In a fragile tent tucked into a dusty corner of Al-Fajr Camp in Deir al-Balah, life clings to hope amid the ruins. The tent’s fabric trembles with every breeze, but inside it lives a family whose hearts carry the weight of all the destruction surrounding them. Here sits Raghad Salem, a 19-year-old girl whose eyes still hold the shimmer of a dream once almost within reach. Beside her, her mother — Um Mohammed — wears the quiet strength of a woman shaped by years of displacement and loss, yet still standing like a pillar refusing to fall.
Raghad’s Story
Raghad, born in 2006, was a top student preparing for her final high school exams. Her voice trembles as she recalls her story: “I used to live with my family in a small apartment — humble but filled with life.
I was preparing for my exams in September 2023, dreaming of becoming one of the top students. My teachers believed in me… but October came with war, and it buried my dreams under the rubble.”
She pauses, fighting back tears, then whispers: “On October 7, I was supposed to take my geography exam.
I was confident I’d succeed, but instead of the sound of pencils on paper, I heard the sound of bombs. My last beautiful memory before the war was that we were all together — my father, my mother, my brothers, and my sisters…”
At this moment, Um Mohammed gently places her trembling hand on her daughter’s shoulder, her voice cracking with grief, “God blessed me with two sons and five daughters. Mohammed was 32, and Mo’men was 25. Mohammed was killed, and Mo’men was taken prisoner… They were my strength and pride. Now, all I have left is patience — to keep this house from collapsing inside.”
A Mother’s Loss
Raghad’s eyes fill with distant memories. “Mohammed always encouraged me. He used to say, ‘Study hard, Raghad — I’ll be the first to celebrate your success.’ They were preparing a celebration for me, but they’re gone now, before they could see the fruit of their hopes.”
Um Mohammed takes a deep breath, as if summoning their voices from beneath the rubble: “Their absence cannot be replaced. When loved ones are gone, they leave a hole in your heart that nothing can fill. Mohammed and Mo’men were the protectors of this home — now we are left without safety or support.”
But loss was not their only wound. The family’s endless displacement carved new scars. They fled from Beit Lahia to Um Mohammed’s married daughter’s home in Gaza City. Then to Khan Younis, then Rafah, and finally to Deir al-Balah. “During the January ceasefire, we tried to return north, but the bombing forced us out again. Our home — everything — is gone. Now we live in a tent that protects neither from cold nor heat. My husband is sick, and I, along with my daughters, struggle every day to fetch water and food…Every time I lift a heavy bucket, I remember how my sons used to help me,” said Um Mohammed.
A faint smile passes over her face as she recalled better days: “Before the war, winter meant gathering around the fire, roasting chestnuts, and laughing together. Now, even memories feel forbidden — too painful to touch.”
Holding On to Hope
And yet, despite it all, Raghad still clings to a fragile thread of hope: “We have lost so much, but I still dream of continuing my studies… to find a better future… and for my brother Mo’men to return from captivity so that we can all be together again.”
Her mother’s voice trembles as she ends their story — a plea from beneath the dust and despair: “Enough destruction… In the name of humanity, I beg the world to listen. We are not numbers on the news. We are lives, families, and dreams — we only ask for the right to live.”
