When Water Rose from Beneath the Pain

A family uprooted from Rafah finds a moment of mercy in the ruins of Khan Younis

Foreword

Abood Abed Alrhman is a young writer in Gaza who has been living through displacement and hardship. He writes from the middle of it, using his words to make sense of what he and his family are facing.

This piece is one of his reflections. It shows his strength, his honesty, and the hope he holds onto even in the hardest moments.

These are his words and his experience.

– Manufacturing Dissent –

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We were not leaving… we were being uprooted.

From Rafah, we fled under forced evacuation orders, carrying nothing but fear and what remained of our souls. The bombing was not far—it followed us like a heavy shadow. The sky was no longer a sky… it had become an open mouth swallowing everything. We walked without knowing whether we were surviving, or merely postponing death.

We arrived in Khan Younis… but we did not find it as it once was. It was no longer a city, but the remains of a memory. A barren land, as if life itself had left without saying goodbye. No trees to shelter us, no water to quench our thirst—only harsh soil and a burning, merciless sun.

We set up our tent on land that resembled nothing but a desert. It was rough and unforgiving, as if refusing to be embraced again. We were trying to begin from nothing, while everything inside us was already broken.

That day… the heat was unbearable. The sun stood directly above us, as if watching and testing our endurance. My brother and I were trying to secure the tent pole. I was digging slowly, with no energy left—my body exhausted, my breathing uneven. Sweat wasn’t just falling… it was escaping me, the way strength escapes a body worn down by too many days.

I was thirsty… unbearably thirsty. The kind of thirst that does not just ask for water—it asks for survival.

I climbed down into the hole, raised the axe, and struck the ground one last time… not out of hope, but as a final attempt before surrender.

And then…

Something I never imagined happened.

Water came out.

Clean, cold, living water.

I froze in place, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. It was as if the earth, after all its cruelty, had suddenly decided to apologize. As if God had sent us a message in the middle of this devastation… that we had not been forgotten.

I shouted—not from pain, but from joy. I called my family, then our neighbors. They ran toward me as if I were bringing news of a ceasefire, not just water. But in that moment… water was greater than any peace.

It was everything.

We laughed, we cried, and I could not understand how a few drops of water could bring life back to hearts that were on the verge of fading.

Later, we discovered that I had struck an old water pipe buried beneath the ground… but that changed nothing for me.

To me… it was no coincidence.

How could a tired hand, with no strength left, choose that exact spot? How could one final, desperate strike become the beginning of life?

It was wisdom.

It was mercy.

It was a miracle… even if the world explains it differently.

And from that moment on, I never stopped smiling.

Because I understood one thing…

That God, even in our darkest moments, hides beneath our feet what can bring us back to life.

We just… have to keep digging.

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