Nine months before October 7, I started learning photography under the guidance of my friend Mahmoud Abu Salama. Mahmoud owns a Canon camera, something I always wanted. Whenever he didn’t need it, he let me use it, which made me feel like I was receiving a precious gift.
I loved capturing moments, but being a perfectionist, I was hesitant to use a camera until I felt proficient enough. I started watching videos online on how to take great photos and learned that symmetry enhances beauty. Every time I saw something symmetrical, I felt an irresistible urge to photograph it.
Mahmoud couldn’t always lend me his Canon and I didn’t have the money to buy my own. So I decided to get a Lumix as a temporary solution until I could afford a more expensive camera. With my new Lumix, I found that spiral patterns caught people’s attention. Barely a month into my photography journey, I received an Erasmus scholarship to study for a semester in Spain as part of a cultural exchange at the English literature department at my university, Al-Aqsa.
I traveled to Jaen on January 27, 2023. There, I learned that incorporating a human element makes photos more compelling and that the best photos tell a story.
In Spain I lost my Lumix, which frustrated me. I think I left it somewhere, and when I went back to get it, it had been stolen. The camera contained many memories that connected me to Gaza. However, I realized that although cameras can preserve certain moments, we still carry with us the most important memories. For me, these are the memories of my beloved home, Gaza.
In August 2023, I returned home. I had then built a solid network of contacts. Many recognized my work with NGOs, which made job opportunities more accessible despite my not-so-high grades, affected by the challenges of the pandemic and the unexpected separation of my parents.
I had become financially stable, having obtained self-employment that allowed me to pay for my education and support my family. My mother, burdened with debt, was relieved when I could help her. Our relationship had improved slightly and I felt proud of my accomplishments.
Everything seemed to be falling into place and I was ready to buy my Canon camera and a guitar, so I could finally pursue my passions.
I wanted to relive my significant past, capturing all the feelings that my photography had missed – from my passion for school and proof of my intelligence, to my intellectual ambitions and pursuits.
I longed to become wiser, kinder, and more thoughtful. I wanted to address the sadness and anger caused by the systematically created poverty we face in Gaza; the injustices we have witnessed since the occupation of Palestine; and the world’s great betrayal of our human rights and denial of our existence. All this has accumulated over the years, from childhood to my early twenties, and I want to realize my dream of traveling freely without encountering obstacles.
On October 7, I was supposed to start my final year of college. I was looking forward to fully committing to my studies, but instead I woke up to the sound of bombing. The internet was intermittent, but I received messages from my school announcing a break in classes due to the attack on Gaza. My life shifted from excitement and ambition to sadness, worry and fear.
I went from being a passionate student to someone documenting injustices and human rights violations against my people. I was shocked by the world’s double standards and the misrepresentation of Palestinians in the media. Despite limited access to the Internet, I wrote articles and presented them to the media whenever possible.
Life in Gaza before the war was already difficult. We had to deal with unsafe water, limited electricity and restricted travel. After October 7, these struggles intensified. Water became scarce, electricity was completely cut off and travel required large sums of money which provided no guarantee of exit. We lived in constant fear, under bombardment, with no safe place to turn.
Most of the places I knew and loved were totally destroyed, including my home. If I had known that this would be the fate of Gaza, I would have taken more photos, capturing every moment. I would have said goodbye to all the beautiful places I visited in Gaza.
The schools where I graduated and won honors for being top of my class, the places where I made the strongest friendships and laughed the most, and the places where I felt most at home – all gone. My heart aches with the memories of what once was and the harsh reality of what remains.
I wasn’t able to capture the boredom that came over us when the television went silent after a power outage; the closeness we enjoyed when we talked was no longer distracted by the Internet; the joy children felt when the lights came back on after a power outage; the relief mothers felt when clean laundry fluttered in the breeze; the pleasure of a sweet nap after a long day at university.
I could not preserve the moments of anger against our governments for the division they have maintained since 2007, the consequences that followed and the blurred vision of our future. I could neither capture the contempt for those who ruined our beautiful country, killed, sent away, tortured, handcuffed, blindfolded or detained my people, nor the dark nights studying by candlelight that burned the hair from my forehead, which took time to heal. The fervent pride we felt as we named the Palestinian villages and towns we lost in 1948, the deep connection we have with a land that dates back to ancient times, and the tears that welled up as we remembered the defeats of our ancestors – all these memories live within us.
These are all things my camera couldn’t capture, but my heart could.
I am lucky to have fled Gaza. On March 3, I left after a successful fundraising campaign, thanks to the support of kind people and connections made through my work as an Arabic teacher and freelancer.
My mother and some of my siblings are safe in Cairo, but my father remained in Gaza with my other siblings. It broke my heart – part of it is in Gaza with my father, other siblings and friends; another is in Cairo; and yet another is with my sister in Algeria, where she is a university student on a scholarship in international law. There is also a piece of my heart that died when I left Gaza.
My mother, siblings and I now face difficulties in Egypt and the pain of uncertainty: what will happen if a ceasefire is announced? Will we return to Gaza or will we be forced to stay in Egypt? Both options scare us equally.
My heart is so overwhelmed that no amount of therapy can help me heal. I can only begin to heal when my camera can capture civilian planes in our skies, not Israeli warplanes. I will heal when I can safely travel the world and proudly say that I am Palestinian, when I can pass through Palestinian airports, when my identity is never questioned and when I am no longer called a refugee. Only then will I have the assurance that my people will no longer witness injustice and that the world has apologized and stood up for us. It is then that our suffering in Palestine will end.
The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Tel Aviv Tribune.