy food or bread. As a result, I make bread in the tent, and unfortunately, this is another tragedy. Wood is scarce, and to buy it, I need a large sum of money, which I don’t have. So, I make the bread over a fire fueled by cardboard and plastic, which has severely affected my health.