Essay , | 02/05/2026 : They Embrace their Dreams and Keep Going: Happiness

In times of war, words lose their essence, and basic concepts are recast in harsh, bewildering ways. In a reality burdened by destruction, the concept of happiness, once associated with tranquility, abundance, and fearless laughter, curdles into an ambiguous notion, even summoning a moral question: Do we have the right to laugh amid such anguish? 

This text neither seeks to justify laughter nor to embellish tragedy. It aims, instead, to draw close to humanity in moments of weakness, contradiction, and brutal honesty. It is an attempt to document what is rarely documented: the small details that keep people psychologically alive amid devastation, and the fleeting moments that may resemble happiness, even if not so in their heart. The stories here are recounted not as amusing tales, but as testimonies to the human capacity to cling to life, even when besieged by loss, hunger, fear, and burdensome memories.

When we met for the first time after the war ended, I told my friends, “We’ve had enough of sorrow and weeping. Let us try to smile.” 

“How can we smile,” they asked, “when all this war has shown us is pain?” 

“There must have been at least one small grin that escaped you… one moment when happiness touched you,” I urged. 

Most of them dismissed the idea. “We do not remember,” they said. 

I tried again, “Search deeper in your memories and imagination. You must find that smile!” 

Muhammad offered, “I can tell you something that happened to me at the beginning of the war, but it’s very embarrassing. Please do not laugh at me!” 

“Why not laugh?” we challenged. “Our aim is to laugh! If it’s too embarrassing, then spare us…” 

He replied: “I will recount it anyway, just to spite you!” 

We fired back, “Then you’ll have to bear the consequences.”

There are so many contradictions in Gaza, and we all live them unconsciously. 

Muhammad began: “One day after the war had just started, I was in a deep sleep at home, wearing shorts and an undershirt. My bedroom door was closed, and I was disconnected from the world. Suddenly, someone pounded on the door shouting: 'Open up, it's the army!' I opened the door and found the house full of Israeli soldiers. They beat me, dragged me out, and threw me into a military truck. I was thrown onto its metal floor, icy cold compared to my warm room. I started shivering from the cold, as if they had thrown me into a freezer! The soldiers started gathering young men and threw them into the truck. Shortly afterwards, we were about forty men piled on top of each other, and the truck took off. At first my mind raced with conflicting thoughts: ‘Will they take us somewhere far away and shoot us, or will they put us in detention?’ I hoped they would only detain me. The faster the truck went, the colder the air became. There was no tarpaulin to protect us from the wind, and the cold seeped into my bones... I almost got frozen! I stopped caring about whether I was going to be detained or get shot in the head and dead. The cold seized every thought, ripping through my bones like sharp knives. Even the air I breathed was painful in my lungs. The truck’s metal floor felt like slabs of Siberian ice. Suddenly, I felt a strange warmth seep through my limbs and spread across my body, and it brought me comfort. At first I did not know the source of that warmth, but there was a suspicious smell. I turned to the young man beside me and asked, ‘Did you urinate?’ Through clenched teeth and trembling lips, he begged me to keep it a secret. He said he could not control himself because of the extreme cold and fear, and that he had urinated on me without meaning to, and that he was ashamed. I told him it was okay, yet part of me wished it would continue because of the warmth, as the cold was killing me... Sometimes, the things you would never imagine enduring, the situations that you hate most fiercely, can be the very things that save you. And sometimes what you believe will make you happy can end up killing you. The truck eventually took us to jail. They locked me there, and I was released a year and a half later, finding myself in the midst of famine.”

There are so many contradictions in Gaza, and we all live them unconsciously. The reader may wonder, What's so funny in that story? Yet people in Gaza have grown sarcastic about everything, after most of us lost all that we had. Throughout the war, we have been running from one pit only to fall in another, larger one. For more than two years, we have been moving from one sorrow to the next, displaced again and again, often brushed by death, as if the world itself had ended. Nothing has settled, and until now, we have not found peace. Our eyes remain bewildered, our steps hesitant, our thoughts confused, and everything has become thrown into doubt. 

And yet we search, in the midst of it all, for a life that resembles life, and we try, despite everything, to share laughter. The war is over, but we have forgotten laughter. While Muhammad was telling his story, we burst out laughing with the yearning of a mother meeting her son after years of absence, or a farmer longing for rain on his parched soil. Many things dry and crack besides the earth: Lips grow parched and feelings fall numb. And once death becomes a familiar scene we witness every day, everything else becomes ordinary.

We received Muhammad's story like a gift from heaven, a chance to reshape our souls. We laughed from the heart, tears of joy streaming from our eyes— tears we had held back since the beginning of the war. Our hunger for laughter almost matched the craving we had felt during the famine for a plate of Nabulsi Knafeh! Everyone wanted to devour a piece of that dessert and share their own funny or personal story, including Ihab, who said:

“One day, I went out to gather firewood for cooking in a tree-filled area next to our house. While I was collecting branches, I found a heavy gold bracelet with a snake’s head clasp, known to us as a ‘snake bracelet.’ At first, I felt uneasy, but I looked around and no one was there. My feelings were torn between joy and fear. I was anxious because I had heard that gold had become very expensive, and that such a large bracelet would probably be worth a fortune I could ever earn in my entire life. I carried the firewood on my back and hurried home, changing the bracelet's hiding place several times along the way — sometimes it in my right pocket, sometimes in the left. At one point I even slipped it into my sock, but it wouldn't stay, so I put it back in my trouser pocket. 

I broke the awkward silence, seeking to restore a cheerful atmosphere away from the prevailing sadness that we had sought to escape in the first place.

No one had ever robbed me in my life, yet on that walk back, I felt as if the entire world might wrestle me to steal this precious treasure. I don’t know how I reached home that day, but I kept telling myself, ‘I must sell it immediately to buy food for my children.’ The only problem was that the nearest gold market was in Jabalia, and I didn’t have the money for transportation.

I went to my brother and asked him to lend me some money, but he flatly refused. I was burning to reach the goldsmith's shop and learn what the bracelet was worth. I needed his help with the transport fee, and I knew he had a little money from his work as a barber. So, on my way back from collecting firewood, while a few customers were waiting their turn at his shop, I took out the bracelet and placed it in front of him. His mouth fell open in astonishment. ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked. I told him that I had found it while collecting firewood. He narrowed his eyes and warned me, ‘I hope you didn’t do something suspicious.’

I swore to him that I found it by chance between the tree leaves. Perhaps it had been blown away from a bombarded house, or fell from the hand of a once bride whose body was torn to pieces. ‘I have no clue how it ended up in the woods; I simply found it, and there was no one there,’ I explained. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I will give you twenty shekels for your transport departure and return.’ 

I took the money, and upon leaving the barbershop, I ran into my younger brother and decided to take him along with me. I thought to myself, ‘We will pay 20 shekels for two persons’ departure, and after selling the bracelet, we would have abundant money on the way back.’

When we got to the goldsmith market, I told my brother: ‘Take the bracelet and go inside that shop. Ask for his offered price and get back to me so we can compare and find the best deal.’

My brother went inside, and I stood next to the door. But upon presenting the bracelet, the goldsmith screamed at him: ‘Out! Get out of here! Aren't you tired of this!? Every day a different person with the same kind of copper bracelet!’

My brother got out scared, stressing that the goldsmith insisted that it was made of copper. ‘That’s impossible!” I cried out. ‘This man does not know enough about gold! Let's go somewhere else.’

We went to an adjacent goldsmith, showed him the bracelet, and asked him about its value. ‘Sorry, I don't buy copper,’ he said indifferently. ‘This is fake Chinese gold, and people come with this type of bracelet every other day. Good luck.’

I stood there wondering how we would return home, as we didn't have money for transportation. I asked the goldsmith if he would buy it at any price, but he stressed that ‘it is not worth even a Shekel.’

We walked back home frustrated and arrived more than an hour later. Then we sat down contemplating about the simple things we would have done had we sold the bracelet…”

Ihab fell silent, and so did everyone else. We did not know whether to laugh or be sad. But since the gathering was focused on laughter, I asked him: “What did the first goldsmith say to your brother?" He exclaimed, “He yelled at him saying: 'Get out of here!' Get out!’”

Everyone started laughing, and the cynical comments emerged. A participant noted, “It seems to be a very famous bracelet; everyone who goes to the woods finds it!” 

Another asked: “What did you do with it, Ihab?” to which Ihab replied: “When I went back to gather firewood the next day, I took it out furiously and threw it deep into the woods.”

Everyone was amused, commenting, “It will most likely return to the same goldsmith with someone else.” 

Then Mahmoud said, “I have a story that made me happy.” I quickly stepped in, “Ok everyone! Let us all listen to Mahmoud and hear about what made him happy! This poetic verse describes Mahmoud best. It fits him perfectly: ‘My luck is like flour scattered over thorns. The barefoot were told to gather it in the wind. But when the task proved too hard for them, they asked, how can you make happy the one whom God has made wretched?’ Go on and tell us your story, you wretched soul,” I said jokingly, and everyone laughed.

But at the same time, I realized how precious life and survival truly are.

Mahmoud began: “This story took place in the first months of the war. Everyone was receiving coupons except for me, although I am unemployed and have children. I kept telling myself: ‘Be patient; perhaps something good will come out of it.’ Then one day as I was browsing on Facebook and TikTok, a message suddenly popped up on my phone. I rarely receive messages, so I quickly opened it. The first word said: ‘Go to...’ 

For those of you who don’t know, this “Go to” is like a go-to code in Gaza: All aid and charity organizations begin their messages with ‘Go to… Go to this or that chief’s house… Go to such-and-such shed…’ 

And so I ran to the go-to address and, all the while imagining the shape and type of coupon I might receive. There are different types of coupons one could get: some are worth $500 U.S., while others do not exceed $10 U.S. Upon arriving, I found a long queue. I stood there and learned that the coupon I had received was for seven boxes of food supplements. The cost of each box was only $2 U.S., meaning that the entire coupon was worth only $14 U.S.

It occurred to me that if I had gone there and back by public transport, it would have cost the same amount. But it’s okay, I told myself, and I decided to wait a bit.

I eventually received the food supplements and returned home clutching the seven boxes tightly. Upon entering, my wife asked: ‘Why didn't you receive the coupon?’ I held out my hand and said, ‘This is the coupon ration.’

She was surprised, ‘Children’s supplements!? I’ve never seen a coupon like that in my entire life! Oh God, how unfortunate.’

I gave each of my children a box. As soon as one of them opened the box and took a bite, my phone started ringing. I was told that our house had been bombarded and my apartment was fully destroyed.

I hung up and continued looking at my son as he took his food supplement. My wife noticed my disturbed facial expression and asked, ‘What happened!? Who just called?’ ‘Nothing,’ I said, ‘It just seems that our stay here in Deir al-Balah will last longer.’ ‘Be honest with me,’ she pleaded, ‘Did they say anything about our house getting bombed??’ I nodded in agreement, and she sat down, weeping bitterly.”

Mahmoud paused and looked at us, then he continued: “That moment had been the happiest I experienced during the war. I don’t know why, but I had that strange feeling as if I had compensated for those boxes with my own house. God damn those supplements and damn the day I was born! To hell with this endless war. When you lose your home, the war never ends for you. You see, your house is a small homeland… How can one live in the larger homeland when one can't find a foothold or ceiling under which no one in the family can feel safe!? Since that day, we have moved dozens of times between tents across Gaza, both in the north and south. You know what? This is the first time in over two years that I am sitting down, like a normal human being; sitting, listening and talking among normal friends.”

Mahmoud fell silent, and so did everyone else.

I broke the awkward silence, seeking to restore a cheerful atmosphere away from the prevailing sadness that we had sought to escape in the first place. I said to Mahmoud, “Honestly, my heart trembled when you raised your finger and said you were happy. This surprised me a lot because I know you have been unlucky since you were born!” 

Everyone started laughing, and so did Mahmoud, and the room got lighter.

Then Lina intervened: “I will tell you about my happiest moment. This was during the Israeli siege in the north, when no one could even open their house door. We were completely short of food, and the intense hunger crawling on our stomachs was so bad that we even had to eat tree leaves to survive. 

One of those days, I was sitting on bed at home, reading a novel. I dozed off unexpectedly, so the book fell from my hands behind the bed. I went under the bed to pick it up, and I suddenly saw the greatest surprise: there was one orange lying there! I looked around and no one was there, so I picked it up and stared: half of it was covered in white mold, the other half intact. It looked like it had been lying under the bed for weeks or months, as if waiting to save my life.

I subconsciously rushed to the restroom, locked the door, sat on the toilet seat, peeled the orange, and began to devour it with relish. The taste of the orange affected me instantly; it was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted and ever will! I picked out the unmolded slices, one by one, until the entire orange was consumed. All that remained was the peel, and I started eating the pulp inside of it, sometimes even eating the peel itself.

Still, we may have partially broken the war’s grip that night as we sat like ordinary people, and we talked, laughed, fell silent, and cried unabashedly.

I had to hide the ‘trace of the crime,’ so I gathered the moldy slices and threw them out of the small bathroom window that leads to the street. I washed my hands and entered the room, then went under the bed, picked up the book, and drifted off into reflection. My mind was rebuking me for what I had done: How could I possibly eat an orange by myself while my younger siblings and parents were starving inside!? What a shame — I should have shared it with everyone! I hated myself at that moment, and I will never forgive myself for what I had done. 

But at the same time, I realized how precious life and survival truly are. If someone had asked me, ‘If you find an orange amid famine, would you eat it alone or with family?’ I would have answered without hesitation: ‘With my family of course.’ But reality is different; there seems to be a vast difference between theory and practice. It’s like a scenario where a family falls overboard from a boat, and everyone will ultimately strive to save themselves from drowning. 

I wondered: ‘Am I a heartless person, or was the desire to survive stronger?’ But the moment I devoured that orange is one I will never forget. It was the happiest moment of my life, and it permeated my entire being. In fact, it was the only moment in which I felt truly happy throughout the war.”

By the end of that session, we did not find a clear definition of happiness, nor did we reach a philosophical conclusion covering all that had been said. Nevertheless, we realized one thing with painful clarity: happiness in war is exceptional, and it does not arrive whole, pure, or dignified. Rather, it is a fleeting ‘stolen’ moment that is sometimes embarrassing or even painful, yet real enough to keep a person standing. We also learned that laughter in this context is not a sign of frivolity, but a last form of resistance, and that sarcasm is not a mockery of life, but a blind attachment thereto. In Gaza, we do not laugh because we are okay, but because the alternative is collapse, and because the human heart will suffocate if it finds no air to breathe.

We left that evening carrying stories that mirrored our wounds — still unhealed, yet at least not alone. We realized that each of us has their own “orange,” “fake bracelet,” or “fleeting warmth in a freezing truck.” We also understood that these small details — however trivial or harsh they may seem—have helped keep us alive this far. The war is not truly over, even when guns fall silent, for it lives on in memory, loss, and dread of tomorrow. 

Still, we may have partially broken the war’s grip that night as we sat like ordinary people, and we talked, laughed, fell silent, and cried unabashedly. Perhaps that was happiness in its simplest form — to feel that you are still human, still capable of feeling, remembering, and speaking out. We may not have homes, safety, or a clear future, but we possess stories that, when narrated, can lighten the burden of life. At some point, we realized that happiness is not the opposite of pain, but its temporary companion. We will keep seeking happiness, knowing it will not save us, because it grants us one more push to live through another day.

Translation by Arsen Aghazarian.