As we enter 2025, the greatest celebration we hope for is the ending of the Israeli genocide

Dear 2024, as you near the end, I reach out from the devastated Gaza Strip, a place where the menacing sounds of drones boom above us and the deafening echo of bombs fills our air with despair.

Since the Israeli genocide began in October 2023, our lives have turned into a nightmare.

You, dear year, have shown no mercy; You were a relentless tide of torment and despair that swept away our hopes, dreams and the essence of normality we once knew.

I still cannot shake the haunting memories of those harrowing days when we were ordered to leave our homes and seek refuge in Rafah, a city that has become both a refuge and a prison for us.

Our lives, full of memories and comfort, were carelessly stuffed into flimsy backpacks that felt increasingly inadequate as we faced the daunting unknown that lay before us.

Each day brings a new wave of unease, but I still vividly remember the heartbreaking farewell to my once cozy bedroom full of beloved books, where the smell of old paper mingles with the warmth of cherished memories.

Now those days are being replaced by a cold and uninviting reality, a sea of ​​uncertainty and fear that surrounds us.

Collective fear

January brought us the horror of forced evacuations, moments that are forever etched in my memory – the grim silence that surrounded my family as we sat together on a truck, surrounded by the worried faces of strangers, children and adults alike , all terrified of the unimaginable that was looming close.

The weight of their fear hung heavy in the air, a collective fear that transcended words.

As we witnessed the horrifying reality of makeshift shelters springing up along the landscape, I felt the bitter cold seep into my bones.

The nights we spent on the hard, unforgiving ground brought tears of pain and shivers of hunger, our bodies and minds decaying under the unrelenting weight of disease and the indignity of overcrowded communal toilets.

The lack of privacy has become a cruel twist in our suffering, compounding our physical discomfort with a feeling of helplessness.

Each day of hunger weighed menacingly on us, eating away at our stomachs and our hopes as we were often faced with the unthinkable choice of either eating or simply surviving.

Evacuations became a grim routine, the only thread of existence we clung to in a landscape riddled with fear of death and a longing for mere survival. Ramadan, a holy month traditionally full of reflection, family and prayer, passed us by in the shadows, overshadowed once again by the brutality of our current reality.

Increasing desperation

The vicious circle of massacres crept ever further, intruding on moments that were supposed to be celebrations and joy. Our Eids were filled with sorrow and whispered sadness as we faced our own slaughter instead.

This year has dragged us through every trial of the seasons, each one a painful reminder of what we have lost

When I reflect on the horrors of the genocide, I can still hear my father’s footsteps on the hard ground as he collected wood for bread, and the morning air filled with the loud sounds of artillery.

With each explosion, our decisions became more urgent, and with each sign of increasing violence, our world fell more apart. We learned to hurry as we grabbed the few things we could salvage; Every time we had to leave, we left behind parts of ourselves, parts of a life that felt increasingly unattainable.

In our despair we were reduced to mere threads of what once was. We set up makeshift tents by the unforgiving sea. The vibrant waters I once valued now became turbulent, reflecting our collective fear as the waves violently crashed against the shore.

The sun, once a source of joy and warmth, became another enemy, beating down mercilessly on the tents that had become our only refuge. My head spins at the thought of how I used to walk along the beach and laugh with family and friends, and now seeing him choked with grief and despair twists my heart and mind in ways I never imagined possible would have held.

This year has dragged us through every trial of the seasons, each one a painful reminder of what we have lost.

In November, as I approached another birthday marked more by quiet sadness than joy, I found myself reflecting on the growing despair that eclipsed our moments of happiness and celebration.

The fear of another year weighed heavily on my shoulders, threatening to destroy my spirit as I counted the days with loss instead of laughter.

As people around the world prepare to celebrate and welcome the New Year, we are immersed in sadness. We mourn lives lost and futures stolen.

December comes, heavy with the burden of suffering, as the world enjoys abundance and joy, oblivious to the plight of Gaza, a land orphaned by war and chaos, stripped of its dreams and dignity.

Others exuberantly decorate their homes, eat together and exchange gifts as we fight against an invisible enemy, against isolation and desolation.

The stark contrast is difficult to bear; While for some hope fills the air, for us it remains an elusive shadow as dreams of peace and a quiet life seem to echo faintly in our hearts, all but forgotten amidst the rubble.

Stop the genocide

Perhaps the greatest irony lies in the fact that the world is joyful without realizing that our survival depends on the fleeting moments of hope and solidarity that we try to preserve in the midst of our codified grief.

We long for the beginning of a new year lit by the sparks of peace we so desperately seek

As we enter 2025, the greatest celebration we dare hope for is the end of this genocide and the promise of a brighter future reborn from the ashes of despair.

We long for the dawn of a new year marked not by the ticking clock or bright lights, but rather illuminated by the glimmers of peace we so desperately seek.

In the coming year, may we find the strength to rise from the depths of our struggles and reclaim our identity, dignity and humanity; is defined not by tragedy but by resilience.

This is my prayer as the shadows of 2024 fade, hoping that our stories will not remain invisible in a distracted world, but will instead resonate with those who have the power to listen and act for change.

The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Eye.