Letter from Mideast: A glimpse of Gaza life from my little sister's drawings

Jana still draws, but her art has changed. Now she sketches tents, shattered homes, empty plates and warplanes. She holds a lifetime of trauma in her small hands.

by Heba Alnabulsia

GAZA, Jan. 9 (Xinhua) -- My name is Heba Alnabulsia. I live in al-Nuseirat refugee camp at the heart of Gaza, a place that has known both love and loss, laughter and fear. Today, I want to share the story of my youngest sister, Jana, and how her drawings have become our lifeline.

Jana began drawing at seven. Her first picture -- scribbled on a scrap of paper -- was a simple tree, a child's vision of life, growth, and peace. That was in 2020, during one of Gaza's brief respites from war.

Back then, her sketches burst with color -- bright, gentle, full of dreams and nature, much like our lives then. Even under blockade, we had our dreams. I was studying business administration at university and training at a bank. As for Jana, she would say: "My dream is to live my childhood in peace, safely with my family. I wish to complete my studies and become a doctor when I am older, and to enjoy my favorite hobby, which is drawing."

Jana used to play with a toy stethoscope and pretend to heal people. She was always at the top of her class. Every Thursday, she would lose herself for hours in her sketches.

The girl who loves to learn is now 12, and she struggles to sleep. She wakes up crying from nightmares. The buzz of drones and the blast of missiles have replaced her school bell. Since Oct. 7, 2023, we have been displaced eight times.

Jana still draws, but her art has changed. Now she sketches tents, shattered homes, empty plates and warplanes. She holds a lifetime of trauma in her small hands.

One drawing shows a tent we lived in. We slept in schools, in tents, on the street, surrounded by the little we could carry: documents, some clothes, blankets, pots, buckets of water. In Jana's drawing, a Palestinian flag flies above the tent; a small fire warms those inside. She titled it "Save Gaza."

In January 2025, after a brief ceasefire, we returned to what remained of our home. The walls were still standing, but the windows and doors were gone. From our room, Jana could see the ruins of a bombed mosque just meters away. On the other side, our neighbors' houses were flattened, with some families still buried beneath the rubble.

Then came the famine. Markets closed. We survived on canned food. Jana began to dream of what we could no longer find, so she drew them: oranges, bananas, grapes, peppers, carrots, popcorn, eggs and a slice of pizza.

I like her drawings very much, but I never imagined her art would one day help us survive.

During the war, I connected with friends abroad through social media, especially those who stood with Palestine. About a year ago, a friend in Seattle suggested turning Jana's drawings into merchandise. I sent photos of her work, and the friend helped turn them into stickers.

Others joined later. A friend in Japan made postcards from Jana's art, sold them at markets, and even brought them to Singapore. Some designed art books, T-shirts and earrings featuring Jana's images. In Washington, her work was displayed in an exhibition.

The modest income from these sales, channeled through friends who send what they can, has helped us buy food and a few, limited art supplies. As prices have skyrocketed beyond most families' reach in our war-torn Gaza, every dollar matters.

People who see her drawings call her a little artist with a mighty soul. Her art has touched hearts across the world, a reminder that hope can still grow, even from ruins.

One of her most widely shared drawings came during olive harvest season. In it, an olive tree stands firm, its roots spelling "Palestine" in Arabic. The leaves carry the colors of the Palestinian flag, swaying over gentle hills. The Al-Aqsa Mosque rises between the branches.

Jana also drew her wish for 2025 -- a keffiyeh, an olive tree, the Al-Aqsa Mosque, a home cradled in a palm, the map of Palestine, a victory sign rising through sorrow.

Her latest piece depicts a girl crying silently, wearing a mask painted resembling the Palestinian flag. "This drawing holds the weight of everything I couldn't say," the 12-year-old girl told me. "I drew it with a heavy heart, thinking of every child who cries silently, and every lost dream, every mother who hides her pain, and every life shattered by war."

Even drawing has become a struggle. Art supplies are scarce. She has only a few pencils, small boxes of acrylics, watercolors and colored pencils, barely enough to keep going.

She dreams of more colors, but like everything else in Gaza, these are luxuries now. Once, Jana walked a long way under the roar of warplanes, just to find a few sheets of paper.

For Jana, drawing has become both her voice and her refuge. It's how she tells the world her truth, and how she breathes when words are not enough. One day, she told me, "My drawings are pieces of me."

Through those pieces, she keeps a fragile hope alive, not only for herself and our family, but for all our people who aspire to a peaceful future and a better life.

To me, Jana's art is also a reminder for the world: Children in Gaza still dream, still create, and still long for a future where they can simply be children.■