2025 Gaza Girls Stories
Tomorrow's Women U.S.-based Peace Ambassadors interview young women in Gaza
The Tomorrow’s Women Peace Ambassador program teaches and develops skills in leadership, emotional resiliency, critical thinking, teamwork, public speaking, and community action among teenagers (ages 15-18) in Santa Fe, Albuquerque and Northern New Mexico. The 2025 theme, “Leadership in Allyship,” has given Peace Ambassadors a lens to explore Israeli and Palestinian narratives with the guidance of Tomorrow’s Women staff and in community with peers in Palestine and Israel. Here are stories our Peace Ambassadors gathered recently from young women in Gaza.
Rawan, interviewed by Celia
Across the world right now, there is a woman who sits quietly in her family’s tent, writing poetry by the dim glow of candlelight during a blackout. She wakes up every morning to a life that is completely unrecognizable from what it once was. No more coffee. No more TV. No more chocolate. Meet my dear friend, Rawan, a 26 year old Palestinian physicist, living in Gaza. Through a blood stained sky, every breath she takes holds the burden and sorrow of an entire people.
Rawan and her nine family members were forced to flee their home after the attack on October 7, 2023. She and her family found themselves running for their lives amidst the rubble of what was once her neighborhood. In her own words, “The bombs were falling like raindrops all around us.”
The displacement has stripped her of all normalcy and “luxuries” she was once accustomed to. Hunger eats at her stomach like a parasite, occupying her thoughts with an unforgiving presence in her daily life. Thirst dries out her lips, leaving them cracked and yearning for just a drop of clean water. All forms of privacy, freedom, and hope that Rawan and her community once experienced are only a fragmented version of what they once were.
My biggest takeaway from her brave words is that we cannot stand idly in the face of pain. One of the best ways Rawan conveyed the urgency for change was when she pleaded, “In every displaced woman, there is a silent heroine. She must be heard. She must be honored. She must be remembered. Silence in the face of injustice is betrayal, and staying alive amidst this destruction is a privilege that must be translated into action. Being geographically distant doesn’t mean you have to be silent.”
Islam, interviewed by Elise
From her window, Islam can see the endless depth of the Mediterranean Sea. Among the array of tents crowding the beach and the crumbling buildings hit by endless violence, the sea is the only thing untouched by the war. The waves always ebb and flow, and the sun always rises again. Dusk paints an orange hue over the clear sky, and over the resonance of bombs is the faint mist of the ocean, bringing in renewal, controlled by the silent and constant moon.
The view from Islam’s window in Gaza
Before this war, in 2023, Islam graduated from university as a biomedical engineer. With an engagement on the horizon and a life brimming with opportunity, the war began. Her life quickly transformed into one of struggle, sadness, and strife. She told me of her father, who died because of the lack of medical care in Gaza right now. I learned of her family’s kindness and warmth, who give bread to her uncle and his family every time they see them as a force of habit, worrying for their health. She described the specific issues that women face, such as the shortage of feminine products to the point that women will wear a sanitary pad, wash it, let it dry, and use it again.
From our perspective away from the conflict, it is hard to imagine the strength of the people currently living in Gaza, and particularly the spirit of women. Far from viewing her people as martyrs or helpless, Islam declares this: “I want the world to understand that behind every destroyed building is a woman who had plans: maybe to finish her education, start a small business, raise her children in peace. These women are not victims by choice. They are resilient, courageous, and deserve dignity, safety, and a voice in how their future is shaped.”
Shaymaa, interviewed by Kaya
“There was once peace, laughter, and hope—but now there is only fear and loss.” Shaymaa shared this line with me in the middle of our conversation. I’ve carried it with me ever since because of its strength in expressing such pain. It wasn’t just a sentence: It was a remembering, a mourning, and a resistance all at once. I could hear it in her voice; not only the weight of everything that’s been lost, but the quiet remembrance of what still remains—what refuses to be destroyed. Shaymaa is 23 years old, born and raised in Gaza. She is currently displaced, living in a tent with her six family members. Even in these impossible circumstances, she shared her story with strength and grace.
Shaymaa is someone who once lived a life full of color. She loves to draw, but now, she says, “When I draw, it feels illegal.” Art, in a world being destroyed, feels like a rebellion. She wants to “fly without wings, to fall and rise again, to amaze herself with her own creativity.” These are her dreams: not for recognition or fame, but for growth, for freedom, for joy. Shaymaa’s story carries many truths, but the clearest is this: women are not just surviving war, they are resisting it with every breath. With each meal cooked, each child protected, each prayer whispered, they are choosing strength over despair. Her voice reminds us that identity is not one-dimensional. Shaymaa is not just a “victim of war”—she is an artist, a sister, a chef, a student, a dreamer. She is full of complexity and life.
Alaa, interviewed by Madeleine
Alaa is a 27-year old Palestinian woman living in Gaza. She graduated high school and university with a degree in Biology and Teaching Methods. She was drawn to the field due to her love for science - its connection to humanity, creation, and the miracles of the universe. She feels as if true happiness lies in giving and love. Her favorite moments are those shared with her friends, quietly sipping coffee and listening to music. She dreams of continuing her travels across the world: her dreams were suddenly cut short by the conflict.
The morning of October 7th, 2023: smoke, fear, and hatred plagued the world around Alaa, and yet she kept going. Displaced from her home, the news of the loss of her dearest friend left her with an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness.
Despite previous wars experienced by Palestinians, as well as heightened tension following the COVID-19 Pandemic, her hope had always been a renewable resource. With her passion, love, and resilience, she was able to regain her strength, time after time, along with the rest of her community
But now, her sense of hope was lost. She was forced to flee seven times. Alaa shared her grief with me: “War has no meaning. War is a curse.” Alaa’s family had grown exhausted from the constant displacement, hunger, and evacuations. But even without food, without a home, through all of the hardship, Alaa drew her strength from within herself. She may have lost hope, but she was unstoppable in trying to move forward.
Nour, interviewed by Quinn
There is a kind of strength that grows only from broken ground. Nour was born in Deir al-Balah, a seaside city in Gaza where the air is thick with salt and smoke, and the sunrise breaks through shattered windows with the same stubbornness as hope. She grew up under occupation, but her mind reached far beyond its fences. She read law, learned languages, embroidered her dreams into cloth, and built a classroom in the dust. “We dream, we love, we fear, we hope” she said.
Nour is 28 now. She recently turned 28 under skies lit not by fireworks, but by fire. “This is not the best version of life,” she told me, “but it’s the one I have right now.”
She calls herself a legal researcher and human rights defender. But she is more than a title. She is a witness. She is a protector. She is a sister, a neighbor, a woman whose voice is raw from crying out and yet still sings.
I’ve never met someone who holds so much sorrow and still makes space for joy. When I asked what gives her pride, she told me this: “Every hour I’ve spent reading and researching under bombardment is a small victory over great injustice.”
When I asked how she sustains her faith, she said: “We do not have the luxury of despair. If hope dies in our hearts, we die instantly.”
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