Every morning here in Gaza, the sun does not rise to illuminate our homes, but to reveal more traces of destruction and ruin each day, bearing silent witness to the bitterness of our reality.

I, Helda Joseph Ayyad, a young woman in her twenties who has been displaced for two years inside the Holy Family Church, do not awaken to the chirping of birds or the warmth of the sun’s rays. Instead, I am roused by the roaring sound of shelling that shakes the foundations of our shelter, and the shrapnel that shatters the dawn’s quiet, planting terror in our hearts. In the evenings, I do not fall asleep to peaceful dreams, but to the suffocating smell of gunpowder, a deadly reminder that death lurks in every corner and that life has become a daily battle for spiritual survival.

Here, in this spiritual haven that has become our temporary home, the normal meanings of life fade away. I remember my little brother, whose innocence has not yet been corrupted by war, counting the canned goods that have become our sole companions at mealtimes, an integral part of our daily routine. We thank God for these canned goods, for how many times have we been besieged, and five people (my family) shared a single can of beans, which for us felt like a blessing from heaven. Often, our only meal of the day, if we have one, is just enough to keep us from starving, barely nourishing our weak bodies, but keeping us alive with great difficulty.

When the sound of shelling and shrapnel echoes, our breath catches in our throats, and we find ourselves lying prone on the ground, clinging to a false hope that the situation will calm down for a little while. We wait, repeating God’s verses in our hearts, hoping for a few quiet moments during which we can search for a morsel to break our fast, a piece of bread to silence the hunger that gnaws at our stomachs. After the air calms, we begin to clean the room, which is divided among several families and was originally a classroom in the school attached to the church. This room, which once witnessed children’s dreams, today bears witness to our spiritual resilience, our silent tears, and the interrupted bedtime stories told beneath the sound of bombs.

Then, we go down to the children’s activities and to prayer, which is our only consolation. Here, you see hearts weeping before eyes. You see how the innocent face of a child changes; as soon as they hear the sound of shelling, they are terrified, covering their small ears with their hands, or rushing to hide in the warm embrace of their parents, as if it were a shield against the evils of this world. You see fear and astonishment in their eyes, unspoken questions that cry out in painful silence: “Why, Lord? Why us?”

And the elderly… Oh, the elderly!

How their scenes have brought me to tears, as they shed bitter tears over their lost homes and the memories of a lifetime that vanished in an instant. Every corner of those houses held a story, every piece of furniture bore witness to joy or sorrow, and now nothing remains but dust and ashes. Many of them have experienced a significant deterioration in their health, and we have lost many of them—may God have mercy on them—not only because of the shelling, but also due to severe food shortages, a decline in healthcare, and the unavailability of medicine. They left us in silence, exhausted and hungry, leaving a pang in our hearts that will not fade, and a silent scream against a world that watches their slow death.

As for our food, thanks to God and the hands of goodwill, the church sometimes provides us with food. At other times, my mother cooks whatever food is available, which is barely enough to sustain us. But even this available food has become a luxury in light of the scarcity of resources. There is not enough food; even flour—a staple in every home—is often not clean, and if available, it is at exorbitant prices, as if we are buying gold, not flour. Every bite we eat has become a miracle in itself.

Read more: https://www.vaticannews.va/en/world/news/2025-08/helda-ayyad-gaza-displaced-holy-family-church.html

By Helda Joseph Ayyad – Displaced for two years inside the compound of the Holy Family Church, Gaza | vaticannews