In the heart of the devastated Al-Rimal neighborhood, in northern Gaza City—specifically inside a camp for displaced people—not only the sounds of war and echoes of destruction can be heard. In a small, makeshift space set up as a temporary music classroom, a different kind of melody rises. It’s faint, yet stubborn… a rhythm that resembles the pulse of life.

A group of young girls sit on worn-out chairs, each taking turns holding a simple guitar. Their faces are marked by silence, but their eyes shimmer with something that resembles determination. With every note, they escape reality—not by denial, but by confrontation. In this space, music is not a luxury, but an act of survival.

To them, music is more than a hobby. It’s a breath of air, a universal language, and a soft weapon against the harshness around them. “We have nothing but these strings,” one girl says shyly, “but they make us feel like life hasn’t ended yet.” Simple words, perhaps—but they carry what news bulletins often fail to say.

A moment of temporary peace

In a time where war encircles everything, these girls insist on keeping a space for dreams in their day. Among the tents, in the absence of safety, they create a fleeting moment of peace—one that doesn't stop at the melody, but reaches deep into the heart.

What may seem ordinary elsewhere, here feels like a daily miracle. A Palestinian girl playing guitar in a displacement camp is like planting a flower in the desert—or lighting a candle in endless darkness.

This is how Gaza teaches its children—not to flee from pain, but to craft meaning from its ruins. And so, guitar-playing in the Al-Rimal camp becomes a strumming of life’s strings, set to the tune of hope.