A Journey through the Guts of Suffering

By Hadeel Ahmed Ouda

In Gaza, going out is unlike going out anywhere else.

There, where people step outside seeking a breath of life, we step out to inhale the dust of death. Where others go to change their mood, we return burdened with the weight of reality, as if carrying a mountain on our backs. Going out here is neither leisure nor pleasure; it is a compulsory journey through the corridors of suffering, one that begins the moment you step out of the tent and does not end until you return, laden with everything you have seen, and everything you wish you hadn’t.

One day, I had to visit the dentist to adjust my braces. We left with all the energy we could gather, on feet prepared to walk for more than two kilometers, wishing we could find a car to spare us the long road and its exhaustion.

We walked along rough, sandy paths, no proper road in sight. On both sides lay either piles of rubble or tents screaming, “I am suffering.” Their sight was bleak, dust-covered, torn and patched. In front of each tent stood a small child, his face mirroring the tent’s cry: “I am suffering.” His eyes wept for what was stolen, his childhood, his home, his toys, his schoolbooks. Along another road, clay ovens smoked, and young girls carried trays of dough on their heads, their eyes too shouting: “I am suffering. Children, yet burdened with responsibilities far beyond their years, as if war itself had rushed them into adulthood.

Even the roads cry out, “I am suffering.” Once green, they are now barren deserts. Trash heaps have found their place along the way. You hold your breath to avoid the stench, yet it seeps into your lungs through your skin, making you nauseous. Sewage flows beside you; you try to dodge the splashes, to keep your clothes clean, but your face can’t hide its disgust, disgust at everything, at being part of the suffering, at the state of a land your heart will never get used to.

You keep walking. You pass men with hands blackened by fire and think, “This is suffering.” You see a vendor standing under the blazing sun, his face melting from heat, and whisper, “No, this is suffering.” You look at his goods, all canned food, and your stomach groans: “This is suffering!” But there’s no alternative. You buy a can of meat that’s been cooked by the sun itself, yet the price remains unchanged.

You keep moving, just as suffering keeps breathing through the streets. You spot a small stall of vegetables and laugh bitterly. The shine of red tomatoes catches your eye. You ask for the price, and the seller replies, “Sixty shekels,” then points to bruised, rotten ones: “Forty for those.” You say nothing and move on, muttering to yourself, “Suffering is when tomatoes become a distant dream.”

A clothing shop draws your attention. You remember how half your clothes were left behind when you fled your home a year and a half ago, now turned to gray rubble. The rest was worn out by the sun, now only fit for wiping tables. You ask about prices and are stunned by how poor the quality is for how expensive it’s become. You think to yourself, “These used to cost five shekels, and we didn’t even like them. Now they’re ninety? For what?” But you need them. You ask if the shop takes payment by app. “Cash only,” he replies. Cash, something we now reserve for necessities like a bag of flour. Withdrawing money costs a 50% fee, meaning the bank takes half your earnings if you dare to touch them.

You walk on. You crave many things, yet you know your inability to afford them is what makes you crave them. You see walnuts for the first time in months, ask for the price, and the seller answers without looking up: “Sixty shekels per ounce.” You go quiet, do the math in your head, then laugh in disbelief: “Two hundred and forty shekels per kilo! God bless this country,” you mutter to your companion, who jokes, “Truly, the land of a million donkeys.”

After two hours of walking, you finally reach the dentist. You wait for your turn, observing the new clinic, the fourth since displacement began. Each time, the location changes, shrinking further, until now, the clinic walls are made of nylon.

When your turn comes, the dentist does what he must and advises you not to eat anything “hard.” You smile to yourself. Everything he means by “hard” is far beyond your means anyway. Nothing could be harder than what we already endure, but at least that doesn’t affect the braces.

You leave, exhausted, and ask your companion, “Shall we walk again?”He replies, “Hopefully, we’ll find a donkey.”“A donkey?” you repeat in surprise.He looks at you with an expression that says it all: “There’s no alternative.”So you keep walking, waiting for the donkey that might spare you the pain of walking, and of watching every detail of a city bleeding before your eyes.

But even in the “land of a million donkeys,” sometimes not one will show mercy. Even after we’ve swallowed our pride and said, “Blessed is he who knows his limits.” Yet the distance defeats us; we find ourselves wishing for a donkey’s mercy, but none appears, as if they were luxury cars unfit for ordinary people.

Your feet long to scream, to stop, to choose their own path toward rest. Then suddenly, a water truck passes by and people rush toward it desperately. You hurry away to avoid the crowd and keep walking toward your “home”, or rather, your tent.

You arrive at 2:30 p.m., having left at nine in the morning. Standing before the frayed fabric that separates you from the world, you glance back at the horizon where the sounds of suffering blend with the moan of exile, and whisper: “Next time, I won’t go out.” For the sight of your tent is gentler than the sight of the land.

But tomorrow, your weary feet will carry you down the same roads again, the same body, the same soul, heavy with dust and memory. You’ll keep walking, not because you’re brave, but because life here has stripped away even the luxury of choice. Here, going out is not an act of courage… but another form of surrender to the will to survive.

Hadeel Ahmed Ouda is an emerging Palestinian writer from the Gaza Strip. Her work centers on resistance literature and seeks to translate the wounds and endurance of her people into texts that speak for both the land and its humanity.

The opinions expressed in this article are solely the author’s and do not represent the views of Nisaba Media.