Hassan Herzallah is a translator, writer and storyteller from Gaza. He collaborates with several international newspapers. For the "Water for Gaza" campaign, he chose to share with Un Ponte Per his direct testimonydocumenting his life under siege and displacement. She is in her third year of studies in English translation at the Islamic University of Gaza and continued her education online after the university was bombed.

Gaza, 21 January 2026

Only days had passed since we entered the new year.
I wasn’t counting the seconds, I didn’t check my phone, and I wasn’t expecting any greetings. I sat quietly, staring at the cup of tea I had prepared, no lights, no music, no familiar sounds around me.

Outside, the world was celebrating, but here, silence weighed heavier than ever.

The first moments of 2026 arrived, and with them, danger returned to our camp. The distant rumble of explosions from areas where the army still stationed, and occasional flashes of fire in the night sky, reminded me that our lives are still measured by survival, not by seconds. I wasn’t completely alone that night; Simsim, my little bird, sat silently beside me, my only companion in days filled with loss.

The nights of January began with sleeplessness, each one haunted by the random gunfire we endure almost every night.

I remember one night this week around two in the morning, when a hail of random shots rained down on the camps from occupation tanks and naval patrols. In that moment, my siblings and I stayed flat on the floor of our tent, unable to move at all for fear of being hit. I could hear bullets whizzing over our fragile tent, which offered no protection, and I even heard the sound of cups breaking from the gunfire.

The next morning, when we woke up, we learned that there had been more than seventeen injuries that very night in our camp and the surrounding camps. All of this still creates a constant feeling of instability, a sense that accompanies us every day here, even after the ceasefire exists “on paper.” From here, the truce does not appear to stop the danger; instead, it takes the form of a daily threat that the world does not see.

Beyond the immediate danger, there is the silent genocide we endure during the winter months.

This is the second winter for my family and me, and we are living under a fabric tent. The rain began early this year, and the force of the wind tore through everything in its path. Just two days ago, the storms ripped part of the tent where my siblings and I sleep, forcing us to quickly move our belongings into my parents’ tent. Some of my personal items, like my laptop, which belongs to a friend, were damaged that day. Even those who live in houses have seen parts of their homes collapse under the force of this winter’s storms.

We began to witness homes collapsing on their resident almost every day, and some even dying as a result. While I was talking to my friend Mahmoud, he told me how the house next to theirs had suddenly collapsed, turning every new day into another challenge in a life that never stops testing us.

The cold this winter is not just a normal drop in temperature, it is a constant, looming fear.

Every day we hear about elderly people or young people dying from the cold. Since the beginning of the year, seven people have died from the cold, including one infant, the child of the barber I go to, which keeps me constantly worried for the children around me and my younger siblings.

In the middle of this month, my family lost someone very close to us, my father’s neighbor, Mohammed. He was a close friend of my father when we still lived in our homes in Rafah. Whenever he spoke to my father, he would say he would come visit us in Al-Mawasi, always adding, “We will meet soon, once we return to our areas.”

But we have not returned, and that visit never happened.

In the middle of this month, Mohammed and his daughter were martyred while walking in the street, victims of Israeli shelling. When my father received the news, he kept repeating one sentence:

“We didn’t lose Mohammed during two years of genocide, and yet we lost him in the midst of a fragile ceasefire, while the world believes we are living under a truce.”

That moment was enough for me to understand that the danger had never left us, and that death here does not require an open war; sometimes, simply stepping outside is enough.

With prices unstable in the markets due to the irregular opening of the crossings, life feels heavier with each passing day. I look at my family, especially my mother, whose health has deteriorated severely as a result of the war. At times, she cannot even walk due to the pain in her head that extends down her back. We are still waiting for the crossings to open, which were supposed to be accessible months ago, yet the occupation continues to violate the terms of the ceasefire. Each time we try to contact institutions in Italy and other countries to enable my mother to travel and receive proper treatment, we are met with the same harsh reality.

The medications available are insufficient for her condition, and the specialized drugs she needs are not accessible in Gaza, as the occupation continues to obstruct the entry of essential medicines.

Amid all this, we are not searching for a new beginning as much as I am yearning for an ordinary day: a day when we can sleep without fear, when my mother wakes up without pain, and when people can walk the streets without risk.

We did not celebrate this year, yet I hold on to a small, stubborn hope, that the coming year will be less harsh, and that it will return to us what has long been take away.

By now, only a few days into the new year, the same quiet that marked its beginning still lingered around me. Life continued with its daily threats and uncertainties, yet amid all this, my little bird, Simsim, looked at me silently. He made no sound, nor sang as he usually does, as if he sensed the weight of everything we are enduring. In that moment, the silence between us felt like a shared language, a small anchor of presence and comfort in a world where even ordinary days are fragile.

Hassan Herzallah - Correspondent from Gaza