A Gazan’s honest answer to the question, “How Are You?”

Every time someone asks, “How are you?”—whether it’s my siblings, my closest friends, or anyone who still cares to ask—I feel a sharp twist inside. That simple question does not just echo in my ears; it drags me back into a place I desperately try to avoid. Because the truth is, I am not fine. I am far from well. And neither is anyone else in Gaza. 

The weight of my loss, the loss of a whole community, sits heavy on my chest every single day. No amount of love or care seems enough to lessen the burden. I miss my family with every breath I take, yet I find myself silencing my pain, not wanting to burden those who only mean to help. Grief, in Gaza, is a luxury. This article is my way of answering that question honestly, even when I feel I lack the strength to utter a word.

How can I tell you, without exaggerating, that I am tired? How do I convince you that I am fed up? With everything. Even with my happiness that I haven’t tasted yet. Even with the incomplete gatherings around me. Even with my healing. With everything.

How do I recite my sorrow for you? How do I explain it without feeling a burden in my hollow mouth? How do I heal? How do I cleanse my heart of its sighs and unwanted joys—the joy of receiving medical care that so many injured in my situation are denied, the joy of being able to grieve when others have had their lives stolen away, the joy of a ‘normal’ life that seems so far out of reach? How do I grieve?

How do I tell those around me [without being rude] that they do not comfort me, no matter how they try? How do I converse with them politely, without uttering a single word? How do I tell them that I would prefer to stay alone through all this loud emptiness?

Emptiness seems full. Silence sounds loud. You know? I have mastered silence. This talkative soul has become silent except for her eyes and their expressive gestures. How do I silence my eyes? How do I rebuke them for shedding tears that occasionally escape from me without taking my permission to fall?

What is the answer to the daily questions I receive: “How are you?” or “Why so sad?” or “Anything wrong?” They sound absurd to me. How do I explain my pain to them without exaggerating? How do I tell them that I feel my bones crumbling? Like literally.

I feel the bones in my back clinging to one another until they become stiff, my nerves collapsing until I cannot lift my hands, and my broken pelvic bones weak, worn out. Yes, I do feel worn out. And I feel like this youthful, once-healthy body is like a wall—if you pat it gently, you see it faint, and if you hug it, it hurts.

How do I quiet my screaming pains? How do I describe the extended pain I have been feeling for more than 400 days, whether lying in the rubble of a destroyed house, an inhumane bed in a hospital, or a worn-out tent burning like an oven? Or even my bed in my room that I lie in now, which seems comfortable but is another form of torture. I had dreamt of laying it in for a year, but now it is the most painful, believe me.

Lying in it makes me anticipate the lively movements of my beloveds who left me forever. I wait for my father’s majestic stance near my door and his narrow, smiling eyes, ready to tease me or fake an offer to help me study English.

Or the presence of my mother, who would lean on the red couch and share my packet of chips or my cup of Nescafé. I hear her laugh and behold her eyes glittering with pride for whatever trivial victory I told her I had just achieved.

Lying here makes me long for my little sister, Ola, and our conversations that Israel silenced forever. She would describe her lectures at the university, her youth cut short, or her pride in reading a whole paragraph fluently with an American accent, not knowing that American-funded weapons would later kill her in her sleep.

Lying here, I see the serene smile of my older sister, Heba [her name in Arabic means “Gift”].I see her with her giant notebooks, colorful pens, and the gifts she prepares daily for her young students. It makes me curse the world that allowed the murder of a diligent teacher like Heba, killing such a gift from my God.

I think of my cousin Shams [in Arabic, her name means “the Sun”]. Though the burning sun kept sliding into my tent the whole past year every dawn, I miss my own Sun. I think of how the world’s sun is shining shamelessly every morning—nonstop. I feel myself missing running with her, sharing food and clothes, racing, recording funny videos, and helping her study for her Tawjihi exams.

I think of my other cousin, Sundus, on her last night ever. Sundus used to feed everyone except herself. That night, she ate her half sandwich. I feel happy she had her dinner that night. She always shared food. But who knew all of them would share one grave?

I watch others move with ease, their knees aligned, as mine feel heavy and stiff, burdened by the silent weight of grief and injury. I observe others practicing Sujood or stooping. I observe others on steady walks and light running. I dream of a light run. I dream of my mother patting my hair. I see myself looking at her smiling, delighted face. I see all her relatives, but that does not blow out even one candle of the fire burning inside of me for the past year.

After 400 days of waiting, I’ve grown tired of promises. Those weightless words that float above the rubble, offering nothing but false hope to get cured, to travel, and to get the needed medical care.

The human cost of this war is not just measured in numbers or names of martyrs on a screen; it is visible in the faces of those left behind and in the silence of homes that once echoed with laughter. I carry with me the resilience of a woman whose youthful spirit was snatched away too soon, who is forced to grow old under skies heavy with grief. Every day is a battle: to wake up, to keep breathing, and to pretend there is still a version of life beyond survival.

Even the best solutions to the daily question “How are you?” are helpless. It is like saying to the hand amputee, “Wave hi to the camera!”, or to someone recently blinded, “Look up at the sky!” That’s how it sounds to me. So, what? Tell me, how should I tell you I feel all of this without it sounding like an exaggeration?

So, when you ask me, ‘How are you?’ know that you are not asking a simple question. You are asking for a piece of a Palestinian in Gaza who has been shattered, a piece of a person who may never be whole again. And yet, somehow, still chooses to answer your question.

Reem Hamadaqa
 April 2025