Between Rubble and Renewal: Saja Emad

 Saja Emad describes herself as a daughter, a sister, and a woman of Gaza, carrying the weight of her family and community in a time when dreams are constantly interrupted by war. With a degree in business and marketing, she once worked in human resources, a world of routines and stability. But when the bombs began to fall, that life ended in an instant. She did not choose this path, it was what the war imposed on her and she stepped forward because there was no other choice but to help.

Her work became a patchwork of responsibilities: documenting urgent needs, comforting children, guiding families through endless displacements. One day she might be gathering data in a shattered neighborhood, the next she might simply be a quiet listener to a mother recounting her grief. Nothing felt ordinary anymore; every conversation, every gesture carried the weight of survival.

On the frontlines, fear was constant, like a shadow that walked beside her. Moving from one street to another felt like gambling with fate. And yet, what anchored her was not fear but the stubborn insistence on presence, on showing up even when her own body was frail with hunger or exhaustion. “If I could carry even a fraction of their burden,” she reflects, “then the risk was worth it.”

She still remembers the day of the ceasefire when she entered a neighborhood where families were returning. A father insisted on showing her the home they rebuilt after their old one was reduced to dust. Inside, she was struck not by the rubble, but by the tenderness of what had been recreated: a carpet spread neatly, curtains tied back with string, flowers in a cracked cup, blankets folded with care. In that moment, she understood that resilience in Gaza is not loud, it whispers through the smallest acts of dignity.

Balancing her humanitarian work with her family responsibilities was its own battle. At night, she forced structure into chaos by writing lists of tasks, trying to impose order on days that could collapse at any moment. She learned that resilience is not about silencing grief but giving it space. Sometimes she wrote her fears down in a notebook, sometimes she released them in quiet conversations. Those small rituals became her anchor, reminders that survival requires more than food and shelter, it rather requires the survival of the soul.

As a woman, Saja has been told she is “too sensitive,” but she sees her sensitivity as the thread that connects her to her community. She feels every story deeply; the child chasing after a water truck, the father searching for bread, the grandmother praying over an empty stove. These emotions do not weaken her; they sharpen her compassion and drive her to act, even when her own reserves are running low.

Every morning she wakes with the knowledge that it could be her last. That certainty forces her to treasure the smallest details: tea with her father, laughter with her younger brothers, a moment of silence before the noise of war returns. These fleeting fragments of life become her strength, proof that even in Gaza, beauty refuses to disappear completely.

What she longs for is simple. She dreams of a Gaza where mornings begin with the smell of bread and the voice of Fairouz in cafés, not with the sirens of war. She dreams of children walking to school without fear, of homes built to last, of a city breathing peace again. Until that day, she continues, tired but unbroken, serving her community, carrying their voices, and stitching together hope from the ruins.