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On April 20, my children Carmel and Ibrahim grew a year older in the middle of a war that has brought us death, fear, and displacement. Carmel turned four, and Ibrahim turned six.
As the day approached, they began to urge me to do something special for their birthdays, to celebrate in some way that would restore a semblance of normalcy to our lives, to make things feel the way they did before the genocide. The ongoing aggression, which has now lasted for more than 18 months, has made it difficult for us mothers to remember the dates of special occasions—even the simplest of them, like our children’s birthdays.
Rice pudding instead of birthday cake
Last year, we were living in a tent in the al-Mawasi area, south of Khan Younis. The circumstances were not at all suitable for marking dates or celebrating anything. My four children’s birthdays came and went without my even noticing them. I didn’t have the luxury of contemplating the details of the occasion like I used to, every year, on each of their birthdays.
Looking back at their birthdays after they’d passed, all I felt was deep regret and sorrow. It felt like I’d lost a part of my motherhood with every moment of forgotten celebration or remembrance.
This year, I couldn’t let Carmel and Ibrahim’s childhood desire to celebrate their birthdays go unfulfilled again. Regardless of how helpless we are and the dire circumstances we’re in.
I resolved to defy the darkness enveloping us and try to resist the fear, even if just a little, to overcome the sounds of the nearby bombing and satisfy my children’s desires with whatever was available. Despite the scarcity of basic food supplies and the exorbitant prices of every detail of life, I still decided to try. Perhaps what encouraged me this time was our recent return to Gaza City.
We “celebrated” this year in a way that was completely unlike what we’d been used to before October 7. But it was our own way of asserting our love of life in any way we could.
The thought of buying a birthday cake, for example—the simplest symbol of celebration on such an occasion—was a great indulgence. A small cake, which could barely serve our family of six, costs 120 shekels, about 34 USD. Before the genocide, I’d buy one for my children for every celebration for only 35 shekels, about 10 USD.
The first dilemma was figuring out how I could convince my children that we’d be celebrating without a birthday cake. Then I had to think of what I could replace it with.
It wasn’t easy. But after many attempts and little concessions, we arrived at a solution: I’d make them rice pudding, the popular dessert our mothers and grandmothers used to make us for special occasions. It only requires limited ingredients that we wouldn’t need to pay exorbitant prices for, and luckily, we still had most of what we needed. It’s also a fulfilling and nutritious meal—which is essential for my children in light of the famine we’re experiencing.
It was our own way of asserting our love of life in any way we could.
I also promised to make them some hot cocoa, their favorite drink, to top it all off. Even if it was just with simple ingredients.
The day was saved by a phone call from my sister, who also lives in Gaza City. She wanted to come visit us. She arrived with a small toy for each of my children. Her presence and the simple gifts she brought were a real source of joy. My children had a newfound reason to smile.
As I gave each of them their portion of rice pudding, my eldest son Rayan jumped up and said, with his usual smile, “As you eat, imagine it’s a piece of cake… it’ll taste even better!”
And when I asked them to close their eyes and make a wish, their small voices said, all together, “We hope the war ends and the crossings open.”
That was our way of asserting our undeterred love of life.
The curse of war dashed all my hopes
After my children’s birthday passed, I drowned in a whirlwind of thoughts about what life had come to. How a wish to commemorate their births had transformed from a joyful occasion to a difficult and painful task.
My children’s birthdays have always brought me great joy and gratitude. They are my little mini-me’s, for whom I’ve dedicated my life and health, to create a special life for them, one worthy of the special places they hold in my heart.
But the war robbed me of this sentiment, without my realizing it. It has shackled me with anxiety, depression, and intense psychological pressure. Even contemplating the details of my children’s suffering has become an unbearable burden. Nothing resembles what our lives used to be. Nothing matches our dreams.
I used to imagine Carmel growing up differently. She was the first daughter that God blessed me with after having two boys. I used to picture her at this age—four years old—in the most beautiful dresses, as soft and delicate as she is. I pictured her walking beside me in the streets of our beautiful city as I’d practice my hobby of taking photos of her everywhere we’d go, so she’d remember.
I wanted to take her on special little trips, her and me, wanted her to be my companion, for her to be her mother’s friend in every step of life. For us to share the little moments that make life more beautiful.
But now, she and I sit together, confined to the house, not daring to go out into the street. Besieged by the fear of indiscriminate shelling that could strike us at any moment, wherever we are.
I remember how the closure of the crossings, and the limited options available for children’s clothing, also robbed me of the freedom to achieve these simplest of desires.
I will never forget how I used to count the days for Ibrahim to grow up, surrounded by his friends at school, shaping his own little world in that intelligent way he has, in a way that suits his sweet soul.
But the curse of war shattered all my hopes. It had the last word. It decreed that my children would grow up somewhere different… that they would live many, many years in just 18 months.
Immersed in these thoughts, lost between what I’d wished for and what I fear, I was hit by a wave of scenes of fathers and mothers embracing the bodies of their martyred children. Those final farewells, the final embrace before eternal departure.
I feel my soul break at the silence of those images. All I can do is raise my hands in prayer. To entrust the lives of my four children to God, their past and future. May He grant them a safe and happy life, one that befits the innocence of their little hearts.
