As the one-year mark of my interview with Reem Aljazar approaches, I find myself reflecting on a key question I still wish to ask her. Our conversations, often conducted through Google Translate, have shaped a unique exchange—where language barriers are navigated and the process of communication itself becomes a lesson in trust and adaptation.
Reem’s work focuses on disability services in Gaza, an area where the situation is dire and the challenges profound. When we first spoke, she shared that her master’s thesis examined the effectiveness of services for people with disabilities in Palestine, offering a proposed vision for their development. “The title of my thesis was ‘The Effectiveness of Services Provided to People With Disabilities in Palestine and Building a Proposed Vision for Their Development,’” she tells me—an academic endeavor that reflects both her commitment and the urgency of the issues she tackles.
Reem’s motivation for pursuing this field stems from the stark realities faced by people with disabilities in Gaza. “In my country, there are many people who fall under the umbrella of this major,” she explains, referring to disability studies. Despite the hardships, her focus remains clear: to advocate for those often left behind in the ongoing struggle for basic rights and services.
One of the most poignant moments during our exchange comes when Reem reveals the profound impact of the ongoing conflict. “Before last October, there were already large numbers of people with disabilities due to injuries,” she notes. “But with the escalation of violence, the situation has worsened drastically. It has become normal to see amputees in Gaza.”
As the conversation unfolds, I begin to understand just how different her world is. For me, Gaza is a symbol of destruction—rubble, starvation, disease, and war—but I am acutely aware that this view is shaped from a distance, from a place of relative safety.
Reem paints a different picture, one where basic infrastructure was already lacking. “The infrastructure in Gaza before the war was simple and not up to the required standards,” she recounts. “Wheelchairs were available, but in limited numbers due to their high cost. Ramps for wheelchairs were rare, and there were no automatic doors or well-designed elevators.”
In a region suffering from a prolonged blockade, these shortcomings are compounded. “The blockade,” Reem adds, “is one of the biggest obstacles to improving the conditions for people with disabilities. It keeps out essential items like prosthetics, cement for building wheelchair ramps, and components for creating accessible elevators.”
I’m struck by her resilience as she discusses the barriers that have held back development in the sector. “Also, the restrictions on researchers and professionals in the field of special education and rehabilitation prevent Gaza from keeping pace with international advancements in research and support tools,” she explains. Yet despite these obstacles, Reem’s work stands as a testament to the strength of the human spirit in the face of immense adversity.
The conversation is abruptly interrupted by a loss of internet connection, a disruption that is unfortunately all too familiar for Reem. As I take a break, I can’t help but think of her resilience in continuing the conversation under such difficult conditions. When we reconnect, she resumes her message.
“I constantly see amputees after the October War in Gaza,” she says. “They face exceptional challenges that have not been addressed: the lack of available support tools, medical treatments, physical therapy, rehabilitation, and psychological support after losing limbs.”
I’m struck by the subtle shift in Reem’s tone. It’s no longer just about statistics or facts; it’s deeply personal. Her words echo the lived reality of countless people in Gaza, people whose lives are shaped not just by the physical trauma of war but by the psychological toll of loss.
“Psychological support sessions are crucial for amputees,” Reem explains. “Especially for those who lost their limbs after being trapped under the rubble of their homes or injured in the conflict. Without these sessions, it’s difficult for them to accept their new reality and continue with their lives.”
It’s a powerful reminder of the need for comprehensive care that goes beyond the physical. Reem’s work highlights the intersection of healthcare, infrastructure, and mental health support—a trifecta that is often overlooked in post-conflict recovery.
As our conversation progresses, I ask her about her vision for Gaza’s reconstruction. Given the widespread destruction—more than 70% of the buildings in Gaza have been reported as damaged or destroyed—what does the future hold for the region, particularly for those with disabilities? I acknowledge the selfishness in my question; after all, it’s easier for me to discuss the “rebuilding” process from a safe distance, far removed from the realities of daily survival.
Reem’s response, however, is full of hope and determination. “It is essential to include the needs of amputees and people with disabilities in the rebuilding process,” she emphasizes. “International standards for construction should be applied—whether for homes, government buildings, or recreational spaces. Successful models from around the world should be implemented to build accessible facilities for amputees and others with disabilities.”
Her vision for Gaza’s future is rooted in the belief that reconstruction can be an opportunity for real change, one that prioritizes the needs of all people, particularly the most vulnerable. She suggests that accessible buildings and infrastructure—such as wheelchair ramps, automatic doors, and braille signage—should be integral to the rebuilding efforts. But her vision goes beyond these conventional solutions.
“New ideas are necessary,” she says, “such as buildings designed in ways that don’t require ramps or elevators at all. We can draw inspiration from innovative architectural designs that are inclusive by default.”
Reem’s response highlights a forward-thinking approach to rebuilding—a vision that not only meets immediate needs but also ensures long-term inclusivity for people with disabilities in Gaza.
However, as I ask for more specifics on how these changes might be implemented, the internet cuts out once again. Hours pass with no word from Reem. I remind myself that this is just the reality of life in Gaza—disruptions in communication, power outages, and uncertainty. When Reem finally returns to our conversation, she explains the delay: “I feel very tense because I have a sister and a brother in Jabalia, and they are facing severe escalation by the occupation army.”
The personal toll of the conflict is clear. As I wait for news from her, I reflect on the human cost of the war. My concern for Reem’s safety grows as I sit in the quiet of my home, hoping for reassurance that she and her family are okay.
“I have tried to contact them repeatedly, but I don’t know how they are doing,” she tells me, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air.
In the end, it is not just Reem’s thesis or her vision for Gaza’s future that resonates with me, but the resilience and determination she embodies. Despite the violence, the displacement, and the uncertainty, she remains committed to her work, to her community, and to a future where people with disabilities are not an afterthought but are fully included in the rebuilding of Gaza.
As I sit to write this, Reem’s words echo in my mind—words that represent the spirit of a people who continue to fight for their rights, their dignity, and their future, even in the face of overwhelming adversity.
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