A Dream on the Edge of Beginning: Nadra ElTibi
A Dream on the Edge of Beginning: Nadra ElTibi
A Dream on the Edge of Beginning
Before the war came crashing down, 25-year-old Nadra ElTibi was standing at the edge of everything she had worked for. She had just graduated with pride, preparing to begin her new job as a schoolteacher and psychological counselor. But the moment that filled her with the most anticipation was something else entirely.
“I was on the verge of a big dream,” she said. “I was going to become a mother after waiting for so many years. I had frozen my embryos… and I was so close.”
Her voice holds both strength and sorrow. That dream -delicate, hopeful, deeply personal- was violently interrupted when the war began.
A Bomb, a Bag, and an Ending
From the first day of the war, everything changed.
“The center where I was preserving my chance at motherhood was bombed,” Nadra recalled. “Everything was gone in a moment.”
She packed a small bag, left her home, and fled. People she loved were killed. Family. Friends.
“I left behind my memories, my photos, the sound of my home. I was displaced. Everything inside me suffocated,” she said. But even in the depths of loss, she made a decision that would shape everything that followed. “I felt that staying silent would be a betrayal.”
Finding Her Voice Amid the Rubble
Nadra knew she carried something that could not be taken from her: language. In the midst of war and loss, she turned to what she had: English, pain, and the stories that demanded to be told. She poured herself into the work, sharpening her skills, and leaning on those who believed in her. Opportunities began to open. She started writing for international organizations, and eventually, a major turning point came when she was hired by a global news channel.
“I became a reporter. A writer. I began to speak not just for myself, but for others,” she said.
Her days became long and draining, spent in the field witnessing atrocities few could imagine.
“Every day, I go out. I witness massacres with my own eyes. Then I come home, exhausted… but I don’t stop.”
Even after the brutality of the day, she sits down to study, committed to completing her master’s degree in International Media. Because for Nadra, this is more than writing, for her, it is a historical record, a voice amid the silence.
“I believe I’m not just writing,” she says. “I’m building our narrative from under the rubble.”
In the Camps, Among the Women
Beyond her reporting work, Nadra dedicates time to leading psychosocial support sessions for women in displacement camps. Sitting with them, listening to their fears and stories, she sees not just their pain, but a reflection of her own. The sessions are not just a service, rather they are an extension of her purpose. Her education, her voice, her platform. None of it, she believes, belongs to her alone.
“Every woman I sit with… I see myself in her,” she said. “My knowledge isn’t mine alone. My voice isn’t just for me. I write for Gaza. Especially for the women of Gaza.”
The weight of trauma is constant, but Nadra’s drive to transform it into something meaningful, something human that never wavers.
The Daily Battle
Nothing about daily life in Gaza is simple.
“I wake up thinking about food, How to secure a single meal for my family so we can survive the day," She said.
She lights a fire, checks what’s left, and breathes a sigh of relief each morning she finds they’ve made it through the night.
“I exhale when I realize that we survived, again.”
Then, she runs.
“To write. To document a massacre. To record a new testimony. Every day starts from zero.”
But she keeps going.
“Every word I write, every story I document, every woman I support, it's all part of trying to hold on, and trying to preserve our dignity.”
Her Hopes: Small, Honest, Human
When asked what she wants most, Nadra doesn’t name fame, recognition, or even justice. She speaks of life in its most essential form.
“I wish this war would end soon, not later. I want to eat. Just eat. To laugh. To walk. To sleep without fear. To live like any other girl in the world.”
She pauses, then adds,
“I hope the women of Gaza become icons. I want the world to speak their names in every language for generations.”
One Minute to the World
And if she had one minute to speak to the world?
“Hear us. See us. Feel us. We are not numbers. Not a headline. Not distant pain.
We are human. And we want to live. Your silence is killing us.”
From the heart of Gaza, Nadra writes. Not from safety, not from comfort but from within the fire itself.
And what she builds from between the cracks and ash is not just her story, it is the story of every woman who refuses to be forgotten.
“I am Nadra,” she says.
“I write from the heart of the fire.
And from the rubble, I shape a story, not just for me,
But for every woman in Gaza.”
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