hope

Gaza City – The Holy Family Church in Gaza has lit its Christmas tree for the first time after two years of Israel’s genocidal war on the Strip. It is Christmas Eve mass, and the worshippers have packed the main prayer hall. Many of them are excited and happy – not just because it is Christmas but because they are still alive.

The glow of lights on the big Christmas tree and holiday decorations could not hide the harsh reality left by the war on Gaza. The church decided to limit the celebrations to a prayer service and brief family gatherings, but the bells rang loud, and that alone filled people with joy.

One of those people is 58-year-old Dmitri Boulos, who missed celebrating Christmas during the war. He was displaced along with his wife and two children in the early days of the fighting after heavy Israeli shelling hit around his home in the Tal al-Hawa area, south of Gaza City.

“We fled to the church seeking safety at the time, but it turned out there was no safe place,” Boulos said. “The church was hit twice while we were inside, and we lost friends and loved ones during that period.

“Nothing had any taste at all,” he recalled. “There was immense fear and grief for those we lost. How can we celebrate when everything around us is wounded and sad?”

Boulos hopes this Christmas and the new year will bring an end to all the suffering and lift restrictions on Gaza.

“We are trying to make ourselves and our children feel that what’s coming will be better, even though the reality is extremely hard,” he said. “We hope things will return to how they were before.”

The Holy Family Church, the only Catholic parish in Gaza, has long held symbolic importance beyond the Strip. Throughout the war, the late Pope Francis called the parish almost daily, maintaining a direct line to the besieged community.

Most of Palestine’s Christians live in the occupied West Bank and East Jerusalem, totalling approximately 47,000 to 50,000, with an additional 1,000 in Gaza before the war.

The number of Christians in Gaza has dwindled in recent years. Today, there are a few hundred left, a sharp drop from the 3,000 registered in 2007.

During the war, Israeli attacks targeted several Christian places of worship where many displaced Palestinians were taking shelter.

Although the Holy Family Church was not placed by Israel in the zones marked for expulsions, the other churches in Gaza City, including the Greek Orthodox Church of Saint Porphyrius and the Anglican St Philip’s Church, were.

But the nearly 550 displaced people sheltering in the Holy Family Church still mistrust the Israeli military. The church has been attacked so many times before – despite Israeli guarantees that it does not target places of worship.

Many of those people remain traumatised and try to rebuild the semblance of a normal life.

“My heart is still heavy with the tragedies and exhaustion we lived through during the war,” Nowzand Terzi told Al Jazeera, as she stood outside the Holy Family Church’s courtyard watching the worshippers without engaging them.

“We were displaced here under bombardment two years ago. I lost my home in an Israeli strike, and then I lost my daughter, who fell suddenly ill last year and passed away,” said Terzi as her voice choked after remembering her 27-year-old daughter – who did not make it on time to hospital because of the war.

“May God help those who have lost their loved ones, and may conditions in the Gaza Strip calm down,” she said, wishing peace and safety for all.

It’s a wish that resonates across the Gaza Strip, where nearly two million people are dealing with continued Israeli attacks and violations of the ceasefire, lack of food, lack of medicine, lack of shelter and basic services.

More than 288,000 families in Gaza are enduring a shelter crisis as Israeli restrictions on humanitarian supplies worsen conditions for Palestinians displaced by the war, the territory’s Government Media Office says.

More than 80 percent of buildings across Gaza have been damaged or destroyed during the war, according to UN figures, forcing enormous displacement.

Edward Sabah is just 18 years old, but he knows well the tragedy of war and displacement. He was forced to leave his home during the war and took shelter in the Saint Porphyrius Church in the Zeitoun neighbourhood of eastern Gaza City. The church was bombed on October 19, 2023, in an Israeli attack that killed 18 people.

“We were gathered in the church courtyard … We were talking normally with other displaced people when suddenly a massive explosion hit one of the church buildings,” Sabah recalls.

“We never expected the church to be targeted, but it happened. Everything unexpected happened during the war. Bombing was everywhere,” he said, adding that he and his family survived and later moved to another church, where they lived for a year and a half.

“During the past two Christmases, we tried very hard to create an atmosphere, but it was extremely sad,” he said. But he is also full of hope and the desire to live.

“This year it’s less intense, but we’re still afraid of what might happen. Still, we decorated the church and tried to create a joyous atmosphere,” Sabah said, adding that he hopes to complete his high school education.

This Christmas has brought joy and a sense of relief to many Christians in the Gaza Strip and in the rest of Palestine. Many Palestinians talk about their sense of belonging and attachment to their land despite all the hardships, tragedies and wars.

That’s why Janet Massadm, a 32-year-old woman from Gaza, decided to style her hair and put on new clothes to celebrate Christmas for the first time in two years.

“We are tired of grief, loss, displacement, and fear that have taken so much from our lives and our years,” Massadm said emotionally.

“Inside, I am completely exhausted because of what we have witnessed,” she added. “But what can we do? We must try to create joy and happiness.”

Like many Christians in Gaza, Massadm was displaced to the church with her family, her parents, brother, and sister, fleeing bombardment in the Remal neighbourhood of central Gaza City.

“I hope the war does not return,” she said. “That people reunite with their loved ones, that we witness a better future, and that Gaza is rebuilt soon.”

President Obama in his farewell address urged listeners unhappy with their representatives to “run for office yourself.” (Zbigniew Bzdak / TNS)

(Zbigniew Bzdak / TNS)

Ammar Campa-Najjar is trying to oust Republican Rep. Duncan Hunter in San Diego County. (Hayne Palmour IV / San Diego Union-Tribune)

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Buffy Wicks, center, who worked in the Obama White House and for the Obama and Hillary Clinton campaigns, is running for the state Assembly.

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Dublin, Ireland – When I was accepted to Trinity College Dublin, I imagined a fresh start, new lectures, late-night study sessions and a campus alive with possibility.

The plan was clear: begin my studies in September 2024 and finally step into the future I had worked so hard for.

But when September came, the borders of Gaza were shut tight, my neighbourhood was being bombed almost every day, and the dream of university collapsed with the buildings around me. Trinity sent me a deferral letter, and I remember holding it in my hands and feeling torn in two.

I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or heartbroken. That letter became a strange symbol of hope, a reminder that maybe, someday, my life could continue. But everything else was falling apart so quickly that it was hard to believe in anything.

My family and I were displaced five times as the war intensified. Each time, we left something behind: books, clothes, memories, safety.

After the first temporary truce, we went home for a short time. But it no longer felt like the place we had built our lives. The walls were cracked, windows shattered, and floors coated in dust and debris.

It felt haunted by what had happened.

I knew I had to go

I’m the middle child among three siblings. My older sister, Razan, is 25, and my younger brother, Fadel, is 23.

You might think being a middle child spares you, but during the war, I felt responsible for them. On nights when bombings shook the building and fear crept into every corner, I tried to be the steady one. I tried to comfort them as I trembled inside.

Then, in April 2025, my name appeared on a small, restricted list of people allowed to leave Gaza. About 130 people could cross at that time, dual-nationality holders, family reunification cases and a handful of others. My name on that list felt unreal.

The morning I approached the crossing, I remember the long, tense line of people waiting, gripping documents, holding bags, clutching their children’s hands. No one talked.

When two IDF officers questioned me, I answered as steadily as I could, afraid that something, anything, might go wrong and they’d send me back.

When they finally waved me through, I felt relief and guilt at the same time.

I didn’t call home until I got to Jordan. When my mother heard my voice, she cried. I did, too. I told her I was safe, but it felt like I had left a part of my heart behind with them.

My family is now in Khan Younis, still living through the chaos.

I arrived in Amman on April 18, my heart heavy with the weight of what I had escaped. The next morning, I boarded a flight to Istanbul, with nothing around me feeling real.

The sounds of normalcy, laughter, announcements, and the rustle of bags were jarring after the constant bombardment. I had been living in a world where every sound could signal danger, where the air was thick with fear and uncertainty.

I felt like a ghost, wandering through a world that no longer belonged to me.

Finally, after hours of flying, waiting, being screened and watching departure boards, I landed in Dublin. The Irish air felt clean, the sky impossibly open. I should’ve been happy, but I was engulfed by crushing guilt, the joy overshadowed by the pain of separation.

I wasn’t completely alone. A Palestinian colleague from Gaza had arrived in April 2024, and two friends were also in Ireland. There was an unspoken understanding between us.

“You recognise the trauma in each other without saying a word,” I often tell people now. “It’s in the way we listen, the way we sit, the way we carry ourselves.”

Back in Gaza, my daily life had shrunk to pure survival: running, hiding, rationing water, checking who was alive. Bombings hit every day, and nighttime was the worst. Darkness makes every sound feel closer, sharper.

You don’t sleep during war. You wait.

Those nights, the silence was deafening, punctuated by the distant echoes of explosions. I would lie awake, straining to hear danger.

The darkness wrapped me like a suffocating blanket, amplifying every creak of the building, every whisper of the wind.

During the day, people on the street moved quickly, eyes darting, alert.

Water was a precious commodity; we would line up for hours at distribution points, often only to receive a fraction of what we needed. It was never enough.

No human should live like that

Five times, we fled in search of safety, packed in minutes, hearts racing with fear.

In one building where dozens of displaced families stayed, people slept on thin mattresses, shoulder to shoulder. Children cried quietly, adults whispered, trying to comfort one another, but every explosion outside sent ripples of panic through the rooms.

No human being should have to live like that, but millions of us did.

As I sit in Dublin, I carry the weight of my family’s struggles with me, a constant reminder of the life I left behind.

The guilt of survival is a heavy burden, but I hold onto hope that one day, I can return and help rebuild what has been lost.

Even now, far from Gaza, I feel it. You don’t leave war behind; you carry it with you like a second heartbeat.

Watching a world I’m not part of yet

I often stop in the campus courtyards. Not just because they’re beautiful, though they are, but because I need those moments to remind myself that I survived.

The laughter of children here feels foreign, a reminder of joy that has been stolen from so many.

Walking through Trinity College today feels surreal. Students laugh over coffee, rush to lectures and complain about assignments. Life moves so seamlessly here.

I message my family every day. Some days, they reply quickly. Other days, hours pass with no response. Those silent days feel like torture.

But I’m determined. Being here is about rebuilding a life, about honouring the people I left behind.

Survival comes with weight.

I carry the dreams of those who couldn’t leave. That responsibility shapes the way I move through the world; quieter, more grateful, more aware.

I hope someday I can bring my family to safety. I hope to finish my studies, rebuild my life and use my voice for people still trapped in war.

I want people to know what it takes to stand in that line at the border, to leave everything behind, to walk into a future alone.

Afghanistan’s International Olympic Committee member Samira Asghari says the Taliban authorities must face the stark truth that if they are ever to be accepted internationally, they must respect the rights of women to education and sport.

Asghari, who at 31 is living in exile for the second time, does, however, favour engaging with Afghanistan’s rulers.

The Taliban government have banned girls from schools beyond the age of 12, and barred women from most jobs and public services – and from playing sport.

Asghari, who in 2018 became Afghanistan’s first ever IOC member, accepts her “situation is quite challenging” and beating the drum for Afghan women’s sport “does require certain precautions”.

Nevertheless, the former international basketball player, like many top Afghan women athletes, is undeterred in speaking out about the treatment of women under the Taliban authorities.

“The reality is that when you take a public stand for women’s rights you do become a target, but I believe strongly in communication and engagement,” she said in an email interview with the AFP news agency.

“As long as the Taliban remain the reality on the ground in Afghanistan, we cannot afford to waste time doing nothing.

“In my role, I have tried to help smooth the discussions between the IOC and those currently in control, focusing on the sport rights of women and girls and particularly primary school girls who are still inside Afghanistan.”

Asghari, one of four children born to a retired professional makeup artist mother and a father who was a manager in the Afghan Olympic national committee, says the “conversations are not always easy”.

“They are not about legitimising any government,” she said.

“But they are very important for creating tangible opportunities for future generations of young boys and girls in Afghanistan.”

‘I hope FIFA can align with IOC talks with the Taliban’

With Afghan sportswomen spread around the globe, putting together teams is complex.

However, a women’s football team, Afghan Women United, made up of players based in Europe and Australia, recently competed in FIFA Unites: Women’s Series 2025 in Morocco.

“This support for athletes outside Afghanistan is just the first step, and I hope FIFA can align with the IOC’s ongoing talks with the Taliban,” she said.

Asghari, who had been involved in the “project” for more than a year, hopes the message gets through to Afghanistan’s rulers.

“The Taliban were given the country and now they’re trying to maintain power while ignoring fundamental human rights, particularly for women,” she said.

“It’s very difficult for them to continue ruling Afghanistan this way in the long term, and the Taliban need to understand that their international acceptance is directly linked to respecting human rights, including the rights of women to education and sport.”

Asghari, who attended the recent Islamic Solidarity Games in Riyadh, where Afghan women and men competed, said she hoped for “small openings” in the Taliban’s stance.

“I also believe that if we can find small openings — like developing sport in primary schools where girls are still allowed to attend up to sixth grade — we should take them,” she said.

“This isn’t about accepting the Taliban’s restrictions, it’s about not abandoning the girls and women of Afghanistan.

“We have to work with reality, while continuing to push for fundamental change.”

Asghari says even achieving small breakthroughs like that could prevent the long-term harm women suffered during the Taliban’s first spell in power, from 1996 to 2001.

She said she had seen the impact on her return from her first period of exile, in Iran.

“What concerns me deeply is that we’re creating another lost generation,” she said.

“I remember when I was in sixth grade aged 12, and there was a 20-year-old woman sitting next to me in the same class because she couldn’t go to school during the previous Taliban era.

“I didn’t know how to communicate with her and it was difficult for both of us, but especially for her because she had lost so many years.

“I cannot accept seeing this happen again. That’s why even small opportunities matter so much.”

Asghari retains hope despite the bleak outlook and believes in “continued engagement and dialogue” with the Taliban.

“The future of Afghanistan is this young generation. We need to give them every opportunity we can, no matter how small, and never, ever give up on them.”