When Trauma No Longer Resembles What We Read in Books

In Gaza, we live in a state that feels like waking up after a long night of fragmented, restless sleep. It’s as if you’ve spent the night on the edge of fear—between the hum of drones, the echo of explosions, and the relentless pounding of your own heart. You wake up with a head that feels as heavy as the earth itself, your eyes swollen and tired, your body limp and worn. Conversations are dull, voices are low, emotions seem colorless … not because of sleep deprivation, but because of hunger, despair, and a prolonged absence of safety.

Hunger is not only in our stomachs—it’s in our souls, in our sense of meaning, in our hope. Despair cloaks everything, heavy as concrete dust in the lungs. Anger bursts forth over the smallest things, and you realize it’s not really anger—it’s the overflow of what can no longer be contained.

We live in what can only be described in Arabic as MOUSSIBA (Chronic Complex Trauma)—where the lines between safety and threat have completely eroded. There is no relief, no moment to exhale. Even in the silence of the night, the air is saturated with fear. Children are born with the gaze of survivors. Adults move like weary soldiers who no longer know whether to run, to hide, to bury, or to heal.

Schools are no longer schools—they are shelters. Homes are no longer homes—they are fragments of suspended lives. Relationships are unstable—not because of emotional issues, but because at any moment, anyone might vanish. No goodbye. No time for forgiveness.

In Gaza, trauma no longer resembles the definitions we studied in psychology textbooks or heard about in lectures. Conventional diagnostic tools fall short. Trauma doesn’t begin with a “critical incident,” and there’s little use in assessing symptoms “a certain number of weeks after the event,” because the incident never ends. It no longer makes sense to talk about post-traumatic stress disorder, because the trauma is not post—it’s ongoing. The danger is never past.

What we need is a new model of understanding—a lens that honors the complexity of surviving under sustained fire. One that sees people not as disordered but as deeply human in the face of impossible conditions. Yes, we need a psychology that does not fear politics—and a humanity that does not fear the truth.

And yet, even in this landscape of chronic, unending trauma, we continue to intervene—not with abstract models but with stories, humanity, and presence.

 

Narratives as Healing: “We Tell You the Best of Stories”

نَحْنُ‭ ‬نَقُصُّ‭ ‬عَلَيْكَ‭ ‬أَحْسَنَ‭ ‬الْقَصَصِ‭ ‬بِمَا‭ ‬أَوْحَيْنَا‭ ‬إِلَيْكَ‭ ‬هَذَا‭ ‬الْقُرْآنَ‭ ‬وَإِنْ‭ ‬كُنْتَ‭ ‬مِنْ‭ ‬قَبْلِهِ‭ ‬لَمِنَ‭ ‬الْغَافِلِينَ‭ ‬[Yusuf: 3]

From the very beginning, the Qur’an revealed the power of storytelling as a divine method to reach the human heart. In it, we find repeated stories of Prophet Musa (Moses, peace be upon him), whose human traits—fear, hesitation, lack of patience—mirror our own vulnerabilities. These stories are windows into ourselves, allowing us to learn through the experiences of others.

In the “Helping the Helpers” sessions I facilitate today under Action Against Hunger, I often feel that I am living a continuation of this tradition. I listen to narratives of pain, survival, and hope—stories whose details could never be fully captured in textbooks or theories but that reshape me as much as I accompany them.

In those moments, I find myself—almost unconsciously—placing my strict professional side aside to let my humanity step forward. Professional frameworks alone seem insufficient in the face of such overwhelming suffering. But what surprises me each time is how attentive listening and allowing my humanity to flow freely unlock unexpected resources within me: a story, a lesson, a Qur’anic verse, a hadith, or even just a sincere expression on my face—not out of pretense but out of compassion and shared pain.

This human flow becomes a shared energy, spreading like emotional contagion among group members. Pain becomes fragmented and shared, transforming sufferers into those who speak words of patience and resilience, who even comfort others. Repeatedly, groups leave such sessions with lighter hearts, saying: “It was a relieving session; it reminded us that despite everything, we are still alive, we still have dreams, and we still have hope.”

 

Helping the Helpers in Gaza: When the Session Itself Becomes the Crisis

During a “Helping the Helpers” session with the Aisha Association team, I was present in my role as a supervisor, supporting the process from the side. Suddenly, everything changed. News arrived that the association’s premises had been bombed. One colleague was killed, and several others were injured.

In that moment of collective shock and grief, the dynamics of the group shifted completely. The facilitator, herself from Aisha, was directly affected, and I had to step in and take on the role of the main facilitator. The session could no longer follow its planned structure. Instead, it became a space to hold the pain together—to acknowledge the loss, to allow tears and silence, and to transform the session into a moment of presence and human connection.

This painful incident highlighted how, in Gaza, psychosocial support work is inseparable from the lived reality of trauma and loss. Yet, within this collective heartbreak, something powerful emerged: the group’s ability to face the unbearable together. It was a profound reminder that even amidst devastation, shared spaces of expression can strengthen resilience and open pathways for healing.

As professionals, we are called to adapt not only our methods but also our very roles in the face of crisis. As human beings, we are reminded that resilience is not the absence of pain but the capacity to carry it together.

 

Conclusion: Toward a New Understanding

From the intimate space of a single session, where grief suddenly demanded to be held together, to the collective landscape where trauma itself has changed shape, one truth becomes clear: in Gaza, mental health and psychosocial support is not an optional service. It is the lifesaving thread that allows people to keep breathing, to keep connecting, and to keep surviving amidst unrelenting loss.

What we witness here demands more than clinical categories—it calls for a psychology rooted in humanity, responsive to politics, and courageous enough to honor the complexity of survival. Above all, it calls for us to see people not as broken but as profoundly resilient, carrying within them both the wound and the power to heal.