Living Between Two Worlds: The Weight of Surviving

Life in Gaza

I slide to the edge of the mattress to pray Fajr, tiptoeing carefully not to step on someone’s hand or head. It’s cramped; ten of us share this small space, each breath mingling with the others. It’s crowded, but we manage. I grab a bottle of water for the Wuduu ritual before prayer. Everyone seems awake, moving together in sync as we pray. Praying for the end of this one-year-old nightmare, in union "Ameen."

In the darkness, I trace my steps back to the mattress, moving closer to my mother. The warmth of her breath on my forehead as she hums the morning prayers is the only comfort I have. My leg shakes restlessly, trying to generate warmth, with the cold air biting into my skin. Eventually, exhaustion pulls me into sleep.

Hours later, I wake up soaked. Rainwater leaks through the ‘roof’. We spring into action, stacking mattresses to keep them from getting drenched, rushing to push the water out of the tent. The sound of children crying fills the air, followed by a nearby bombing. My heart tightens as we frantically gather our things. Are we moving again? Is this the 13th or 14th time we’re being displaced?

Neighbours assure us the bombing is far away, but the cries of others who have come here for safety echo through the camp. The day moves forward as if it’s just another morning. We rummage through our canned bean collection wondering if there’s any flour left to bake some bread. Finally, we find the last packet. My brother goes off to look for branches to start a fire. He might break an old chair or maybe find a discarded instruction manual or a torn book, anything to feed the flames. I stand by the fire, baking, my eyes stinging from the dust in the air, coughing as the heat and cold clash around me. It feels like I’m suffocating. Hours pass. We’re worn out by the time the bread is baked, somewhere around 1pm.

We boil water for tea, knowing it will take another 30 minutes to come to a boil. We gather around our makeshift table, arranging the food we have, trying to make it feel more like a meal. Maybe this time we won’t feel nauseous. Eating is no longer about pleasure or filling the stomach; it’s about survival, forcing something down to stay alive.

It’s Tuesday, though days blur together here. But Tuesday means something. It’s bath day. It’s also laundry day. We start boiling water again, this time in a big pot. As the fire flickers, we feed it pages from books, knowledge turning to ashes. A page about breastfeeding, a page about vaccines. Things I studied once, now fuelling the fire for our basic needs.

We split the water between hot and cold to take baths. I go first. I close my eyes and imagine I’m back in my home, in my own bathroom, the water is pouring down, not from my own hand, but from the showerhead. I try to find comfort in that thought, but it’s too loud, too chaotic to feel like home. I switch places with my brother, feeding the fire more knowledge as he bathes.

Laundry is next. We wash by hand, scrubbing for hours in freezing water, our fingers aching, nearly numb from the cold, as if my hands were falling off my wrists. My sister helps, and together we twist the shirts in opposite directions to wring out the water. We throw them over tree branches to dry, though they’ll never feel fully clean.

By 7pm, it’s time for another meal. Lentil soup, again. It’s quick, simple, and doesn't need much fire. We sit down, attempting to talk about our day, but what is there to say when every day mirrors the one before? The conversation fades, and we eat in silence. Another meal for survival. The news plays in the background, each report dragging down the spirits of everyone here. Hearing the latest updates brings a wave of negativity and despair, but it’s a burden we must carry. In the midst of this long, hard day, the feeling of death is always lingering, just like it did for friends or family who are no longer with us.

We lie back down on the mattresses, guessing the distance of each airstrike, wondering if they’re getting closer or moving further away. The drone’s constant buzzing never stops. We lay next to each other, wrapped in my mother’s arms, that awful buzz, the wind blowing the tent away, and eyes resisting sleep.

Life in Oslo

My alarm rings at 5am for Fajr. I sit up at the edge of the bed, feeling the soft embrace of warmth as my feet slip into my Uggs. The gentle thrum of rain taps on my window, a peaceful reminder of the world still wrapped in slumber. I rise to capture the beauty of the rain beneath the soft glow of the streetlamp. Everything feels so serene. I glance out at the student houses across from mine, wondering who else might be awake at this hour, perhaps studying, perhaps indulging in a quiet movie marathon.

After prayer, I decide it’s still too early and too cold to truly begin the day. The heater hums to life and I burrow back into bed, cocooned in warmth. Hours pass, and I’m stirred awake by screams of children. For a moment, my heart tightens, but then I remember: these are sounds of joy from the kindergarten next door. Tiny feet racing across playgrounds, little ones in overalls on slides and swings.

I rise, make my bed, and tidy up the desk. Packing my bag, I stand before my closet. "What colour are we feeling today?" I muse. Green? Navy? Yes, navy. I get dressed, grab a banana on the go, mentally applauding myself for a healthy breakfast.

The tram is out of service. Ah, a minor inconvenience, but I find a scooter just in time, sparing myself a long walk uphill. I glide effortlessly through the quiet streets; I don’t think I’ve ever seen traffic here. As I ride, I notice people on the bus, their heads down, engrossed in books or academic papers. It feels like everyone is a student here, constantly reading, constantly learning, with no rush to the end. I think about how this city breathes knowledge, how it feels like an unending opportunity to study without distractions.

I arrive at the lecture hall, late as usual, though with hopes that one day I’ll learn to respect time as the Norwegians do. Today’s topic is vaccinations. I made a song to remember them back in September 2023. The melody comes back to me, though the details escape my memory now.

On the way back home, the day turns cold again, and naturally, lentil soup is my comfort. I sit with the warm bowl in hand, contemplating a series to watch, but instead I find myself eating while Al Jazeera plays quietly in the background. Later, I head to the library. It’s a haven, so calm, so open, with endless room to breathe and think. I settle down to create a new song for the vaccines, but my friends message me, they’re at Sognsvann. Vaccines can wait.

At the lake, we laugh, gossip a little, and share stories. The world feels light, easy, and peaceful. I notice a group nearby, sitting quietly by the water, reading and painting in the open air, as if Oslo itself inspires creativity. When I return home, I immediately turn on the shower, a simple glide of my hand to the “+” sign, and the hot water flows without a thought. As the steam fills the room, I search for my pyjamas and my fuzzy white socks. Under the warm water, I feel my spine unlock for a second, tension melting away. I comb through my hair and follow my night-time skincare routine, though a huge pimple on my cheek is a bit of a nuisance. The layers of this routine soothe my brain; by the time I’m done, I’m 200 grams heavier, most of it destined to be wiped onto my pillowcase, but it feels good nonetheless.

Before bed, I call my mum and sister, inviting my brother to join in on the group call. We chat, and I demand a picture of our cat, Kinder, just to see if she’s gotten any fatter. This small connection to home makes the distance feel smaller, just for a moment.

Finally, wrapped in my duvet, the heater making that weird little sound, the window tightly closed, I shut my eyes.

And there’s the guilt

My friends and colleagues are in Gaza, still trying to get by. They’re struggling just for internet access, climbing high buildings or walking long distances just to get connected. Meanwhile, I have stable internet every day. I can move freely, while they can’t leave their homes; they're not even in their homes anymore. They’re living in tents, on the streets, or seeking temporary refuge in hospitals, constantly shifting locations in search of some semblance of safety. They can’t walk around, or even access basic things without great difficulty.

My colleagues, many of whom are medical students, are in a unique position, still learning, still gaining hands-on experience in hospitals, even during the chaos of war. Their resilience is something I’m proud of, but at the same time, it underscores the instability they face. They’re stepping up and doing things no one expected of them, playing the roles of surgeons in real surgeries, doing what many students elsewhere will never experience. But what about the others? The ones who aren’t medical students? What do they have? It’s hard to imagine the uncertainty they’re living in.

And then, there’s everything I’ve done since I’ve been in Oslo. Achieving things like being featured in local newspapers, giving speeches, and even making it into The Guardian, means every accomplishment feels bittersweet. I can’t share it with the people who matter most, the people who would be proud of me, who would celebrate with me if they could. Every lecture I attend, every accomplishment, feels incomplete because they can’t be a part of it. It’s a strange kind of loneliness, achieving things, but feeling a sense of guilt for doing so when they can’t.

I feel like I’m moving forward, making progress, but everyone back home is on pause. Their lives are on hold because of the genocide, and no matter how tough my day has been, I know theirs is always worse. Every time I want to check on them, I’m overwhelmed by the weight of the question, “How are you?”, knowing that their answer will be another tragedy I can't comfort them through. What can I possibly say to comfort them when they’ve lost their home, had to flee again, or even lost a family member or someone close? I can’t complain about my own day, because how could missing a bus or hearing a rude comment compare to losing everything? It’s hard to navigate this space between two lives: the life I’m living here and the life I left behind. Every day, I carry the weight of knowing that even my worst day is a day they would wish for.

There are moments when the weight of everything hits, and it often starts with something so simple, like a phone call or a text message. I’ll be talking about the electronic scooters I'm obsessed with, or the new café I discovered near campus, and then the conversation suddenly flips. A common friend isn’t here anymore, burned to death or exploded into fragments. It always starts with something mundane, only to spiral into something I can barely comprehend.

I remember a conversation with a friend who had been accepted into the prestigious Chevening Scholarship in the UK. But now he’s stuck in Gaza. He was supposed to be living out his dream, starting his Master’s degree, surrounded by new friends, immersed in a whole new world of possibilities. Instead, he’s trapped. And I’m here in Norway on an exchange semester, walking through parks, attending classes, and it feels almost offensive to even mention it. How can I talk about something so ordinary when his life, his future, has been put on hold indefinitely?

Then there’s my grandmother. Every call with her breaks me a little more. She’s always so proud of me, and our conversations start and end with prayers and wishes. But when I ask if she’s eaten, her answer crushes me. “No,” she’ll say, “the last time I ate was four days ago.” She says it so casually, as if it’s normal. I feel utterly helpless. Sometimes I avoid talking to her because the guilt is unbearable. Instead, I ask my mother how she’s doing, but that makes me feels worse, like a traitor.

Even sitting in a lecture feels surreal. The rain falls softly outside the window, a calm, cosy backdrop as I listen to the professor's voice echo in the quiet room. It's peaceful, serene, everything I could want in an academic setting. But then my phone buzzes. A message from a friend in Gaza. She's asking where she should flee next, as the streets around her collapse and the violence creeps closer. It’s hard to reconcile the rain tapping gently against the glass with the chaos she's describing. The contrast is jarring. Here I sit in safety, surrounded by the soft hum of learning, while my loved ones are forced to make impossible choices under the constant threat of death.

Every step I take in this new life feels like a step away from the people and places I care about most, but the guilt I carry keeps reminding me that I can never truly leave them behind. How do I carry on with my own life when it feels like the world has forgotten the ones I care about?