Voices from Gaza: Manal Against All Odds

I met Manal Ramadan on LinkedIn in the spring of 2025. She did not slip in my inbox with a link. She never begged for help. Had she even done that, I would have never blamed her amidst a genocide.

Manal Ramadan

A video of her scrawny children eating tree leaves reached my feed, in between new job brags and “politics don’t belong here” spiels I had already tuned out since the algorithm did not like my Pal3st1ne code as much as my Ukraine hashtag.

Her description, “Creativity Against All Odds,” dragged me in, inviting me to a quick stalk on Instagram to check that out. I had to scroll past daily updates of tents and blood to get to her last branding sample from July 2, 2023. After that date, her feed resembled that of thousands of other Palestinians whose life just stopped being valuable to the international community after October 7 — and possibly before that but we only paid attention when people started to be burned alive in live streaming.

I sent a timid message, asking if she was OK, if her children (Sondos, Yusef, Ismail, Ibrahim, Nada and Nour) had enough food, if there was anything I could do. This became my good morning and good night for the past year, where she became my habibti (beloved one) and I was baptised as her children’s khalto (auntie). Every day, we talked about the sea, the full moon, Sherine’s songs and coffee, flowers and chocolate, and all those things we have unlimited access to any time of the year on this side of the world.

Even the sweetness of her voice got spoiled by the endless buzzing of drones hovering over their heads – an off-key background hiss that has not really stopped with the ceasefire fanfare. But it was the sound of her older daughters, Nour and Nada, praying in the middle of the night during a heavy strike, that I will never forget. That is when I felt the powerlessness of humanity dawning upon me.

I had spent the entire last summer stuck in the disconnected reality of watching my kids playing by the Mediterranean shore while sending emails to the German government with updates on Manal’s case: pictures of what seemed to be her neighbourhood buried under layers of debris and screenshots of IDF announcing new zones with new colours every time. After much insisting to get past his secretary, the only direct answer I received from an SPD member of Parliament was the usual polished script about Israel’s right of self-defence and a selective use of nie wieder (never again) that had me question my own sanity. With a foot in the former East Berlin and my heart in the rest of a dystopian modern world, I was left thinking, “never again” for whom? If “never again” then why the West Bank Barrier? If “never again” then why the Rafah Crossing? If “never again” then why the engineered famine? Simple questions for far too complex answers designed to endorse the 9/11 convenient truth we have been spoon-fed: that all Arabs are terrorists.

And yet, after being displaced twelve times from the north (the same neighbourhood of Hind Rajab’s 355 bullets) to south and to north again, when her shelter in Khan Yunis flooded and the roof collapsed on their wet beds, I found myself being consoled by Manal more times than I could console her. One day, I asked her how she could not hate the world for the harm we are inflicting on her and her people. Without hesitation, she told me, “hatred makes your heart black”. A simple answer.

Today, as I continue to help Manal raise funds for her family, apply to scholarships abroad for her children, and find a way for them to leave Egypt once the gates will open for all, her thoughts on the present become perhaps more urgent than her survival story.After all, it is that relentless celebration of life that kept her immune to death.

Q: What does Palestine mean to you?

A: Palestine is my homeland. It is my first memory, the smell of the sea in Gaza, the scent of orange blossoms, and the faces of the people I love. It is the place where I know who I am.

Q: Some are determined to stay despite the destruction. Why?

A: Staying is a form of holding on to dignity. Leaving is not easy. It is not just a geographical move; it is uprooting. Many feel that their presence here is a defense of their identity and their children’s future. But many others stay simply because they have no ability to leave.

Q: What were your dreams before the war? What do you dream now?

A: My dreams were simple and natural: for my children to live safely, to complete their education, to have a stable home and a peaceful life. They were not big dreams, just a normal life. Today, the dream has become more basic and more urgent: safety. A quiet night without bombardment. Psychological healing for our children. A chance to rebuild and start again.

Q: What do your children dream?

A: Their dreams are still the dreams of children, but they have become heavier. They want to return to school, to play without fear, to sleep peacefully. They dream of things others consider ordinary.

Q: How did you support them psychologically during the war?

A: I tried to be their source of reassurance, even when I was afraid. I held them during the bombing, explained what was happening in simple words, and created small spaces of safety in the middle of chaos. Sometimes a mother hides her fear so her children’s fear does not grow.

Q: What is the worst thing you experienced during the war?

A: At the beginning of the war, my father and my older brother were killed when our family home was bombed. Honestly, I cannot define a single hardest moment. Every phase of the war was difficult: seeing fear in my children’s eyes, feeling helpless in the face of danger, waiting without knowing whether you would survive the next strike. Living in a tent that does not protect you from the summer heat, the winter cold, or even wild animals.

Q: What kept you going during the war? How did you and other women support each other, if there was such a community spirit?

A: My children first, and faith that we must continue despite the pain. My sense of responsibility was stronger than my fear. And yes, women supported each other emotionally and practically. We shared food, information, prayers, and even silence. In the hardest conditions, the true meaning of community becomes clear.

Q: How was your life before the war? Did you have hobbies? How would you spend your day?

A: It was a normal life with a daily rhythm, caring for my family, developing myself. I worked as a graphic designer. I had plans for the future and achievable dreams. I used to go to the sea every morning, exercise, and drink my coffee with enjoyment. I loved reflection and simple family moments. I love music and singing (my voice is quite beautiful!) I love the sea and swimming. I love everything related to art.

Q: What is hate for you? What is love to you?

A: Hate is losing the ability to see humanity in others. Love is protection, patience, and sacrifice, especially in times of fear. Love is not letting hatred dwell in your heart.

Q: What does it mean to you to be a mother? What does it mean to be a daughter?

A: It means being strong even when you do not feel strong. It means putting your children’s needs before your own pain. Andy’s a daughter, I won't let my mother face her difficulties alone. I'll encourage her to stay strong and not give up, and we'll be patient together.

Q: How did you feel when the ceasefire was announced?

A: With some relief, but with great caution. In Gaza, the word “ceasefire” does not always mean the end of suffering. Hope exists, but it is fragile. Where we live now in Gaza City, in a war-torn building, it’s extremely dangerous. Stones and all kinds of debris fall from the top every day. It’s unsafe, we can’t find another place to go and you can still hear bombs in the distance.

Q: Why should people donate for your cause?

A: Because the needs here are real and urgent. We are being evacuated from an unsafe building that may need to be demolished and have nowhere else to go. No tents, no alternatives. We’ll be living on the streets like animals. Donations mean food, shelter, education, and psychological support for children. They mean giving a family the chance to regain stability and dignity, or even the chance to travel somewhere that can provide these basic necessities for my children.

Q: If there's one thing you could say to the world now, what would it be?

A: Look at us as human beings. We are not numbers in the news. We are families, mothers, and children with stories and dreams like yours.

DONATION LINK

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Segue la traduzione in italiano solo dell'introduzione (a cura dell'autrice)

Voci di Gaza: Manal, nonostante tutto

Ho conosciuto Manal Ramadan su LinkedIn nella primavera del 2025. Non si è infilata nei messaggi con un link. Non mi ha mai chiesto niente. E anche l’avesse fatto, non l’avrei biasimata con un genocidio in corso.

Un video dei suoi bambini smunti che mangiano foglie d’albero è approdato nel mio feed, tra chi si vanta del nuovo lavoro in tech e i soliti “smettetela di fare politica” da cui avevo già preso le distanze quando capii che l’algoritmo non apprezzava il mio codice Pal3st1ne più di quanto preferisse i miei hashtag sull’Ucraina.

La sua descrizione professionale “creatività nonostante tutto” mi ha inghiottita e spinta a una breve sbirciata su Instagram per capirne il significato. Ho dovuto scorrere oltre decine di post giornalieri su tende e feriti per arrivare al suo ultimo lavoro di branding del 2 luglio 2023. Dopo quella data, il suo profilo richiama quello di migliaia di palestinesi le cui vite hanno smesso di avere valore per la comunità internazionale dopo il 7 ottobre. E forse ancora prima, ma non ce ne siamo mai accorti finché le persone non venivano bruciate vive in diretta.

Con un piede nella vecchia Berlino est e il cuore nel resto di un mondo moderno distopico, mi sono spesso chiesta: se “never again” (mai più), allora perché la barriera di separazione in Cisgiordania? Se “never again”, allora perché il valico di Rafah? Se “never again,” allora perché la carestia programmata? Domande semplici per risposte fin troppo complesse, costruite all’ombra della verità più conveniente dell’11 settembre: che tutti gli arabi sono terroristi.

A distanza di un anno dall’inizio della nostra profonda amicizia in cui lei ha consolato me più di quanto io possa aver consolato lei dall’alto della mia impotenza, lasciare che Manal racconti il suo presente è più urgente della sua storia di sopravvivenza.