I kept turning the switch on and off to truly believe it worked, remembering how much of my life had been spent in the dark because of the occupation – family gatherings, birthday parties, studying, lost job opportunities and video calls held in the dark.
During the genocide, we relied on candles until they vanished from the markets. I then used my father’s car battery to light small LEDs until it died from overuse.
I used to pay for a street generator, but it was cut off for most of the day due to fuel shortages. Often, a phone’s flashlight was my family’s only defence against the dark.
A few days after arriving, I had to change rooms because of a prior reservation. When the hotel owner came to inform me, he apologised profusely, explaining that the bathroom light in the new room was not working and that an electrician would come the next day to fix it.
A bittersweet smile crossed my face. I was touched by his kindness, but struck by the tragic fate of my people in Gaza, who now consider a private toilet, let alone a working light, a luxury. I still try to call my family during daylight hours just so I can see their faces, though no one mentions the lack of electricity anymore. It has simply become a normalised part of daily survival.
