Khan Younis / PNN / Fidaa Mohammad Abdel Jawad –

After hours of scorching sun and as sunset approached, a group of women quietly slipped into a secret tent covered with a white tarpaulin, its entrance a worn piece of cloth. It was a small, private space where they could gather what remained of their emotions, hidden beneath their loose garments that concealed the tragedies of their lives. The tent had become a safe haven, shielding them from the emotional drought etched onto their faces, allowing them to voice bold confessions often deemed taboo by society. Around them hung an aura of resilience and steadfastness, yet in reality they were far from it—hardly the strong-willed figures they appeared to be.

At the centre of the tent sat counsellor Layla, surrounded by five women in a semi-circle resembling a warm embrace for their stories. She sought to untangle, even partially, the burdens weighing on her guests inside this tent, which had expanded to hold the noise of their lives, the tremble in their voices, and emotions searching desperately for someone to listen.

Invited by Layla, I knocked on the door of their lives and listened carefully to the silence that preceded speech. As suppressed sighs reached my ears—heavy with years of bitterness and pain endured by these women—curiosity drew me in to hear their stories.

This was not merely a session for lectures or rehearsed words, but a calm and flexible safe space to observe and release emotions.

Layla looked at the women around her as if she understood the weight each carried. “What lies outside the tent matters little; what matters is what you feel in this moment,” she said.

The conversation began with light-hearted exchanges to break the silence. Gradually, the tension faded, and their stories wove into a shared narrative. One woman spoke of her unfamiliar body and her shattered mirror.

Hanan turned slightly, her shoulders burdened with an invisible weight. She gently touched her cheeks, as if searching for what remained of her features, before speaking in a trembling voice softened by a faint smile that did not reach her eyes.

Now in her forties, with a pale face and a fuller body—so different from before the war—she described what remained of her internally fractured self. “I broke the mirror before it could shatter what little beautiful image I still had in my mind,” she said. “I am afraid to see my face. Whenever I look, I feel suffocated—dark spots, red blemishes, a body filled with fat. I can no longer bear the exhaustion beneath my eyes or the wrinkles carved by the days. Everything has changed—no resources, unstable moods, accumulated grief, and the strain of daily life. Nothing resembles what it once was.”

She sighed deeply, rubbing her hands as though trying to ease the psychological pressure. “I feel shaken inside. My husband no longer looks at me. He spends all day outside the tent, and I feel my confidence collapsing.”

Hanan’s broken mirror was not the only reflection of disappointment. In the opposite corner, Sumaya was fighting a different battle—one of lost privacy. A woman in her twenties, with delicate features, her voice faded almost to nothing, as if afraid it might pierce the worn fabric of the tent. She tightened her garment around her body, as though trying to create an extra barrier to protect her privacy.

Turning to Layla with wide eyes filled with worry, she said: “I lost my passion for life after a marriage that never truly began. The tent and its fragile fabric destroyed the privacy of intimacy with my husband. People listen in; the sanctity of the space is violated. Displacement has taken away our only safe space, suffocating my marriage at its birth. All that remains is a broken heart and a life whose passion faded before it began.”

Her words struck like lightning. She continued: “Privacy is gone. There is no barrier between me and my neighbours. The place is crowded with displaced people; children play around us day and night. I cannot live my married life freely. Even when we try, convincing ourselves there is some privacy, it becomes mechanical—without spirit—spoken in hushed tones, with deadened emotions out of fear and shame.”

She turned away and added: “Had I known the war would destroy me from within and ruin my life with my husband, I would not have married now. I would have stayed with my family.”

Another woman added: “Our intimate rights have been violated. Our relationships have become like a ‘machine’ for survival only. Some women refuse intimacy out of fear of sudden bombardment and ongoing trauma. The war has stolen even the simplest moments of joy that could ease our bodies and minds.”

As the circle of stories widened, each woman revealed her own burdens. For many, this session was their only outlet and safe refuge. Najat, in her fifties, remained immersed in silence, as though swimming against the current. She clutched a pillow tightly, her cheek pressed against its cold fabric, her gaze lost in a dark corner. At times her eyes filled with unshed tears; at others, she restrained them.

When she finally spoke, she revealed the exhaustion of motherhood and a quiet jealousy shared by many women around her. “I am mentally exhausted. I am tired of being silent. I do not want to be misunderstood, but I am tired of hiding my jealousy of my children. All the attention goes to them. No one cares about me—no one comforts me, hugs me, or even says thank you.”

She paused, then added quietly: “I feel like an orphan.” With that, she released years of suppressed pain.

In contrast to the emotional noise filling the tent, Faten’s silence was heavy—like the calm before an explosion. She kept her gaze fixed on the ground, her fingers fidgeting restlessly with the mat beneath her. Small, rapid movements revealed the turmoil within. She spoke in a low voice, as though it emerged from deep within her soul.

In her late thirties, she appeared almost lifeless, her face reflecting a fading inner fire. Breaking her silence, she said, quoting a phrase she once read: “Silence is a deadly cancer—it destroys the soul before the body.”

Pain became visible in her features as she spoke: “I have become a companion of sleep. I have lost my passion for life. Laziness consumes me.”

She added: “I wish for death or a peaceful end. I remain constantly exhausted and unwilling to wake. My husband is ill and drained by pain, and I must carry the burdens of life and war alone with my children. I am forced to play the role of the hero, so I escape into sleep, distancing myself from life’s noise. I am gradually collapsing—from caring for my children, the house, the war, and our repeated displacement.” She ended by saying she was not strong, only exhausted.

These stories represent only a fraction of the voices of five women—yet they mirror the experiences of thousands more in Gaza who have no opportunity for such sessions, burdened by a war that has left scars on every part of their lives.

The meeting did not end there. What was spoken aloud was one thing; what remained unspoken in their hearts was another.

The tent’s hidden stories extended beyond personal pain, intertwining with the chaos of the displacement camp outside. Umm Yamen spoke of another front of suffering—conflicts within the camps that leave no room for personal space and affect entire communities.

Neighbourly disputes, gossip, and constant tension have caused her significant family problems. Children fight, women clash in tightly packed tents, and privacy is constantly violated.

Despite her strength, Umm Yamen said her husband often ignored these issues, leaving her to face them alone. “My neighbour spies on me. Every word I say to my husband is overheard and repeated to others, creating endless conflict. There came a day when children fought, and accusations and insults were thrown at us. Yet my husband did nothing. That is a deep injustice—I was not defended by anyone.”

Such conditions affect many families whose stability has been shattered by war. Women often bear the consequences, left without support, while tensions between neighbours remain unresolved.

After an hour and a half of this confidential session, the five women left the tent slightly lighter. Crises do not end in one meeting, nor can words alone dissolve them, but something had shifted. Faces that entered burdened with fear and tension left calmer, as though they had finally found space to breathe.

Within this small circle, each woman released something hidden inside her, discovering that her emotions—however difficult—were not weakness, but a human response to what she had endured. The gathering became a brief refuge amid an unrelenting war.

Layla closed her notebook with a quiet smile. Not everything ends, and healing is not immediate. It is a long journey that sometimes begins with a simple step.

She concluded: “For a woman to sit among others like her, and for the first time find a safe place to say what she could not even say to herself, is something we must pay close attention to if we are to truly support women in Gaza.”