We translate, we write, we work
My name is Enas Alsharif, and I am a translator and language worker from the heart of Gaza.
In a city besieged by pain and loss, translation has become more than just a profession. It has turned into a noble mission through which I express our postponed dreams and voices that refuse to be silenced. I translate because here in Gaza, there are still those who dare to dream amidst the rubble, who continue to stand firm despite the heartbreak, who believe that words can shape destiny.
To be a translator in Gaza means to be a witness to pain and a voice for the survivors. I work under nearly impossible conditions: no electricity, no stable internet connection, no safety, and constant displacement. Yet I carry on, because this work is my way of surviving, of resisting, and of believing that my future is still within reach.
Through my work with Respond Crisis Translation over the past two years, I have found myself part of a global community that believes in the transformative power of language. Every translation assignment is a bridge between Gaza and the world: a testament that we are still here, still resisting, still telling our story.
Surviving in Gaza is not only about escaping airstrikes. It’s about surviving isolation, marginalization, and the fear of being forgotten. That’s why we translate, we write, we work: so that we can remain steadfast, and so our story continues to be told.
Tonight, I want to share the story of a painful time that my family and I experienced during the war.
In the early hours of November 27, 2024, at exactly 4:30 a.m., my family and I lived through one of the most terrifying and unforgettable moments of our lives. We were displaced, seeking safety in a small home, fifteen of us huddled together in fear and prayer when Israeli tanks, bulldozers, drones, and relentless gunfire surrounded us. It was a storm of bullets that never ceased, and horrifying shelling that shook the ground beneath us.
There was no electricity, no water, no hospital, and not even hope for an ambulance. The children–my nieces and nephews–cried uncontrollably. We tried to calm them, but the fear was stronger than any words of comfort. We prayed to God to protect us, to let us survive the night without injury, without losing a loved one.
The army called for us to evacuate the house, but how could we step outside under such intense fire? There was no way to call for help, no one to reach out to. The bombardment continued until 7:30 a.m., when the army finally withdrew after evacuating a nearby school that was crowded with displaced women, children, and men. The screams of those people, especially the children, still echo in my mind to this day.
As soon as the army left, we began yet another painful journey of displacement. We walked westward across Gaza toward the military checkpoint: a two-hour march on foot. The road was far from safe; drones followed us, dropping explosive boxes on homes barely a kilometer away. We ran, shielding the children, trying only to survive, to stay alive.
This is not just a story of displacement; it is a testimony of life under fire, of resilience in the face of fear, and of holding on to life in the shadow of death.
The sound was terrifying and deafening–so loud it shook our hearts before it shook the ground. When we reached the checkpoint, the soldiers began separating women and children from the men. They took my brother from us and detained him, and we didn’t see him again for six months. The image of him being torn from his family, from his crying children clinging to him, will never leave my memory.
I continued walking, carrying more than 50 kilograms of luggage on my back and in my arms. Every step tested the limits of my strength. The road was long and muddy, lined with tanks on both sides, and soldiers stared at us not as exhausted human beings, but as threats. The sky was heavy with clouds, and the ground beneath us soaked with water and rubble as if it too rejected us, just like the safe life we had lost.
We walked for three continuous hours, surrounded by the cries of children calling out for their father, and the pain we couldn’t even afford to express. When we finally reached a nearby rest point, we weren’t looking for food or water–we just wanted a way to get to safety, even if only temporarily.
That day was not just a passing moment in my life; it is a scar engraved in my memory and soul. It was a heavy, painful day I will never forget– not me, nor my family, nor the heart of a child who lost the embrace of his father at a military checkpoint.
My message to the world:
We do not ask for pity; we ask for solidarity. We need those who will listen to our voices and reach out a hand. Here in Gaza, we fight for survival, for education, for the right to dream.
Do not leave us alone. Support us, amplify our voices, and be our partners in hope.
Enas Alsharif, Gaza
