Carrying Water, Carrying Wounds: Asma’a Abdu

Carrying Water, Carrying Wounds: Asma’a Abdu

Before the war, Asma’a Abdu’s life was shaped by literature and dreams of progress. A graduate of English Literature from the Islamic University of Gaza, she spent her days in an office coordinating projects at UCASTI, crafting reports and organizing activities within the calm rhythm of professional life. But when the genocide began, the script of her life was rewritten with sirens, rubble, and grief.

Now, Asma’a works on the frontlines as a project coordinator with Sameer Project, a humanitarian relief organization delivering life-saving support to Gaza’s most devastated communities. “The change was not easy,” she recalls. “I went from sitting in a calm, beautiful office to standing in the middle of the field, looking into people’s eyes, listening to their grief, and feeling it deeply, because I was one of them too.”

What propelled her into this work was not ambition, but a calling born of agony. “People were forced into a need they never asked for. I couldn’t watch them suffer in silence; I had to do something.”

One memory remains etched in her heart. It was April 2024, days after Israeli forces withdrew from Al-Shifaa Hospital. Asma’a joined the distribution team for the first time. “We were giving out vegetable parcels and clean water,” she says, her voice trembling at the recollection. “Old men wept just to receive a tomato. Women and children sobbed at the sight of clean water. They had been drinking bathroom water. That day, I was ready to give them my heart and soul.”

Working in a war zone is not without fear. Every morning, she steps outside wondering if she’ll return, or if there will be a home left to return to. But retreating is not an option. “Once you’re on the frontlines, you refuse to step back. You know this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

Still, there are days when it feels impossible. Asma’a doesn’t pretend otherwise.

“I swear that I can't manage,” she admits. “I sometimes don't understand myself. I feel that if I am not going to work, orphans will not be happy today, hungry people will not have their launch today, mothers will not be able to feed their babies today. So, I find myself wearing my clothes and going to work. Because this work is not only about me, but also about my people and I must be there for them!”

At home, the weight doesn’t lift. Asma’a lives in a red zone where access to basic necessities is a battle. “When water comes, my sister and I fill every container we have. After two years of hauling water, my back is breaking. My bones ache all the time. But still, I choose to work.”

Her body may be tired, but her spirit clings to hope. “I raise hope in my heart like it’s my little son,” she says. “I tell myself: this shall pass. Allah is with us. That faith, even when I feel faded, somehow finds me and carries me through.”

As a woman, Asma’a finds that her presence in the field brings a unique sensitivity, especially toward displaced women. “I always see the things women need. I’ve come up with ideas to support them, and when I see their positive response, it keeps me going.”

But there are moments when she feels helpless in her own skin. “Sometimes I hate being a woman not because I’m not proud, but because I can’t carry heavy things. I want to help the kids carry their gallons. I want to take some of the burden off women’s shoulders, but I physically can’t. That hurts.”

Despite everything, Asma’a takes pride in the little victories. “When a child smiles because of me, when a mother whispers a prayer for me, when I can push despair out of someone’s heart for even a minute. that’s what I’m proud of.”

To other women who want to make a difference in conflict zones, Asma’a has this message:

“Things won’t get easier. But you’ll get stronger. You’ll find your own way. What matters is being present, with your eyes open, your ears open, and your arms open.”

And if the world were truly listening, Asma’a would tell them:

“In a world of individualism, feel what it’s like to sleep in a tent. To lose parts of your body. To not feed your children. To wish for death every day. Feel us and act. ‘We’ will save us. ‘I’ will destroy us.”

In a place where everything has crumbled, Asma’a remains standing, carrying water, carrying wounds, and carrying hope for a future that still dares to knock on Gaza’s shattered door.