War Days – Rahaf’s Silence (Told by a Psychiatrist Friend)

By M.Mortaja

My friend, a psychiatrist working with displaced families in Gaza, shared with me a story that stayed with him long after he left the field. It was about a sixteen-year-old girl named Rahaf—one of the many silent victims of war, whose wounds were not visible, but deep and lingering.

During one of his visits to a temporary shelter, set up in the courtyard of the Pension and Insurance Authority building in Al-Rimal neighborhood, he met Rahaf and her mother. They were living in a makeshift tent, among dozens of other displaced families. Ironically, Rahaf wasn’t even supposed to be in Gaza.

Egypt

She had been living in Egypt for the past four years. Her visit to Gaza was meant to be short, just a few weeks to reconnect with relatives. But the war changed everything. The borders closed. She was trapped.

“When I arrived at their tent,” he told me, “her mother greeted me, but Rahaf didn’t move. She sat silently in the corner, withdrawn, eyes lost in a world I couldn’t yet reach. No emotion, no acknowledgment—just silence.”

He tried to break the ice through her mother first. Eventually, he gently addressed Rahaf directly, asking her about her interests, hoping to find a crack in the emotional wall she had built.

“She responded quietly,” he said. “Told me she loved reading and writing stories. That she was passionate about fashion design. Her words were hesitant at first, but the moment I showed admiration, she softened just a little.”

With time, Rahaf began opening up. She spoke about how the war interrupted her visit and shattered her sense of safety. But then came the heavier part.

“I hate everything around me”

“She looked at me and said, ‘I hate everything around me. I don’t trust anyone. I don’t even want to leave this tent. I just want to get out of here.’”

Her mother, overwhelmed and tired, added: “She’s breaking me. She keeps begging me to leave, but where can we go? You’ve seen how we live. This tent is all we have.”

Sensing something deeper, my friend gently encouraged Rahaf to speak more. Eventually, she revealed the true cause of her anxiety.

“It’s the camp volunteer,” she said. “He doesn’t respect our privacy. He walks into the tent without knocking. He keeps pressuring me to interact with other girls my age. But I don’t want to. I feel unsafe, and I hate it.”

My friend realized then that Rahaf wasn’t just reacting to the war—she was reacting to an invasion of her personal space, in a world where she already felt she had no control.

He later visited the volunteer and provided psychological first aid, then indirectly addressed the importance of respecting boundaries and personal dignity. Thankfully, the volunteer listened and promised to change his approach.

A few days later, my friend returned to check on Rahaf. This time, she greeted him with a faint smile. Her mother looked visibly relieved. They both told him, “We wish you had come sooner. Your visit changed everything.”

Rahaf was beginning to heal. She had even gone for a walk with neighboring girls—something she hadn’t done since the war began.

Sometimes, my friend told me, “In the heart of chaos, all it takes is someone willing to listen and believe. That’s when healing begins.”

War Days – Rahaf’s Silence