Eman Elghoula

I am Iman… a Woman with Visual Impairment

Since October 7th, my heart has been trembling…

From the very first hours of that day, my heart began to groan from the pain, and my soul has been bleeding in sorrow over every tragedy happening everywhere.

I was Iman, the most pampered in my family, living under the care of a kind and loving household, full of warmth, protection, and peace.

Our home was a stable one, full of ambition and self-fulfillment.

It had a living room, a bedroom, a guest salon, a kitchen where meals were lovingly prepared, and an accessible bathroom.

Even the front step and the alleys around it brought comfort to the soul.

Since childhood, I grew up in that home, my kingdom, where I lived a simple life, with a daily routine that protected my dream and gave me purpose.

But suddenly, without warning, the cowardly enemy began destroying everything.

We were forced to flee, leaving behind our home in search of shelter and safety, just to live with dignity.

That moment marked the beginning of the displacement journey.

A journey of pain… moving from place to place, from one fragile roof to another, in search of safety and stability.

But fear and anxiety consumed the soul, moment after moment.

There was no place to feel safe.

Even the homes we knew were overcrowded, with barely any space.

We had no choice but to take shelter in a school repurposed for displaced families.

That life felt like sorrow wrapped in pain, it was like living in a prison.

We lost our passion for life… we lost the bare minimum of human needs.

Darkness, no light, no hope.

Yet the bombings continued, and we were forced to move again… and again…

The most painful experience came when we couldn’t even find a roof,

So we laid down on the ground and covered ourselves with the sky…

Under a tent.

And what is a tent, really?

It is a thin curtain pretending to be a bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, and a guest area, all at once.

No privacy.

No safety.

No dignity.

The tent became a tight box packed with family members,

With no rest, no space, no peace.

I couldn’t even find my Qur’an, the one I used to hold every morning to read my daily portion.

Nothing around me helped me continue.

The tent experience was the harshest of all,

Rough roads, difficulty moving, and no ease in doing anything.

The bathroom was primitive and hard to use, especially without running water.

What words can describe this hardship?

We stood in long lines under the burning sun to fetch a sip of water…

We queued again just for food.

Every bite was prepared with teary eyes.

Smoke filled the air, stinging the lungs and tightening the chest.

And at night… there was only fear. No rest, no peace.

This is our life now…

Not by choice, not by will…

We’ve lived through pain, loss, and deprivation.

Still, we try to hold onto hope.

I hope that the aggression will end.

But our spirits fade day by day.

The psychological pressure is immense.

The suffocating heat sends negative energy deep into our tired bodies.

Our eyes burn, with no drops to soothe them.

Our bodies ache, with no medicine.

Even our meals are cooked over open fires that release choking smoke.

No one hears our cries.

No one sees the pain we carry through every hour of the day and night.

This is our reality…

Our choices are no longer our own.

Our wishes melt under the weight of war and displacement.

But still, we hold on.

Still, we continue to live, to survive…

Until peace returns, and this brutal war comes to an end.