Everything is a mess, even my own thoughts.

My therapist confirmed the diagnosis: I have depression. 

I am not sure why I am surprised. After all, since October 7th, 2023, I have gone through several horrendous months in the Gaza Strip in a small room with no beds and scarce food and medicine. Above all, my life and the lives of my loved ones were, and some still are, in continuous danger. So, what did I expect? To be declared a happy person? 

The unbearable question will always be: why is my life more precious than the lives of Gazans who are still imprisoned in the strip?

Today marks a new month of being in Egypt. It is a miracle. I thought that having a bed and being away from continuous bombing would be enough for me to rest. I was wrong. For the past few months, I haven’t had one decent night’s sleep. Insomnia is a horrible companion that stays by my side, counting every breath I take, telling me that I will never be okay. 

The unbearable question is always this: why is my life more precious than the lives of Gazans who are still trapped in the strip? I am disgusted by the fact that I have access to my basic needs while there are still many people, especially ones with chronic and serious diseases, who are denied even the bare necessities such as a cup of clean water. Worse, I feel angry. Angry at a world that speaks endlessly of humanity while taking no serious action to end this nightmare. 

I never imagined that one day turning on the laptop would be a difficult task to achieve.

The harshest of realities is that life has to go on in the outside. I need to work, to earn some money to be able to at least “survive” and pay rent, to buy food and go to many doctors to fix all the problems I have. 

I never imagined that one day turning on my laptop would be a huge burden and a difficult task to achieve. I look around at my rented apartment, and all I want to do is to scream “I don’t belong here”. I left Gaza behind and right now I am in a place that looks nothing like the home I spent all my life saving money to buy and decorate. A place where I had planned to grow old with my own children. 

For the past few months, I haven’t had one decent night’s sleep.

The online meeting starts, and I am astonished by all the talk about quality, meeting deadlines and planning. I share ideas and take on some tasks, but I am not focused; people compliment one of my suggestions saying it is brilliant, but I have no idea what I have just said. I finish my meeting, take off my t-shirt that I wore just because the cameras were on and go to bed. I throw my body over the mattress as if I have been holding heavy rocks for hours. 

Lying down, I scroll the phone screen to see the latest news. A friend’s father passed away; a woman I know lost her whole family; my colleague lost her house; people have no food; people are dying. I cannot stop thinking about why innocent men, women, doctors, lawyers and daily workers find themselves outside their homes and exiled from their lives, just because they are Gazans. 

I try to get out of bed. My body is paralyzed. I scream, not out of pain, but out of utter sadness. I keep pushing myself until I am on the verge of falling before I put my first foot on the ground.  I stand up and stumble across my scattered shoes. It’s a new, unwelcome habit to leave my footwear in a jumble over the floor. In my home in Gaza, I had a customized closet for shoes. 

Every Gazan who was able to get out is in limbo.

There is dust everywhere. Everything is a mess, even my own thoughts. Apparently, just like this “foreign apartment” I am in, my soul is in a new body where it does not belong. It is a sad place, a chaotic one and simply, it is not my home. 

It takes me over half an hour to write a couple of lines in the report I am preparing. I have all the information and all I need is to compile it in a number of connected paragraphs. In the past, co-workers were always impressed by how fast I got the job done; they always spoke about my positive energy. Not anymore. I get tired, too tired, but I have to work, because I need the money. I continue practicing my procrastination skills until I am done with the report in three long hours. 

Every Gazan who was able to get out is in painful limbo. Your body is physically safe, there is no bombing and you are grateful you are out, but you are not okay. As a “survivor”, you are expected to start from scratch, to get decent clothes, because the ones you had on were either torn or worn out, and most importantly, not yours. You need to get familiarized with the streets, shops and service providers. You need to make new decisions every single minute while your heart, mind and soul are trapped by thoughts about Gaza and your loved ones there. 

What shall I write about now, the broken souls of Gazans?

Another challenge is overthinking and the endless state of worry that consumes you. Should we start thinking about immigration? Do we have the luxury or freedom of choice regarding our own future and destiny? Will I ever be content? Often I believe I will never experience any moment of true happiness ever again. What will happen to us, will we be able to go back to Gaza? Will there even be a Gaza after all the destruction? Will I ever be able to see its streets and people? Or will a new journey start? A journey I did not sign up for. 

In the past, I wrote about positive Gazan models; inspiring women and men who are making positive changes in the community and contributing to its development. What shall I write about now? The broken souls of Gazans, the dreams and achievements that disappeared, or those who are no longer alive? 

I receive a WhatsApp message about a meeting the next day. I feel stressed out. Another meeting, more interaction with people, more work to be done. I go to the bedroom, throw myself over the bed again and pray that this time, I will be able to sleep.