As Hilda Joseph Ayyad marks her 20th birthday inside the Holy Family Catholic Parish in war-torn Gaza, her reflections are filled not with typical youthful celebration, but with quiet sorrow and unwavering resilience. In a place where every breath carries the weight of conflict, Hilda’s words echo the silent cries of an entire generation robbed of peace.
"This was meant to be the dawn of a new chapter—my twenties, an era I had once envisioned as vibrant and full of promise," she says. "Instead, I find myself surrounded by silence, loss, and longing for a life I never got to live."
Her home, once a cradle of childhood laughter and adolescent dreams, has crumbled into memory. Two crucial years—those of becoming, exploring, and discovering—have been swallowed by the relentless cruelty of war. Hilda speaks for countless Gazan youths whose futures were hijacked by violence: “We are a generation raised on hope, but caged by circumstance.”
Though only twenty, Hilda’s spirit carries the fatigue of someone who has witnessed too much, too soon. “At times, I feel like an old soul trapped in a young body,” she confesses. “The past is unreachable, the present full of reminders of what we’ve lost, and the future—a fog of uncertainty.”
Yet amidst this sorrow, she clings fiercely to a flicker of light. “Even in the darkest night, there is a spark that refuses to go out. I won’t allow despair to claim me—not when life is just beginning.”
Her birthday is not marked by gifts or cake, but by silent resolve. It is a stand—not in joy, but in dignity. “This milestone is not just about age. It’s a testament to our endurance. A declaration that even if our dreams are buried under rubble, our spirit is not.”
What Hilda longs for is simple yet profound: freedom, safety, and a second chance to dream. She imagines a day when the guns fall silent, when the streets echo not with fear but with laughter, and when she can reclaim the future stolen from her with twice the strength and resolve.
As she steps into her third decade, Hilda does so not with celebration but with courage. “I pray,” she says softly, “that this suffering will soon end, that our homes will once again feel warm and safe, and that we, the youth of Gaza, will rise from the ashes—not just to survive, but to thrive.” In her closing words, she offers a plea that transcends borders and faiths: “Pray for us.”