Dear World, My name is Samia. You do not know me, but you may have seen my picture. I know that you have seen so many photos of my home and my people that it may be hard to recall one from another.
But, there is one picture of me you should remember, because I am holding the dead body of my niece, her tiny little frame swaddled in plastic. Her name was Massah. She was two years old.
Now, she is dead. I could not hold my sister Samar because her body was in pieces. So was Massah’s big sister, Lina, who was four.
Their dad, Dr Luay Khudair, my sister’s husband and somebody who was like another brother to me, was killed too. Blown to bits. I am still alive, though there are so many days I wish I was not.
I am 26 years old. I was born and raised in Rafah City in the south of the Gaza Strip. My mother died when I was six, so my big sister Samar became like my mother.
I understand that, eight months ago, you probably never heard of Rafah. Now, it is the most talked-about place on earth . I completed all my primary and secondary education at the schools in Rafah.
After, I went to Gaza City to study for my bachelors in public media. After my graduation, I went to work at the community media centre. My job there was to work as an editor of stories written by women who had suffered domestic violence.
I loved my job. I tell you this because I now sometimes wonder, do you care how we all lived before October 7? Do you care that we all went to school, went to college? Applied for jobs.
