There was no sound, but I saw them. Waves were splashing with each other in a rhythmic movement, becoming one. The intensity of each hit was gentle enough not to disturb the direction of the others. There was nothing else around, only a body of water. I felt light. My body moved to the rhythm of the waves. I became part of them.

Within a few seconds, the excruciating pain that traveled from my stomach to my lower back disappeared. I opened my eyes to the dimly lit room. I was exhausted and felt extremely sleepy. I laid my head on the hospital bed as I lightly moved back and forth on the yoga ball the nurse provided me. I shut my eyes again for some sleep, but whenever I did, another contraction would make its way. 

My stomach would tighten as if a belt was wrapped around it with someone pulling both ends of it. My stomach became very hard. The same sensation of pain would then travel down my back. I was losing control over my body. The surges were taking over. I thought I wouldn’t be able to continue, yet there was no way back either. I had to push through if I wanted this to end. 

I verbalized my agony to my doula, “It hurts, it hurts.” I continued finding positions, either sitting or standing, until I felt the touch of my doula on my stressed-out body and instantly I calmed down. She placed her thumbs on my back’s pressure point while moving me gently side to side. In a calm and reassuring voice, she reminded me to think of the contractions as waves, coming and going. I visualized those waves at each surge throughout my labor. 

Due to unforeseen circumstances, the doctor had to immediately get my baby out and perform an episiotomy. And so I lay on my back with my legs up. I looked at my doula with fear in my eyes. She held my hand and kept stroking my head and, in a reassuring voice, told me to think about my baby and how everything will be alright. Her touch and words instantly calmed me. I trusted her and God. At that moment, the doctor performed the cut and I didn’t even realize it. Everything else happened very quickly. I pushed twice, and my baby was out. I was relieved. It was a boy. He rested lovingly on my bare chest. I tried really hard to ignore the stinging of the needle on my body as they stitched me up. I focused on him. He made it somewhat bearable. 

It wasn’t my ideal birth, yet I loved and cherished my birth experience, even the second time around. My doula played a tremendous role in giving me a beautiful experience. She held my hand throughout this journey. My strength came from her words of encouragement. My goal was to have an unmedicated birth which, alhamdulilah I managed. My doula knew exactly my stance on the use of medical intervention, and so she spoke to nurses and doctors on my behalf whenever they intervened.

She advocated for me so I could focus on my labour. She turned the daunting hospital room into a relaxing environment with dim lights and candles lit all around. She understood my needs. At each painful stage, she knew what to do. She rubbed my back, massaged my shoulders, and placed cold towels on my neck when I became too hot. She encouraged me to try different positions without it being too forceful. She held me, took care of me, and brought comfort when I became fearful. 

My doula’s nurturing touch gave me immense strength and trust in my body. Her support throughout my pregnancy, birth, and postpartum brought joy and ease during this time. I hold these moments very close to my heart. I will forever be grateful to her presence in helping bring life to this world. 

I cannot write about my birth story without thinking about the mothers in Gaza. A woman giving birth is a transformative moment. It requires gentleness and loving care to help women ease into motherhood. Every mother deserves a nurturing touch and tenderness when birthing life.

Yet, in Gaza, mothers are giving birth in unsafe and dangerous situations. I think about all the mothers who’ve lost their infants. The ones who’ve waited years to become pregnant only to witness their babies souls leave their bodies in seconds. I think about the women who underwent c-sections without anesthesia. I also think about the babies born to dead mothers. Born to a lifeless body. A traumatic birth. The very first breath, which is meant to be of life, becomes that of death. 

Every mother deserves to give birth in safe conditions and in a dignified manner. Still, women in Gaza who are pregnant and continue to give birth to healthy babies reflect a form of resistance. They give birth to a new life. Living and existing is resistance. Palestinians continue to show the world their resilience and strength in the face of oppression. 

Long live the resistance and Free Palestine.