In the first months of this war, life seemed almost paralyzed. We weren’t used to it at the time.
We could barely get by, with so little food, no internet, electricity, chargers or fuel. Cut off from the world, we cooked over fire and wood, while attacks continued all around us.
After about two months of war, I decided to do something normal, ordinary, necessary. I took my eight-year-old daughter to get a haircut.
Najla the hairdresser welcomed us warmly into her home. She was so kind that for a few moments I felt like we had briefly emerged from this war, even though the sounds of it could be heard all around us.
“Do you have any customers during the war?” I asked him.
“Of course,” she laughed, explaining that she had had more work during the war than at any other time.
His response shocked me. I wondered what services the women could have requested.
“Everything,” she replied. “Facials and eyebrow cleaning, haircuts, body waxing, hair dyes, highlights, certain makeup, etc.”
Najla laughed at my surprise as she took a lock of my daughter’s hair to cut.
“What’s wrong with you? Does the nature of women change during war?” she asked.
For a moment, I felt joy at the thought of these elegant, well-groomed Gazan women who cared about their appearance, just like any other woman anywhere else.
Then I felt bitterness and sadness at the harm the war had done to them, how it had attempted to destroy their brilliance, and the crushing burdens and responsibilities they carried.
Throughout this war, I continued to visit Najla. Each time, she told me new stories about her clients, some painful, others funny.
“Every day we have one or more brides who come in to get dolled up for their wedding day,” she tells me when I ask her what these women wear and how they prepare for their wedding.
Most wartime brides stick to bridal makeup and a simple hairstyle, she explains. Some people insist on wearing a white dress after looking for one everywhere; others are content with a simple embroidered outfit. The ceremonies are quick, she said, and then the groom takes the bride and her family to his house or tent.
She tells me about a bride whose entire family had been killed in the war, while her cousin’s entire family had been killed in another bombing.
“They were both left alone after their families were martyred, so the cousin decided to marry his cousin for comfort,” she said.
I think about how marriages elsewhere begin with joy and celebration, while in Gaza they begin with loss and loneliness.
This bride had refused to wear a white dress, despite Najla’s attempts to convince her.
“There are many stories,” explains the hairdresser as she sweeps the floor. “I saw a lot of women and heard a lot of sad stories.”
Every time I return from a visit to Najla, I take the longest way back. It’s like I need time to absorb the stories she shared — the details of people’s lives that rarely make it into news stories. I think about how I could tell these stories, but it’s so difficult when there are so many stories of devastation to tell.
Should I rush to write the story of the little girls who lost their legs when their home was bombed or the young woman who lost her entire family and her ability to walk?
This is a conflict where priorities clash. And priority is usually given to stories where lives are at stake, to those who have lost everything – so parallel stories, like the ones Najla collects, remain unknown to anyone other than the hairdresser.