LocationsFinding Light in the Darkest Moments: Arwa Nayef’s Story of Resilience
September 1, 2025
Arwa at Al Baraka Camp, Khan Younis, February 2025
Similar to many other women in Gaza, I suddenly found myself in the middle of despair. One day I was managing community initiatives, coordinating humanitarian efforts, working on plans to support people in need—then everything collapsed. My life, my work, my home. In an instant, I became one of the very people I had spent years trying to help.
For the first time in my life, I heard my children say, “Mama, I’m hungry.” And it wasn’t about money or effort—food simply wasn’t there. In that moment, I felt I wasn’t the mother I wanted to be. I couldn’t provide even the bare minimum. I held them tightly through every evacuation order, one after another, moving from place to place under impossible conditions. Each time I felt we might be settling down, we had to leave again. This wasn’t a bad dream—it was a bouleversement of what normal life could be.
Before the war, life was already difficult. Shortages, limitations, electricity cuts, and restrictions were part of our daily routine. But after the war, it became something else entirely: unimaginable suffering. Not just physical loss, but a deep emotional weight that buries you. The kind of exhaustion that makes even the simplest tasks feel monumental.
Yet even in that darkness, I couldn’t surrender. Not because I am a hero. Not because I wasn’t scared or broken. But because I had no choice. I still had a role to play—not just for my children, but for my community. So I kept working.
Every intervention I tried to plan and implement was human-centered, because I believe people don’t only need food and shelter—they need to feel human again. They need space to recover, to participate, and to rebuild their sense of worth and dignity.
I thought often about how to create those spaces—not just for women like me, but for youth, children, for elderly people left behind, for families who had to choose between fleeing and staying with nothing.
Some mornings, the only thing I had to eat was a piece of bread dipped in olive oil and salt.
And yet, I kept going. I wasn’t alone. None of us were. Gaza is full of women like me—quietly resilient, painfully resourceful, stubbornly hopeful.
This is not a story of success. This is a story of staying. A story of getting up every morning despite not knowing what the day will bring. A story of drafting implementation plans on one screen while silently adjusting contingency measures on another, adapting yet again to shifting realities on the ground. It’s not glamorous. It’s not easy. But it’s real.
And somehow, in the middle of it all, I still believe in the light. Not because I see it every day—but because I’ve seen what happens when people come together, when women hold their families up, when communities support one another even in the ruins.
This is my story. One of thousands. A story of resilience—not because I chose it, but because it was the only path forward. Because even in Gaza, even in the darkest moments, we carry light. And we refuse to let it go out.
Attending an inspirational live event in Gaza, August 2023
From Minimum Standard to Luxury
In times of crisis, what we once considered basic rights—safety, shelter, electricity, clean water—can quickly become distant luxuries. Throughout the turmoil, there were nights when my family and I were forced to evacuate our home and seek refuge in the UNDP office. I would huddle there with my children and our pets, clinging to any sense of safety we could find amidst the chaos. At first, we believed the displacement would last only a few days. But days turned into weeks, and with each passing one, the promise of normalcy felt further away.
Coping for me, hasn’t meant turning away from the pain—it has meant learning to carry it with purpose. During moments of fear and exhaustion, I found strength in small, meaningful acts: listening to someone’s story, connecting a family with shelter, helping a colleague move a task forward. These weren’t just professional responsibilities—they became lifelines, reminders that even when so much had been lost, I could still give something of value.
At several points, the basics of life in Gaza became scarce, I would look at a spoon of sugar and say how careless i was in wasting you! For many families, including mine, survival took precedence over everything else. In navigating the rubble of our neighborhoods and the loss around us, I came to understand how deeply conflict had stolen not only homes but the very possibility of dreaming about a better future.
This realization sparked something fierce in me—a determination not just to reclaim the stability and dignity so many had lost, but to help others do the same. I’ve learned to draw strength from the community around me—their quiet resilience, their hope, and their refusal to give up. Every time I witness someone take a small step forward, it gives me the courage to do the same.
UNDP/PAPP, in collaboration with Zeina Association and the Cooperative for Handicrafts, launched a resilience-focused initiative to uplift marginalised Palestinian families through improved living conditions and strengthened community support, August 2023
The Breaking Point and the Path Forward
I was forced to evacuate ten times, starting on the third day of the war. I left my home in North Gaza City and have not seen it since. By July, when I received my seventh evacuation order, the constant uprooting had taken a significant toll on me. I moved from one temporary shelter to another, renting any still-standing structure, regardless of its condition, battling mice, cockroaches, and unbearable uncleanliness. Each time, I would clean, arrange, and attempt to make it livable, only to brace myself for another forced departure.
At one point, I found refuge in a place that, while unsafe, gave me something I hadn't experienced in months, a bed to sleep on, a private shower, and the ability to unpack my bags. It should have been a moment of relief, but instead, it marked my lowest point. Despite evacuation warnings, I refused to leave. It was no longer about survival; I had lost the will to fight. The burden of displacement, fear, and exhaustion had stripped me of any sense of purpose. Only the persistent pleas of my husband and children convinced me to go, a decision that ultimately saved my life, as the building was bombarded just days later.
When war erupted, buildings weren't the only things destroyed; hope was shattered as well. Nights became torturous as I lay awake, grappling with the question: Will this pain ever fade? But then I recalled my father's lessons and the families depending on our efforts. UNDP's support became crucial during this tumultuous time. My colleagues became more than just coworkers; they were my lifeline, offering not only professional guidance but also emotional solidarity. Through their kindness and encouragement, I realised that healing is not a straight line, it can fluctuate, and sometimes, helping others can help save ourselves.
Joining UNDP and My Role
My journey with UNDP began as I sought a meaningful way to apply my education and passion for helping others in my community, I took on the role of community mobilizer in Gaza. In this capacity, I managed various initiatives aimed at enhancing protection measures while providing essential services. My work involved collaborating with local partners, engaging with community leaders, and ensuring that our projects not only addressed immediate needs but also promoted long-term resilience for families affected by the ongoing crisis.
Before transitioning into my current community engagement role, I was part of one of UNDP’s most impactful projects—coordinating with different authorities to navigate complex logistical and political challenges to secure the entry of construction materials essential for critical UNDP infrastructure projects
Every day brought new obstacles, bureaucratic hurdles, security concerns, and resource shortages, but the determination to rebuild and restore hope in my community fueled my perseverance. Knowing that each successful delivery meant homes, schools, and hospitals could rise from the rubble kept me focused, reminding me that even in the face of adversity, progress was possible.
Celebrating the successful completion of the resilience project with social cohesion events, recognising individuals for their contributions and achievements.
A Foundation Built on Sacrifice
From a young age, my father instilled in me a deep belief in the power of education. Even when our family faced hardship and other needs seemed more urgent, he never wavered in prioritizing my learning. “Learning is power,” he would say, a phrase that echoed through every challenge and choice I made. His unwavering belief in knowledge as a tool for empowerment became the foundation of my journey—guiding me not just in pursuit of academic success, but in shaping a life rooted in purpose.
The SPARK Programme: A Beacon of Hope
Joining the SPARK programme was a turning point in my journey. Designed to support humanitarian workers, SPARK provided the psychological support and self-reflection I desperately needed at a time when I felt completely drained.
SPARK has been more than just a learning journey—it has helped me break out of the bubble of focusing solely on the ongoing crises around me. Through mentoring and global circles, I connected with inspiring women across UNDP who, like me, are serving in conflict-affected areas. Sharing our stories and recognizing the similarities in our experiences made me feel seen, supported, and stronger than I ever expected.
Through SPARK’s coaching sessions, I rediscovered my passion, dismantling layers of stress and finding serenity and confidence again. This journey led me to become a prize winner for SPARK, a moment that reaffirmed that vulnerability is not weakness, it’s the key to resilience. With the support of mentors, I learned that acknowledging pain doesn’t make us weak; it strengthens our ability to keep fighting for our communities.
A Journey from Despair to Aspiration
The immense needs that emerged from the war created a demand no single organization could meet alone. In response, humanitarian clusters were established to coordinate efforts and reach as many people as possible. Attending protection cluster meetings, listening to community vulnerabilities, and reflecting on my father's lifelong encouragement to keep learning all resonated deeply—especially at a time when I had reached my lowest point and questioned whether I wanted to keep going. Surrounded by the growing commitment of others and inspired by the leadership of the new Head of Office in Gaza, Alessandro Mrakic, I began to feel a renewed sense of hope. Now, I am setting my sights on pursuing a second master’s degree—not just as part of my personal healing, but as a step toward becoming a stronger advocate for those still enduring unimaginable hardship.
Arwa at Al Baraka Camp, Khan Younis, February 2025
The Light Ahead
To anyone out there who feels overwhelmed, exhausted, or quietly falling apart—I see you.
Your pain does not make you weak, nor does it disqualify you from healing or belonging. In fact, it prepares you. It deepens your compassion, strengthens your resilience, and carves space within you for greater understanding. You are not alone in your brokenness. We are all carrying pieces—some shattered by loss, some worn by time, others still sharp with fear or grief.
But here’s the truth: all these pieces, when brought together, form something whole. Something strong. Something human.
So please, keep going. Keep learning. Keep growing. Even when progress feels invisible, even when you feel stuck—growth is happening in quiet ways beneath the surface.
And remember: even in the darkest places, light can always find a way in. Sometimes it’s not loud or blinding—it’s a whisper, a flicker, a hand reached out, a kind word. Let it in.
You matter. You belong. And you deserve to be here—exactly as you are, healing and becoming.
“Even in the darkest places, light can always find a way in. Sometimes it’s not loud or blinding—it’s a whisper, a flicker, a hand reached out, a kind word. Let it in.”Arwa Nayef
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