Turning 21 in a World That Feels Stolen

October 21, 2024—my 21st birthday. It came and went quietly, without cake or celebration. There wasn’t time or space for those things, not here, not anymore. This was my second birthday spent living through what feels like a nightmare with no end.

My 20th birthday, just one year ago, was marked by the same chaos and uncertainty. At the time, I thought maybe it would be the last one I’d spend like this. Maybe things would change. Maybe the world would notice what was happening to us and step in. But this year came, and nothing was different—except for how much heavier my heart feels.

Turning 21 is supposed to be a big deal, right? A milestone. A step into adulthood with new opportunities, responsibilities, and dreams to chase. But for me, it felt like just another day of surviving, another day of trying to protect my family and hold onto hope when everything around us feels hopeless.

When I was a kid, my birthday was always something special. My mom would find a way to make it memorable. A simple cake, a small gift, and lots of laughter with my siblings. I would blow out the candles and make a wish, and I truly believed those wishes might come true.

This year, there was no flour to bake a cake. No laughter. Just the six of us sitting together in our small, overcrowded space, thankful that we were still alive. My mother tried to smile, but I could see the exhaustion in her eyes, the worry she tries so hard to hide from us.

The hardest part of this birthday wasn’t the absence of celebration—it was the absence of possibility. I’ve always dreamed of becoming a physical therapist, of helping others heal and building a future where I could support my family and give back to my community. But right now, those dreams feel so far away. How can I think about the future when we’re struggling to find food, when every step outside our home feels like a risk we can’t afford to take? Now, it seems as if simply existing is a risk for Palestinians.

I try to remind myself that birthdays are about more than celebrations. They’re about reflection, about gratitude for another year of life. So this year, I’m grateful for my family’s survival, for the moments we still manage to share together. I’m grateful for the small acts of kindness and humanity that remind me the world hasn’t entirely forgotten us.

And I still let myself wish—just like I used to when I was a kid. But my wish this year wasn’t for me. It was for my siblings to grow up without the fear that surrounds us now. For my mother to have peace instead of worry. For every family here to be able to sleep at night without wondering if it will be their last.

Birthdays are supposed to be about hope, so I’m holding onto mine, even when it feels impossible. And to those of you reading this, thank you for giving me a reason to keep hoping. Knowing that someone, somewhere, is listening to my story helps more than I can put into words.

Here’s to another year of survival, and maybe—just maybe—a year where things begin to change.

– Anwar Zidane