What is sleep to a Palestinian in diaspora? A Palestinian with loved ones there?

Sleep after October 7 was almost nonexistent. When communications were more stable and active, we became the broadcasters of “news” for those we could reach on the ground. We spent countless nights, collecting bits of hope to relay to their desperate prayers that “This will end soon… have you heard anything?” For the first few weeks we slept in shifts of three to four hours at a time. And when we slept, there were images streaming from our phone screens, haunting us. I remember one night when I quietly got into bed I lay there and felt nothing but absolute dread and guilt that I was able to feel safe. That I was alive. I lay in the dark and conjured the sounds of drones and death squad jets as if it would make me feel better. I breathed deep, then my husband started to cry while he was asleep. I turn to my side and sob quietly as not to wake him. We are haunted with thoughts and dreams of the suffering, murders, and destruction which are thousands of miles away but they make sure that, like the lives of Palestinians, sleep remains as distant as the thought of safety.

47? days into the war on Gaza, our sleep has settled among the rubble of tombs we absorb into our hearts, every day and night. There is no sleep, we are up until 5 am, at times. Scanning news apps in Arabic, looking for loved one’s names because there is little to no communication. It’s psychological warfare. They’ve destroyed our sense of security, albeit false, through hindering our ability to speak to them. I am constantly looking for signs from world leaders that things will “calm” down and eventually I fall into a half sleep. Waking every couple of hours, I pick up my phone and look for news that signifies some hope. There is none, I go back to the “new” sleep that I now embrace. The kind that is not steady, the kind that is filled with shame, the kind that is filled with fear, the kind that tortures you so much that you don’t want it anymore.