Three years ago this week, Israel began its devastating war in Gaza, laying waste to most of the territory and forever changing my life and that of millions of other Palestinians. While the anniversary offers Israelis a chance to mourn those who died on Oct. 7, 2023, Palestinians are afforded no such opportunity — because we are still being killed almost every day, despite the supposed cease-fire.

When the war first started, I was living an ordinary life in Shuja’iyya in northern Gaza, with my husband and 5-month-old daughter, Aisha, and completing my degree in computer engineering. Although opportunities in Gaza were limited due to Israel’s punishing decade-and-a-half-long siege, I had the hope and optimism of youth. That all changed in an instant.

As the bombing intensified, we fled in the darkness of night, with warplanes overhead and flames nearly consuming us from every direction, spending a night we thought would never end at a nearby school.

The Israeli military then ordered us to move south. I was separated from my husband and found myself alone with my daughter, living in a tent.

Those first days of the war were difficult. I lost all contact with my family in the north of the Strip. I was forced to be strong for Aisha, but fear was a constant companion.

I eventually completed my degree online in impossible circumstances — fleeing mass killings while nursing a baby and searching for food and shelter. I began to teach students in the camp as a way to keep myself distracted.

When the temporary cease-fire was announced in January last year, I went back to northern Gaza and was reunited with my brother and my husband. But the joy did not last. My husband was killed in an Israeli airstrike not long after our reunion, and Aisha lost her father, in the same way I lost mine as a child.

Aisha and I now live in a single damaged room in a shelter in Gaza City. Most of the walls are covered with plastic tarps. There are no windows. When it rains, water pours down on us and floods our belongings. In summer, the heat is unbearable.

I spend my days striving to provide a dignified life for my daughter, homeschooling her, and working on developing my own skills. But without a basic income I can accomplish very little. There is no electricity or internet, and even finding a workspace where I can spend a few hours each day is prohibitively expensive.

Safety and peace of mind remain elusive, as Israel has killed over 1,400 Palestinians over the past year alone, including more than 300 children. I live in constant fear that our dreams and ambitions could come to an end and a single airstrike could wipe us all out.

My daughter is almost 4. But I’m too terrified to send her to preschool. The pace and frequency of Israeli attacks have not let up. Schools should be a safe haven. But even they were not spared — nearly all were either damaged or destroyed by Israel over the past three years.

I’ve lost my home, my neighborhood, and my city. I’ve lost my family and the love of my life. I’ve lost my sense of safety, self, and comfort.

I hope that Israel’s killing and destruction in Gaza, which most international experts now label a genocide, comes to an end and that we are left alone, even if that means living on the rubble of our homes, with our dreams intact, near the remains of our loved ones. We have so much to offer and are capable of rebuilding our lives from scratch. It has become abundantly clear that Israel does not want us to live — but rather wishes to erase us from existence. Senior Israeli officials continue to speak openly of their plans to expel us from Gaza for good. But we will never leave.

I pray every day for this gross injustice to be lifted and to live to see better days; to build a dignified life for myself and Aisha, to continue my education and career, and to have a meaningful and tangible role in rebuilding Gaza once again.

I dream of raising Aisha in safety and security. I dream — and what a simple dream it is — of living in a home that can shelter me and my family. A home that is warm in the winter and cool in the summer. A safe home where we can go to sleep and wake up without fear of the unknown.