Assalamu aleykum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatu!
Dear sisters,
I live in the camp with my two children. Since this became our home, the meaning of ordinary things has changed.
Water supplies
In the camp, even the simplest necessities of life have become daily challenges. Water reaches our tents for only a few hours, electricity is limited, and the extreme heat, bitter cold, storms, and constant fear have become part of our everyday reality. Through it all, I am trying to give my two children something that circumstances cannot take away from them: hope.
Water is one of the first things we think about every day. It reaches our tent through hoses, but the supply is limited and usually lasts for only about four hours a day. When the water starts flowing, we try to fill every container and small tank we have before it stops. We have learned to use every drop carefully—for drinking, cooking, washing the children, and cleaning.
I no longer ask myself, “Do we have water?” I ask: “Will it be enough until tomorrow?”
Children Waiting for School
The hardest part for me is watching my children grow up without the normal life every child deserves. School is no longer a regular part of their lives. They still have questions, dreams, and the same curiosity as any other children, but their childhood has been interrupted by circumstances beyond their control. Sometimes one of them asks me, “When will we go back to school?” I smile and answer, “Insha’Allah, soon.” But when I turn away, I sometimes have to hide my tears.
I want my children to grow up believing that education is their right—not a distant dream.
Eight Hours of Electricity
We have electricity for around eight hours a day. We are grateful for it, but even with it, summer is extremely difficult. Inside a tent, the heat can become overwhelming. When the electricity goes out, the air conditioner stops, and the heat quickly becomes suffocating. I open the tent and try to create some airflow while staying beside my children until the electricity returns.
Sometimes the hardest part is not the heat itself, but watching your children struggle while knowing there is little more you can do for them.
Winter Brings Another Kind of Fear
Winter brings a different kind of hardship. When heavy rain falls, water can enter the tent and collect on the ground. Clothes and blankets can become wet, and the ground turns into mud. I immediately start lifting our belongings off the floor and trying to save whatever I can.
But my first thought is always the same: How can I keep my children warm and dry?
When the Storm Comes
Storms are among the moments that frighten me most. When the wind becomes strong, the tent shakes and the sounds outside become frightening. I try to secure the ropes and anything around the tent while keeping my children close to me.
I tell them, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.” But the truth is, I am afraid too.
A mother does not always have the luxury of showing her fear. Sometimes she has to be stronger than she feels because two little children are looking at her, waiting for her to make them feel safe.
A Fear That Does Not Sleep
There is another kind of fear that never really leaves us, especially at night. The sounds of movement outside and the presence of soldiers leave me constantly on edge. When I hear an unfamiliar sound, I immediately look at my children and hold them close. Sometimes they fall asleep while I remain awake, listening and wondering what tomorrow will bring.
Will there be enough water?
Will the tent withstand another storm?
Will the electricity come back?
Will my children ever return to school?
And when will we finally be able to live a normal life?
I Am Not Asking for Much. I am not asking for luxury. I want my children to go to school. I want to know that they will have enough water. I want a roof that protects them from the rain, the cold, and the heat. I want them to sleep without fear and wake up thinking about a new day—not about how to survive it.
I am a mother, and all I want is to protect my children. Sometimes, when they are asleep, I look at their faces and cry quietly. Not because I have lost hope. But because I am tired of having to be strong all the time. Then I wipe my tears, raise my hands, and pray: “Ya Allah, You alone know how tired we are. You know how many times I have swallowed my fear so my children would not be afraid. You know how many times I have smiled at them while my heart was crying. Please do not let our patience be in vain. Protect my children and grant us a day when we can leave this tent behind and live in safety, dignity, and peace.”
I may not have much. But I still have faith. And I still have hope that one day I will be able to tell my children: “The difficult days are over. You can finally live like other children.”
Until that day comes, I will keep going. Because I am a mother. And behind every difficult day I endure are two children waiting for me to tell them that tomorrow will be better.
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